After their return to the village, life resumed.
Well… "resumed" was a generous word.
The sun rose, the sun set. Birds sang. Chickens scratched at the dirt. Rob returned from the forest. Nila prepared soup.
And Aren trained.
He trained in the morning. He trained in the afternoon. He trained at night.
And if he could, he would have trained in his sleep as well.
"I'll do everything I can to master this technique," Aren muttered, gripping his wooden practice sword.
He understood the principles of the Southern Sword Technique.
The problem was that understanding did not move the body.
A page told you where to place your foot. But no page told you how not to collapse when your knee screamed.
A sentence spoke of the thrust. But no sentence told you what to do when your wrist shook or when your fingers refused to close.
Aren took the stance. One step. One angle. A push of the hips.
"…This is hard."
He tried again.
Again.
And again.
The tip of his blade cut through the air—imprecise, harmless.It wasn't an attack. It was a clumsy prayer.
"Again," he growled.
Wood cracked.
His arms burned.
Minutes passed, and his breathing grew heavy. Hours passed… and the bandages darkened with blood.
Six months went by like that.
Six months in which Aren grew—not in height alone, but in exhaustion. He still had a child's hands… but injuries no grown man would have accepted.
One morning, Nila watched him leave once more, wrapped in white cloth.
"Aren, look at yourself. You're covered in bandages."
Her voice wasn't scolding. It was worry wrestling with itself.
"You should rest today," she added, following him to the door.
Aren didn't even stop.
"I can't. I don't have that luxury."
He turned his head just enough to meet her eyes—and that was enough for something to tighten in his chest.
"I have to become strong. Not for me. For her."
Nila pressed her lips together.
She wanted to say the gods know what they're doing, as she always had.
But these past months had carved something into her as well.A silent fracture.
"Then do it properly," she finally said. "Not with anger. With consistency."
Aren lowered his eyes.
"I… I'll try."
He left.
The tree behind the house took blow after blow. Sometimes with the blade.Sometimes with his fists.
When rage returned, Aren struck until his knuckles split open—then hated himself for wasting strength on anger.
He learned something simple, slowly:
Anger wasn't a technique. It was fire. And fire burned everything—even the one who lit it.
—
Meanwhile… at the Tallcrag estate.
The manor breathed the calm of the wealthy. It was almost unbearable.
Stella marched down the corridor with the expression of someone about to cause a disaster.
Sylver, the butler, followed closely behind, already tired.
"Please, young lady. The Count is occupied. Could you wait just a little—"
"No," Stella replied. "I need to speak to my father now."
And she entered.
Without knocking.
Russell Tallcrag looked up. A man who controlled everything… except his daughter.
"What is it, Stella?"
"First, I'm not little anymore. Second, I need to advance my training."
The Count blinked.
"Your master isn't teaching you anymore?"
"He is. But he said I lack experience."
Russell pinched the bridge of his nose.
"That old fool never listens…"
Stella planted both hands on his desk.
"I'm going to register as a mercenary."
"Absolutely not."
"What?! Why?!"
"Because you're a noble. And because you're too young."
"That's not fair! I want to grow stronger!"
Russell raised his voice slightly.
"I said no."
Stella puffed her cheeks, preparing diplomatic war.
Sylver cleared his throat.
"If I may, Patriarch… I believe this could be beneficial."
Russell slowly turned.
"Why should I listen to you, Sylver?"
The butler bowed perfectly.
"As you know, Lady Stella will one day represent House Tallcrag at the Academy. The stronger she becomes, the stronger the house's reputation."
Russell sighed.
"I agree. But it's dangerous."
"I understand your concern, my lord. In that case… what if her contracts were limited? Closely supervised. Only controlled missions."
Stella froze.
Russell studied him.
"…Very well."
He looked at Stella.
"You will take only approved contracts. Sylver will accompany you—but he will not interfere unless your life is truly at risk."
Stella clenched her fists.
"…Fine."
She'd won.
—
A year passed.
Time slipped differently in villages. A field became a harvest. A harvest became soup . Soup became memory.
Aren was twelve now.
