The yard was dry by midmorning, dust settling evenly across packed earth. Genryū stepped into the open space carrying two wooden blades.
He tossed the shorter one without warning.
Roen caught it late, adjusting grip mid-air before it slipped. The weight was different from the practice tanto he'd handled before. Slightly curved. Forward-balanced.
"Kodachi," Genryū said. "You're not strong enough to manage the dadao properly."
Roen didn't argue.
Genryū rested the wooden dadao across his shoulder. Even dulled and carved from training wood, its width was intimidating. The blade head was heavy, built to break guards rather than slip around them.
They stepped into position.
No dramatic announcement.
No countdown.
Genryū moved first.
The strike came diagonally, controlled but not slow. Roen brought the kodachi up instinctively, catching the edge just above the midpoint. The impact jarred through his wrist, down his forearm, into his shoulder. He had angled correctly but the force behind Genryū's swing wasn't about speed. It was weight.
Genryū did not follow through. He withdrew smoothly.
"Angle earlier," he said.
Roen reset.
This time he watched Genryū's hips, not the blade. The dadao rose again. The shoulder rotated first. Roen stepped inside the arc instead of meeting it directly, sliding his kodachi along the wooden spine to deflect rather than block.
Better.
Genryū adjusted immediately.
A downward chop feinted into a horizontal sweep. Roen saw the shift half a beat too late. The wooden edge struck his side with controlled force, enough to sting through clothing but not bruise.
"Commit," Genryū said calmly.
They circled.
Roen's breathing steadied.
He stopped tracking the blade entirely.
Genryū's stance telegraphed before his arms did. Weight transfer. Foot pressure. Centerline exposure.
The next exchange lasted longer.
Roen stepped into range before Genryū completed his rotation, the kodachi snapping forward toward the wrist. Genryū pivoted effortlessly, redirecting the strike with the flat of his blade before tapping Roen's collarbone with the pommel.
Too open.
They reset again.
Sweat gathered along Roen's spine now. The kodachi felt heavier than it had minutes ago. Genryū's movements remained loose, almost relaxed, as if this were stretching rather than combat.
Roen pressed first this time.
A low slash toward Genryū's thigh forced a reaction. Genryū stepped back rather than parrying, adjusting distance instead of clashing. Roen advanced again, chaining movement into a rising cut.
Genryū blocked casually and rotated his wrist.
The dadao's spine pressed against Roen's kodachi, sliding down until the guard locked.
Then Genryū leaned forward slightly.
Not violently.
Just enough.
Roen felt the imbalance immediately. His front foot shifted backward instinctively to compensate.
Too late.
The flat of the dadao tapped his ribs.
Exchange ended.
Genryū stepped away.
"You're reading better," he said. "But you're still reacting to the weapon, not the person."
Roen exhaled slowly.
Again.
The next sequence slowed in Roen's perception.
Not physically slower.
But cleaner.
Genryū's shoulder tightened before each cut. The elbow aligned before extension. The blade's arc was a consequence, not the origin.
Roen moved earlier.
For three full exchanges, Genryū did not land a clean hit.
Roen deflected, stepped, redirected. His kodachi snapped toward Genryū's exposed flank.
Genryū increased pressure slightly.
The change was immediate.
Distance collapsed faster. Angles tightened. The dadao no longer moved in large arcs but in compact redirections. Roen's guard broke under layered force, not speed.
The wooden blade stopped a breath from his throat.
They held position for a second.
Genryū lowered the weapon.
"Good," he said simply.
Roen's forearms trembled faintly now from accumulated strain. His breathing was controlled, but his legs were beginning to fade.
Genryū rested the blade against his shoulder again.
"You're not academy-level anymore," he said. "But don't confuse that with field-ready."
Roen nodded once.
He understood the difference now in muscle memory, not theory.
Genryū had not moved seriously once.
Not once.
And yet the distance between them felt immeasurable.
The yard returned to silence.
Roen rolled his shoulders slowly, memorising the sensation of imbalance, of pressure, of near-contact.
Six days remained.