Damon kept the small line of ice suspended above his palm, too concentrated to make any immediate comment. It was strange to realize that something so simple required more care than creating an entire blade. Before, he merely poured Qi, shaped the form, and let the cold harden. Now, Ester wanted him to think of function before appearance, of the center before the shell, of intention before pride. Naturally, he found that irritating, but the line was not cracking, so perhaps there was some value in the method.

Ester released his wrist and took a step back, observing the structure attentively. "Do not let it thicken yet. If you increase the volume before stabilizing the center, you will create another block of ice with a handle."

"You speak as if my block of ice with a handle has no value."

"It has value. It is useful for hitting doors."

"I have already knocked people down with it."

"People can also be knocked down by doors."

Damon looked at her for an instant, but decided not to lose concentration just to answer. The thin line trembled slightly, like a crystalline needle caught between his fingers and the air. He could feel the energy wanting to expand, wanting to form blade, edge, guard, and handle in the old way. The difference now was that he did not yield to that impulse. He held everything at the center, squeezing the Qi into a single stroke, forcing the ice to exist as structure before it existed as weapon.

"Now create a second line beside the first," Ester said. "Not attached. Parallel. Leave a minimal space between them."

Damon frowned. "Why?"

"Because a sword needs to absorb impact without transferring everything to your hand. Two parallel lines allow the energy to distribute between layers. If you make a single mass, any opposing force travels through everything at once and cracks it."

"That explains half the times your sword made me feel like I had blocked a wall."

"Half was the structure. The other half was you blocking badly."

"I was starting to like the explanation."

"Do not relax."

He obeyed, creating the second line with more difficulty than he expected. The first remained stable, but the second tried to move too close, pulled by the natural tendency of ice to join together. Damon needed to separate the flows carefully, as if holding two thin threads inside his own mind. The effort was small physically, but mentally exhausting. He felt the celestial meridians respond with ease, offering far too much energy for a task far too delicate.

The second line grew.

Then bent.

Damon tried to correct it.

It touched the first.

The two froze together, thickened too quickly, and exploded into small crystals before his hand.

The silence lasted one second.

Ester looked at the fragments falling into the grass.

Damon slowly closed his hand.

"Do not say anything."

"I did not."

"You thought loudly enough."

"I thought it was horrible."

"I knew it."

Ester crossed her arms. "You tried to correct with force. When the line bent, your reaction was to push more Qi to straighten it. That is exactly the problem. More power does not solve lack of control. In small structures, more power makes it worse."

Damon passed a hand over his face, trying to ignore how much that sentence seemed to apply to more than swords. "So I let it bend?"

"No. You prevent it from bending beforehand. Late correction requires force. Correct formation requires attention."

"That also sounds like something an old master would say."

"Perhaps old masters say these things because young students keep doing stupid things."

"I am not that young."

"You began cultivation less than two years ago."

Damon opened his mouth to argue, but closed it right after. Technically, she was right. In cultivation terms, he was practically a child holding a storm inside his chest. That realization became even more irritating because it reminded him of Xue Lian calling him a child at almost every possible opportunity. Apparently, women connected to ice had a natural tendency to be unbearable when correct.

He raised his hand again. "One more time."

"This time, do not look at the line as if it were an external object. Feel it as an extension of your meridians. A sword of energy does not begin in the palm. It begins inside the body."

Damon nodded, closing his eyes. The elemental root pulsed beneath his heart, deep and cold, but he did not pull energy straight from it. Ester had already warned him that using the root for everything would be like using a catapult to open a drawer. Instead, he guided a thin thread through the meridians of his arm, letting the Qi reach his palm in a narrow flow. The first line appeared, cleaner than before. The second came slowly, separate, almost parallel.

Almost.

It began to tilt.

Damon did not push more Qi.

He merely reduced the flow on the side that was growing too quickly and slightly increased the density on the other, as if adjusting a sail to the wind. The line trembled, resisted, and finally aligned. The space between the two remained stable. Small, uniform, alive.

