Under the pale, silver light of the moon, the quiet village lay cradled deep within the valley, as if holding its breath in anticipation. The air was cool and still, carrying a faint scent of damp earth and blooming night flowers. Song stood at the very edge of the Forbidden Garden, a place whispered about in fearful tones among villagers. His gaze wandered over the ancient, towering trees whose dark silhouettes stretched against the night sky like silent guardians. The leaves rustled softly with the slightest breeze, creating a delicate symphony that seemed to sing of forgotten secrets.
His worn leather bag hung heavy by his side, the weight of it grounding him even as his mind soared. Beneath layers of herbs, tattered cloth, and basic tools lay the Sword Flash scroll. It was an ancient relic that promised great power but demanded a sword to unlock its deeper mysteries. Song's fingers itched to open it, to delve further, but he knew better. He had spent two days already studying the scroll's basic teachings. Without a sword, he managed to master the fundamental stances and movements—slow and methodical—but the scroll's intricate strikes, fluid flows, and deadly techniques remained locked away, just beyond his reach.
A voice broke the quiet night, lighthearted but sharp with teasing. Wind, Song's talkative and ever-watchful companion, stepped out from the shadows of a twisted oak. His grin was wide, though his eyes held a cautious gleam. He casually leaned against the rough bark of the tree, arms folded across his chest, clearly entertained by Song's struggle.
"You're chasing shadows, Song," Wind said, amusement rolling in his tone. "A swordsman without a sword. Now that's something I haven't heard before."
Song shot him a sharp, unamused look. "You know the scroll requires a blade, Wind. It won't teach me how to fight without one."
Wind laughed softly, the sound drifting on the night air like a breeze. "Swords from the city market? Completely out of reach for us. Even the cheap steel blades—fragile and weak—would cost a whole month's worth of merit points, and that's if you're willing to go hungry."
Song sighed deeply, running a hand through his tangled dark hair. The truth stung, but he couldn't argue. The shining blades he had glimpsed in the bustling market were forged from rare alloys, made for the wealthy or the powerful. They were far beyond the means of gatherers like them, who scraped by day to day.
Wind, always quick to seize a solution, clapped a firm hand on Song's shoulder, his grin turning sly. "But don't lose hope just yet. I have an idea. There's the magistrate's shop—hidden away in a quieter corner of the city. They sell cheap steel swords. Nothing fancy, but they'll do the trick."
The magistrate's shop was modest and often overlooked by the city's more affluent visitors. Its stock was basic, sometimes shoddy, but it was closer and more practical for locals like them. The following morning, Song found himself stepping cautiously into the cramped, dimly lit room Wind had described. The air smelled of rust and old wood, and piles of mismatched gear cluttered every corner: rusted weapons with jagged edges, dented armor pieces battered from years of use, and tools whose purposes were hard to guess.
Song sifted carefully through the chaos, his fingers brushing over heavy halberds too cumbersome for his fighting style, short swords barely longer than daggers, and glaives of all sizes leaning against cracked walls. The swords were plentiful but pitiful—most were chipped, dulled, and neglected. Many looked as if they had been discarded and forgotten long ago.
After nearly an hour of searching, his hand closed around one that stood out from the rest. It was a straight, double-edged sword with a simple, unadorned crossguard. The pommel caught his eye, shaped like the snarling head of a monstrous beast, giving the weapon a faint, fierce personality. The handle was wrapped in rough, dark material, worn but providing a secure grip. The blade itself bore several notches and scratches, evidence of a turbulent past. It was far from perfect, but amid the shop's junk, it shone.
Holding the sword up carefully, Song looked over at the shopkeeper. The man lounged lazily in the doorframe, a beard unkempt and eyes half-lidded, clearly uninterested in his customers.
"Thirty merit points," the shopkeeper said with a grunt, scratching his chin. "Solid sword, that one."
Song frowned as he examined the blade's flaws more closely. "Ten merit points. It's damaged and needs sharpening and repairs."
The shopkeeper snorted, shaking his head in disbelief. "Fifteen. That's good steel. You won't find a better sword for less."
Song hesitated for a moment, weighing his limited options and resources, then finally nodded. "Fine. Fifteen it is."
After the purchase, Song headed to a nearby forge. The blacksmiths there were servant workers, more accustomed to shoeing horses and fixing nails than crafting elegant weapons. For five merit points, they agreed to restore the blade—sharpening its edge and smoothing over its imperfections. When the work was done, Song was surprised. The sword was better balanced than he expected, weighing roughly 800 grams, sturdy yet responsive in his hands.
He also bought a simple leather scabbard with a shoulder strap, making it easier to carry on his back during travel. As he slung the sword across his shoulders, a strange warmth pulsed along the blade. It was subtle but unmistakable, like a hidden spark waiting patiently to ignite.
Song looked up at the moon again, feeling the weight of the sword and the promise it held. This was only the beginning.
Song tightened the strap of the scabbard across his back, the sword resting comfortably against his shoulder. The quiet village around him seemed peaceful under the moon's watchful gaze, but Song's heart thudded with restless anticipation. This sword was more than just a weapon. It was a key—a promise that the path forward, though difficult, was no longer completely out of reach.
Wind nudged him gently, breaking the silence. "Ready to test it out, or are you going to admire it all night?"
Song smirked, shaking his head. "Admiring won't make me stronger. I need to train."
They moved to a small clearing near the village's edge. The ground was soft with fallen leaves and patches of moss. The faint glow of fireflies hovered in the cool night air, lending the place an almost magical atmosphere.
Song drew the sword from its scabbard. The blade caught the moonlight, reflecting a pale glow. He felt the subtle vibration, a gentle hum, as if the sword itself was eager to be wielded.
"Remember the stances from the scroll," Wind reminded him. "But don't rush. You've got to move like water. Flow, don't force."
Song nodded, adopting the basic stance he had memorized. He breathed deeply, centering himself. The night was still around him, but inside his mind, a storm brewed—ambition, doubt, hope, and determination all tangled together.
His first strike sliced through the air with a whisper, the blade cutting cleanly, a breeze trailing behind it. He repeated the movements, each strike smoother than the last. His muscles ached, but his spirit grew stronger.
Wind watched carefully, then clapped his hands. "Not bad for a swordsman who only just got his sword."
Song allowed himself a small smile. "This is just the beginning."
The night stretched on, stars spinning slowly overhead. Song practiced until his arms felt heavy, until sweat mingled with the cool air on his skin. His thoughts drifted back to the scroll, the secret techniques locked away inside. The sword was the key, but only practice and patience would unlock its true power.
As he sheathed the sword at last, Wind grinned. "One step closer, huh?"
Song looked out into the darkness, the sword warm against his back. "One step closer."
The village slept peacefully, unaware that beneath its quiet surface, a young man's journey toward mastery had only just begun.