hope, devotion, intensity
The fact was as certain and sure as the calloused grip on her bokken: swordsmanship demands intimacy. In the rush of blood that comes with an active body and wildly thrashing heart, fire burned throughout every muscle and licked each of her senses. When her and Yahiko's banter would finally grind on his last nerve, her student became terribly easy to read. His blind and brutal hacks became predictable. With fury stoking his dark eyes and indignation ripping from his lungs in a snarl, Yahiko became reckless in ways she had tried so hard to discipline. The rage she saw in him, no matter how brief, could never give life.
He didn't understand. Not yet.
One swift beating and hot spiel later, Myōjin Yahiko began to see the world of mortals from an entirely new angle, typically from the sore flat of his back, his body awkwardly sprawled across the dojo floor.
The sword that protects.
Her student was impatient and selfish. Though that often led to labored success, Kamiya Kasshin-ryū was merely a means to hold his own and to make an impression on Kenshin.
The sword that protects.
Her student had never taken a life, nor did he quite seem to value those of his enemies. His fighting spirit, however, refused to be smothered.
The sword that protects.
Her student had once been helpless. As a novice, his ignorance would have been a disgrace to her name, but his slow understanding and flourishing sense of self as an honorable opponent would have made her father proud.
The sword that protects was no sweet lie.