One year and a half remained before the Academy entrance exam.
One evening, Rob watched him train and finally asked:
"How's your training going?"
Aren wiped sweat from his brow.
"Good. I'm improving… but something's missing."
"You've grown, that's certain," Rob chuckled. "So what is it?"
Aren hesitated.
Because what he was about to say sounded like weakness.
"I don't know my level."
Rob frowned.
"Your level?"
"I train hard. But I lack real combat experience."
Rob understood immediately.
He stayed silent for a moment, then sighed.
"I see. And what do you plan to do?"
Aren lifted his chin.
"I'll become a mercenary… for the remaining year and a half."
Rob stared at him for a long time. As if watching the last of his son's childhood walk away.
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
Rob nodded, then reached into a bag and pulled out a sword wrapped in cloth.
"Take this."
Aren unwrapped it.
A simple sword. Black iron. Nothing ornate. But three names were engraved on the blade.
Kayla.Nila.Rob.
Aren froze.
"I planned to give it to you later… when you left for the Academy," Rob said softly. "But you'll need it now."
Aren gripped the hilt.
His stomach twisted. His throat tightened.
"Thank you, Dad."
Rob patted his shoulder awkwardly.
"Come back alive."
"I will."
And silently: I'll come back with her.
—
A few days later, Aren finally left the village.
Destination: Helior, capital of Valenor.
He joined a merchant caravan heading that way. The merchant was glad to have a sturdy boy along.
The road was long but calm. Trees lined the path. The wind smelled of earth and resin.
The merchant talked. Aren listened.
Then—mid-morning—
Aren stopped.
"Quiet."
"What is it?"
Aren didn't answer immediately.
Something was approaching.
He couldn't sense the world like others did. But he listened differently.
The brush shifting. Heavy footsteps.A sharp, foul scent.
And above all…
The forest holding its breath.
"Something's coming."
"A wolf?"
Aren shook his head.
"Too heavy."
A guttural roar exploded behind them.
Aren drew his sword.
"A monster."
The merchant went pale.
"Run—run!"
Aren scanned the road.
Another growl answered from ahead.
"No. Three of them. Two ahead. One behind."
"…My goods…"
"Not now. Hide."
The merchant scrambled beneath the cart, trembling.
Aren stepped into the road.
The rear orc emerged.
Huge. Green skin. Tusks. Rusted axe.
Confident.
"Come," Aren whispered.
The orc charged.
Aren moved diagonally.
The axe smashed the earth.
Aren thrust.
Southern Sword Technique — Simple Pierce.
A miss.
The orc countered.
Aren ducked, struck again.
It worked.
Barely.
He stayed calm.
The orc struck him aside—pain exploded.
But Aren adjusted.
Lower stance. Legs.
The thrust went deep.
The orc fell.
One down.
The other two emerged—clearly coordinated.
Aren realized why.
This road was a trade route. They hunted travelers together.
A lance. A sword and shield.
Aren stood his ground.
The merchant hid under the cart.
The fight turned desperate.
Feints. Blocks. Pain.
Blood.
Exhaustion.
Then—
A sharp whistle.
Light burned the ground.
"Seriously," a familiar voice said, "you really have a talent for getting beaten without me."
"Stella…?"
She stood calm.
Sylver behind her.
Still. Silent.
"Back up, Aren."
Chains of pale mana bound one orc.
Aren struck.
Southern Sword Technique — Decisive Pierce.
The second orc fell.
The last charged Stella.
Sylver did not move.
Not an inch.
Stella stepped forward.
A perfect circle of fire formed.
"Too slow."
Fourth Circle — Ignition Lance.
The spell pierced the orc's skull.
Instant death.
Silence.
Aren collapsed, breathing hard.
Stella crossed her arms, satisfied.
"You really should wait for me next time."
"…Good to see you too."
She smiled—proud, teasing.
"You held out longer than I expected."
"I'll take that."
Sylver observed the scene quietly. He said nothing.
"We're heading to Helior too," Stella said.
"Mission report."
Aren nodded.
His body was broken.
But his path was clear.
And for the first time—
He wasn't walking it alone.