Ester tilted her head.

"Better."

Damon opened one eye. "Was that praise?"

"Do not ruin it."

"Right."

"Now connect the two lines with internal crosspieces."

"Like a bridge?"

"Like ribs."

The word made the idea fit better. Damon visualized small connections between the parallel lines, not too solid, just enough to maintain distance and distribute impact. When he tried to create the first crosspiece, it came out thick, clumsy, almost breaking the structure. He stopped before it exploded. Breathed. Tried again. This time, the link appeared thinner, connecting the two lines like a small frozen rib.

"Good," Ester said.

Damon almost lost concentration from sheer shock. "You said good."

"And I am about to withdraw it if you smile like that."

"I am not smiling."

"You are inside."

"That does not count."

"It counts if it affects the technique."

He controlled the impulse to answer and created the second crosspiece, then the third. The structure still looked ridiculous compared to Ester’s sword, but it was no longer only ice. There was a skeleton there. Fragile, crooked in some places, but real. Damon felt an unexpected satisfaction grow in his chest. Not the euphoria of a great victory, but the simple pleasure of finally understanding one piece of the problem.

Ester walked around him, observing from different angles. "Now wrap it with a thin outer layer. Do not cover everything at once. Let the layer follow the structure."

"If I cover too much, it becomes a block."

"Exactly."

"I am starting to hate blocks."

"Good."

Damon let the ice grow around the lines and crosspieces, like skin forming over bones. The blade became narrow, short, far from the size of a real sword. It looked more like a long knife than anything else. But when he closed his fingers around the improvised handle, he immediately noticed the difference. The weapon was lighter. Not only because it had less ice, but because the energy inside it distributed itself better. It did not pull his wrist downward. It did not vibrate unstably. It was small, ugly, and functional.

Ester extended her own sword. "Hit mine. Slowly."

Damon obeyed. The first contact was light, almost timid. The blades touched with a clear sound. His trembled, but did not break. He looked at Ester, surprised despite trying to hide it.

"Again," she said.

He struck again, a little harder. The structure vibrated, the internal crosspieces distributed part of the impact, and the outer layer cracked slightly at the edge, but remained whole. Damon felt the flow run through the blade instead of going straight up his arm. That was completely different. For the first time, his weapon seemed to work with him instead of merely existing in his hand.

"Again."

The third impact was too strong.

The blade split near the middle, but it did not explode. The broken part fell to the ground, revealing the ruptured internal structures like small bones. Damon stared at it, thoughtful.

"It broke better," he said.

Ester nodded. "That also matters."

"Breaking better?"

"A bad weapon breaks entirely. A good weapon breaks in predictable parts. If you know where it will fail, you can reinforce it later or even use the break."

Damon crouched and picked up the fragment, observing the interior. Now he could see why it had split at that point. The crosspieces were too far apart. The outer layer had become too thin in one section. The Qi flow had accumulated in one region and created tension. It was no longer a humiliating mystery. It was a technical error.

That was better.

Technical errors could be corrected.

"So, in practice, I need to learn how to build every weapon from the inside," he said.

"Yes."

"Sword, spear, dagger, shield, chains?"

"Everything."

"That will take a while."

"Yes."

"You seem pleased with that."

Ester looked at him with the most neutral expression possible. "Very."

Damon let out a low laugh and dissolved the remains of the blade. "You want to keep me busy."

"That too."

"That too?"

"I want you to learn true control. Your new body is too powerful for your current experience. If you continue using ice as brute mass, you will defeat some enemies through strength and lose against anyone who knows how to dismantle your technique."

He became serious.

The sentence did not come as an insult, but as a warning. Damon thought of Han Qirong, of the void connections, of the lights that needed to be cut not by form, but by bond. He thought of Xue Lian and her sword, perfect even as she was dying. He thought of how far he had been from that level. Raw power had opened doors, destroyed his body, and almost killed everyone around him. Technique might be what prevented that from happening again.

"I understand," he said, lower.

