The axe was heavier than it looked.
Its wooden handle was rough and uneven, and every time I raised it above my head, it felt like I was lifting a mountain. My hands blistered within the hour. Sweat rolled down my neck, soaking my shirt. My arms trembled with each swing.
And yet—he didn't say a word.
The man who had saved my life—my supposed master now—just sat quietly nearby, sharpening one of his swords. The metallic sound of the whetstone was the only thing that kept me company as I chopped log after log.
I didn't know his name.
I didn't know why he let me stay.
But I knew this: if I wanted to learn from him… I had to endure.
The first week was brutal.
He woke me up before the sun. No soft voice, no warning—just a bucket of cold water poured over my sleeping face.
"You're up," he'd say.
Then the training would begin.
Morning: chopping wood, carrying it up a steep hill, stacking it.
Midday: running laps through the dense forest barefoot, avoiding traps he'd placed to test my awareness.
Evening: sword stances—over and over again. Holding the same pose until my arms shook, until my legs gave out, until I collapsed from exhaustion.
No magic. No fancy attacks.
Just pain. Sweat. Dirt. Repetition.
And silence.
He hardly spoke.
Not a single compliment. Not even a sign he was watching me.
But I could feel his eyes on me—cold, calculating, waiting for me to give up.
I didn't.
Every time my knees buckled, I stood back up.
Every time my lungs burned, I kept running.
Because every time I closed my eyes—I saw their faces.
Father, shielding us from the fire.
My siblings, gone in an instant.
Mother, smiling even as the monster raised its claws.
And the sound—slice—that stole her from me.
That pain… became my fuel.
I didn't care if I died from training. I had already died once.
This second life… was meant for vengeance.
Weeks passed.
My body changed. Slowly, yes—but noticeably.
The ache in my shoulders dulled. My grip tightened. My stance no longer wavered. And my swings—though still wild—began to find rhythm.
He noticed.
One night, as I collapsed beside the fire, he sat beside me, eating dried meat.
"You don't complain much," he said, chewing slowly.
I glanced at him. "Should I?"
He gave a short laugh—quiet, more like air escaping his throat. "Most kids cry by day two."
"I'm not most kids."
"No," he agreed, watching the firelight flicker in my eyes. "You're not."
The next morning, he handed me a wooden sword.
It was battered, its surface splintered from years of use. But when I held it… something felt different.
It felt right.
"Swordsmanship," he said, "isn't about strength. It's about intention. Purpose."
He stood opposite me and drew one of his blades.
"Attack me."
I hesitated.
Then charged.
He deflected me without even moving his feet.
Again and again, I attacked—wide swings, forward thrusts, overhead strikes. But none of it landed. He parried me like I was swatting flies.
"Too slow," he muttered.
"Too obvious."
"Your stance is garbage."
My body screamed with frustration. My lungs ached. My pride cracked.
But I didn't stop.
Days turned into weeks. The bruises grew darker. But my strikes grew faster.
I learned to breathe with the blade, to step with my opponent's rhythm, to use balance instead of force.
And then, one evening—something changed.
We were sparring beneath the moonlight. He lunged, and I stepped just out of reach, pivoted, and countered.
Crack.
My wooden sword struck his side.
He paused.
Then smiled.
"Finally."
That was the first time I saw emotion on his face—pride, hidden deep beneath layers of steel.
"You're ready," he said. "For the next step."
He led me into the woods.
There was a small clearing, silent except for the rustling of leaves.
He sat cross-legged and motioned for me to do the same.
"What do you know about Aura?" he asked.
I blinked. "Aura? As in… energy?"
He nodded. "Aura is the soul's voice. Most people never hear it."
He placed his hand on his sword.
"But if you train your body and mind long enough, you begin to feel it. It flows into your blade—into every strike. That's what makes a swordsman… into something more."
He drew a line in the dirt.
"Aura Sword. A rare skill. Few ever awaken it."
I swallowed hard.
"And I can learn it?"
"You can try," he said, "but understand this: it's not about wanting power. It's about syncing with your blade, letting it become an extension of your will."
He handed me a thin wooden stick.
"Now meditate."
I spent the next week sitting in that clearing.
Every day, I would sit with the stick resting on my knees, eyes closed, trying to feel something—anything.
At first, it was pointless. I felt nothing. Only wind, bugs, boredom.
But gradually… a hum began to rise. Like a distant song in the silence.
My heartbeat slowed.
My breath became steady.
And one day—I opened my eyes.
The stick was glowing faintly. A soft shimmer, almost invisible.
I gasped.
He appeared behind me.
"Good," he said. "You've started to listen."
From that day on, my strikes changed.
They were lighter—but sharper.
Slower—but more precise.
He began training me in real sword techniques—sweeping arcs, defensive pivots, short-range counters.
Aura Sword wasn't about blasting enemies away.
It was about knowing—predicting where a strike would land, and guiding your blade with intention, not just instinct.
It was elegant. Beautiful.
And I felt it growing inside me, like a quiet flame.
One morning, after practice, I sat by the lake. My body ached. My hands were calloused. My shirt was torn.
But for the first time, I saw my reflection—and I didn't look like a child anymore.
I looked like someone with purpose.
He approached and sat beside me.
"You've come far," he said.
"I still have a long way to go."
He nodded. "But you've earned something today."
He reached into his cloak and pulled out a wrapped bundle.
Inside was a short sword—real steel, simple but sharp.
"This was mine when I was your age," he said. "It's not fancy. But it's real. And it's yours now."
I took it with both hands, bowing my head.
"Thank you."
He stared at the sky. "You said you wanted revenge."
I looked up. "Yes."
He didn't speak for a while.
Then: "Revenge can fuel you. Or consume you. Make sure it's the first."
I nodded.
He stood and turned away.
"Tomorrow," he said, "you'll fight your first real opponent."
My heart quickened.
"A monster?" I asked.
He glanced back.
"No," he said. "Yourself."