The river did not care for my struggles. It did not pause for my exhaustion or bend to my will. It simply moved.
The next morning, I stepped back into the water before Elder Sun even spoke. My body still ached from the previous day, but I had learned enough to know that pain was irrelevant. What mattered was movement.
"Begin," Elder Sun said, standing on the bank.
I drew my sword and moved into the First Form. The current tugged at my legs, but I adjusted. I no longer planted my feet like a mountain resisting the wind. Instead, I let them shift, following the water's rhythm. The adjustments were small—an unconscious tilt of the hips, a slight flex of the knees—but they made a difference.
As I moved through the form, I could feel it. The disconnect between my sword and my body lessened, if only slightly. My blade no longer dragged through the air with the same resistance. It was still not right, not seamless, but something within me was beginning to change.
Elder Sun watched in silence, his expression unreadable. Only when I finished did he speak. "Better."
I blinked. He had never said that before.
Before I could dwell on it, he gestured toward the water. "Again."
And so I did. Over and over, I moved through the forms, each repetition carving away at my former self. The river did not yield, nor did it care whether I succeeded or failed. But in its unceasing flow, I found something unexpected—a rhythm, a patience that was not my own but had been there all along.
Hours passed, the sun climbing high before Elder Sun finally raised a hand. "Enough."
I stood still, feeling the weight of my sword, the weight of my own breathing. The water swirled around my legs, unconcerned with my struggle. But today, I had moved differently. Today, I had understood just a little more.
As I sheathed my sword, Elder Sun spoke once more. "Tomorrow, we begin the Second Form."
A slow smile pulled at the edges of my lips.
Slow. Steady.
The river did not change in a day. Neither would I. But I was moving forward, and that was enough.