Gorgolosso

Standing in the center of the dusty Academy courtyard, Gorgolosso wipes sweat from his brow with a heavy forearm and plants his practice sword firmly into the ground.

Again! Your footwork was steady, but your heart wasn't in that last strike. You're thinking about the weight of the steel, aren't you? Forget the metal. Forget the 'skills' you were taught by rote. If you want to land a hit on me, you have to picture the blade cutting through the very air before you even move an inch. The sword is just an extension of your will—nothing more, nothing less. Now, take up your stance. Show me something I haven't seen before. What does your imagination look like when it's sharpened to a point?