Ester noticed the change in his tone and did not press. She merely pointed at his hand. "Another."

Damon created the central line again. This time, it appeared faster and firmer. Not perfect, but less hesitant. He created the parallel lines, the internal crosspieces, the outer layer, and a simple edge. The small sword became a little larger than the previous one, still crude compared to Ester’s, but with real structure. When he raised it, he felt he could use it for a few strikes without shame.

Ester struck her own blade against his.

Damon’s sword held.

Another strike.

It held.

On the third, Ester changed the angle of attack and struck near the base, where his structure was still weak. The blade cracked, but Damon adjusted the flow at the last instant, reinforcing two crosspieces before the crack could spread. The sword survived, though crooked.

Ester raised her eyebrows.

Damon smiled.

"That was intentional."

"I saw."

"So?"

"Do you want applause?"

"I would not refuse."

"No."

"Cruel."

"Again."

They continued for almost an hour. The training became pure repetition: create, test, break, rebuild. Ester corrected without softness, but also without hurry. She adjusted the position of his fingers, explained why an internal layer needed to be curved, showed how a badly placed rib redirected impact to the handle and made the wrist suffer. Damon absorbed everything with rare attention, complaining enough to continue being himself, but not enough to waste the lesson.

At one point, he managed to form a short sword that endured five strikes before breaking. Ester did not praise him immediately. She simply picked up the broken fragment, looked at the inside, and returned it.

"You are beginning to understand."

Damon accepted the broken piece as if it were a medal. "That is almost moving."

"Do not become sentimental."

"You spent six months keeping me alive. I think you have the right to see me sentimental once."

Ester’s expression changed slightly. Not much. Just enough to show that the sentence had reached a place she had not expected to touch during training. She looked away toward her own sword and dissolved it into cold mist.

"Use that energy to form the next blade."

Damon did not insist.

But he did not take back what he said either.

He created another line of ice, more carefully, and for a few minutes the field was once again filled with the sound of structures being born and breaking. The sun slowly rose, offering little warmth to that part of the garden the two of them insisted on turning into winter. In the distance, a few servants stopped to watch and soon continued on their way, probably already used to seeing things far too strange in that house.

Finally, Ester raised her hand. "Enough."

Damon looked at her, surprised. "Already?"

"You are tired."

"I am fine."

"You are sweating cold."

"Technically, everything about me is cold."

"Damon."

He closed his mouth.

The sword he was holding slowly dissolved, and only then did he realize his fingers were trembling. Not much, but they were trembling. His body might be better, but fine control spent energy in a different way. He had spent an hour building internal mechanisms, not merely weapons. It was almost like performing surgery with his own Qi.

Ester threw him a towel. "You improved."

Damon caught the towel in the air. "Was that a real compliment?"

"It was an observation."

"I will accept it."

"You accept any crumb."

"After training with you, any sentence without an insult feels like a blessing."

She almost smiled.

Almost.

Damon noticed and decided to consider that a greater victory than the swords.

When they began walking back to the mansion, he looked at his own hand and created a small line of ice between his fingers. Not a blade. Only a simple structure, with two internal crosspieces and a thin layer outside. Small, stable, and silent. It remained whole as he walked.

Ester noticed, but did not comment immediately.

Only when they reached the stone path did she say, "In the next lesson, you will learn how to make the sword not only resist, but cut properly."

Damon dissolved the structure and looked at her. "This lesson was about making a sword that does not destroy itself?"

"Yes."

"So I spent an entire morning learning how to reach the bare minimum?"

"Exactly."

He released a sigh, but there was humor in it. "Wonderful."

Ester walked ahead, without looking back. "Welcome to the beginning of real training."

Damon stood still for a second, watching the former general walk toward the mansion with that firm and unbearably confident posture. Then he looked at his own hand, flexed his fingers, and felt the celestial meridians respond in silence.

The beginning.

After all of that, it was strange to think he was still only at the beginning.

But, for the first time since waking up, that idea did not feel frightening.

It felt fair.