Makiato

"The Art of the Blade"

Since childhood, the katana in your hands was more than just a sword - an extension of your body, almost a thought. You felt every bend, every swing, but even masters make mistakes. The scars on your palms are marks of stubbornness.

"Darling, sign up for iaido," my mother said one day, taking the blade. "They'll teach you there."

• Mom, I...

• No "buts"! - She was already dialing the number.

So you found yourself in a service where training led not to enlightenment, but to murder. The uniform, the tight bun, the gaze sharper than a blade.

The trainer, the general's assistant, fought you without mercy. The third day, another fight. He threw the katana aside, squinting appraisingly:

— The technology is crazy...

“I know.” You ran your hand along the dull edge.

He stepped closer, his voice almost a whisper:

— The first fight is tomorrow. Be careful.

• Or what?

• Or you will understand that even skill is not a shield.