41. The Layer Record Keeper

"He sent the item first with prepayment again."

I examined the sword he'd sent. The blade reflected light cleanly, and its straight edge gave a sense of stability. The hilt was wrapped in dark brown leather that clung firmly to my hand even after holding it for a while. Overall, it felt solidly basic.

"Not bad."

It was clearly on another level from the weapons sold at auction houses. Looked perfect for practicing slashes.

I answered honestly.

For a moment, I wondered if it went beyond profound into disgusting territory.

'Well, the world has mint choco lovers too...'

I decided to respect his tastes. I cut off parts of the corpse by eye, focusing on what he wanted, and sent them. As I packed the remaining body into my subspace pouch, it seemed a bit decayed, but he didn't seem to mind.

I shrugged.

While waiting for rain on the 98th floor, I kept practicing the "slash" Geomseong taught me. Repeating the motions while recalling the meaning made it feel like my body was memorizing it, not my head.

Still, I hadn't fully internalized slash as a single "form."

'Connection... flow... severance.'

Holding the rift steel sword felt different from the rapier. People say gear doesn't matter sometimes, but that's bullshit. Gear matters.

Shing—

I dragged the sword tip across the ground. My toes gripped the earth, power rose from my waist through shoulders and arms. Sword and body, body and ground—all connected in one line. Breath flowed along that line, spreading to the tip.

Swish.

Everything clarified in that instant.

'...Severance.'

Following the connected flow, halting breath-like, pulse-like at the end—

—Slash.

The sword traced its arc, splitting the wind. Though through empty air, I felt it clearly. The sensation of unmistakably severing an imaginary foe before my eyes.

But something felt off.

"Tch, this doesn't seem right..."

A nagging creak lingered in my mind. Something missing.

'Thrusting didn't feel like this.'

I sat to catch my breath and reviewed past fights. Zombies, rag golems, goblins, Orkan, Wood Sentinel, recallers... And Orkan, Orkan, Orkan...

Amid recollections, a key insight flashed.

'Ah. No way...'

I pinpointed the issue. Practice was always easy. Time to steady breath, stable footing. Following Geomseong's teachings step-by-step, purely—connecting, flowing, severing with ample leeway. Clean and smooth.

Real combat? Not so much. Feet sank in mud, breath tangled raggedly. Drawing the sword late, balance crumbling often. Flow naturally breaks midway. No luxury for perfect lines like practice.

Yet in that chaos, I—forcing my body—swung anyway. Twisting a dry rag for the last drop. Plucking embers from dying logs. Always pushing to my limits.

Even if sequence twisted, rhythm off, if that motion didn't block the enemy, I'd be dead.

'Mastering combat breathing in such limits...'

I stood, drew my sword. Imagining fierce battle, swung again. But mere imagination wasn't enough. Real fights were always tangled; I had to survive that mess.

Glancing around, petrified recallers caught my eye.

'Perfect for practice dummies.'

And plenty of them. I dragged them one by one, positioning around me in twisted poses, as if about to lunge.

Fake enemies, but standing before them made my heart race.

"Good. Five should do."

Deep breath, then charged. Imagining barbarian legion battle—

Several attacked at once; foot sank deep, balance shifted. Breath uneven. In practice, I'd stop at "flow broken"—but couldn't.

'Stop and die.'

Shing—!

Sword arced. Flow twisted, but I forced, desperately linked it. Finally finding flow, ending with—pulse halt, breath stop—

'Severance.'

Crunch.

First recaller's torso split in half. Wind with it, severing sensation raced up my arm.

I hurled toward the second. Foot slipped, swing late—no matter. Desperately linking twists and shifts, seeking flow. Severing foe within that flow.

That was slash.

Clang.

Second's arm and chest tore diagonally.

Swish.

Twisting sword next. No shake. Straight to third's neck.

Slash.

Dull cut, head thudded down.

No stopping flow. Spun, slashed fourth's torso, straight to fifth.

Whoosh.

Sword arced vertically down.

Slash.

Torso halved.

"Hoo."

I sheathed, panting.

"Yeah, this is it."

Realization hit. Slash wasn't mimicking perfect lines—it was finding ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠connected flow in imperfect moments, then severing. Now I could draw it anytime, any ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠situation.

'Slash.'

I'd finally made slash a "form."

Success turning slash into a "form," but combining into "union" was another issue. Needed real combat experience for this.

Waiting for rain, I opened the gallery. As usual, read Layer Record Keeper's posts.

97th, 96th, 95th... Even layers obsolete thanks to lift cut. Read 89th, 88th, 87th, and below.

Reading 77th hit hard.

Layer Record Keeper. Started with apology.

He'd failed on 77th after all.

Felt a bit down.

Bitter taste. He'd been more than a writer. His records kept me alive. Mentor, teacher figure.

Checked comments gloomily. Amid floaters praying rest, LayerRecordKeeper2 pinned, vowing to continue.

Eyes stung, rubbed them as rain started from sky. Grandma crossed my mind; wrote her name in post. Shadowed instantly upon enter. Just for me? Or related too?

"Hm."

Recalled Alchemy Rice Soup Eater's 98th lift cut info.

- Jump skyward when it rains.

Caught breath, headed to rainwater puddle. Sky reflected. Leapt in, lift cut from 98th to 89th.