Training
.
.
.
He breathes in deep – 1, 2, 3, 4 – and releases, allowing nature to sharpen around his senses. He grazes his bare soles across grass tinged with morning dew; draws his fingers together to form the first signs of the Kuji-in, chanting the sacred rite under his breath.
He can hear the giddy bubble of a babbling brook, the sharp sweep of wind darting amongst golden leaves, and the crack of breaking grass beneath his feet. He closes his eyes tight, concentrating on the ebb and flow of the world around him. He imagines it seeping into his karma; strengthening and tightening the link between body and will.
Above him, something rustles in the leafy undergrowth.
His brow furrows.
A presence is near. He thinks of his company subordinates, camping about half a mile away, but this aura pulses with a jittering life he can't define.
"Thy stance is incorrect."
A voice, husky with jovial glee, rattles into his ear.
He turns on his heel, joins his hands together and thrusts them forward in an emergency attack.
Nothing. They push uselessly against empty air.
Growling, he straightens up and heads back to the main base. If he cannot sense an intruder at such close proximity, then he certainly needs more training.
Anyway, there wasn't anything wrong with his stance.