John was making his training plans, inspired by the story of the sword god and his own use of the fly-rod as a weapon. He needed to practice with it more, but first, he had to deliver the fish to Max for Jinn. He also had some underwater plants for her. He barely registered the kids' farewells as he and Alana made their way back to the 10th floor, his mind preoccupied with the upcoming training session.

  Once they were back, he immediately called for Max and handed over the fish and plants. "These are for Jinn," he explained, "Tell him I said thanks again." He was eager to start training, and when Alana asked to join him, a flicker of annoyance crossed his face. "Not now," he said, "I need to focus. Maybe tomorrow."

  He dismissed Max and turned his attention to the fly-rod. With a flick of his wrist, he summoned it, the familiar weight settling into his hand. He let out some extra line and then carefully wrapped the rod with the nano-line, making it less flexible. Start with the basics, he thought, remembering his grandfather's lessons. Just like learning to fly fish with a sinker instead of a hook.

  He chuckled at the memory. "It really hurts getting hit in the back of the head with it if I messed up the cast," he muttered to himself. "That was way better than it being a hook, though." His grandfather's voice echoed in his mind: "It's self-teaching this way. If not, it will just knock some sense into you." Nothing like a swift smack upside the head to fix your thinking.

  John smiled, shaking his head at the memory. He took a deep breath, recentering himself, and swung the rod. Again. And again. He paused, trying to clear his mind. He was about to swing again when it felt like a jolt of lightning struck him – a sudden, overwhelming inspiration. He staggered slightly, vision blurring for a moment.

  He swung the sword, not with his usual speed and force, but slowly, deliberately. The room seemed to darken around him, or maybe it was just his focus narrowing. It was just him and the sword. As his slash came down, it was like he was cutting through the fog in his mind. He just needed to listen to his own way of the sword. Everything could be a sword. He felt a surge of liberation, a sense of unfettered possibility.

  But then, another image arose in his mind, a memory from his childhood. He saw a lone figure standing on a windswept mountaintop, a sword strapped to his back. The Sword God. A being of immense power, trapped by his own strength.

  "He could not speak, for his words were blades... He could not touch, for his touch was a searing flame..." The narrator's voice echoed in his memory.

  And then, he remembered another detail, one that had always troubled him. The Sword God had to sheath his blade, to suppress his true nature, in order to be around others. To have friends, to experience connection, he had to become less than he was.

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  That doesn't seem right, John thought, a frown creasing his brow. Shouldn't true strength be about more than just power? Shouldn't it be about control, about choosing when to use that power, and when to hold back?

  He realized that the Sword God wasn't truly the Sword God when his blade was sheathed. It was only in the moment of drawing the sword, in the act of facing death, that his true self was revealed.

  A new resolve solidified within John. He would forge his own sword, but he would not shy away from its power. He would embrace it, but he would also learn to control it, to wield it with wisdom and compassion. He would be a sword drawn only in the face of true danger, a protector, not a destroyer.

  Speed is king, he thought, recalling a phrase from an old martial arts manual. He began experimenting with his swings, focusing on minimizing air resistance. He eyed the fly-rod critically. It's too round, he realized. Not aerodynamic enough.

  With a thought, he commanded the nano-line to reshape itself, molding the fly-rod into a sleek, blade-like form. It felt lighter, faster, more alive in his hand. He swung it again and again, the air whistling past the sharpened edge. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his arm muscles burning with exertion. He pushed himself, his movements becoming a blur of motion.

  He paused, panting, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He wiped the sweat from his brow, his gaze falling on a half-empty water bottle in the corner of the room. As he reached for it, the image of the Sword God flickered in his mind, a reminder of the loneliness and isolation that could come with unchecked power.

  He took a long drink, the cool water soothing his parched throat. No, he thought, I won't let that happen. I'll find a way to balance strength with compassion, power with control.

  Refreshed, he returned to his training. He focused on extending the nano-line, the blade lengthening and shortening with each stroke, the tip a whisper of deadly intent. It was exhilarating, but also challenging. Controlling the shifting length of the blade required intense concentration, and he stumbled several times, the line coiling around him like a mischievous serpent.

  His muscles screamed in protest, his body nearing exhaustion. But he refused to give up. He pushed through the pain, his determination fueled by the memory of the Sword God's sacrifice. He would not become a prisoner of his own power. He would master it, wield it with purpose, and use it to protect those he cared about.

  Finally, he lowered the sword, his mind buzzing with fatigue. Manipulating the nano-line had taken a surprising mental toll. "Time for a bath and some sleep," he muttered to himself.

  As he emerged from the training room, he found Max waiting for him. "John," she said, a mischievous glint in her eyes, "Alana told me something interesting. Apparently, if you crush up beast cores and add them to your bath, your body can absorb the energy through your meridians. It's supposed to help clear out impurities."

  John raised an eyebrow. "Really? That sounds... intense."

  "Alana said it's incredibly relaxing," Max assured him. "And it might help with your training."

  John considered it for a moment. "Alright," he said, a smile spreading across his face. "I'm willing to give it a try."