He stared at it for hours usually. However, in the depths of his own mind, he was suddenly pulled into a vivid memory. He saw himself standing before the sword, his hand trembling as he reached out to grasp the hilt. With a hesitant breath, he lifted the blade, feeling its weight in his hand.

In the memory, his master stood beside him, watching with a critical eye. He swung the sword clumsily, the movement awkward and uncoordinated. His master shook his head, a frown creasing his brow.

“That’s wrong,” his master said, stepping forward to demonstrate. With fluid grace, he wielded the sword, each movement flowing like a cool spring breeze.

Inspired by his master’s example, he tried again. This time, something clicked. His movements flowed naturally, the sword cutting through the air with purpose. His master’s surprise was evident, a glimmer of pride shining in his eyes.

“Your visualization is good,” his master remarked, a hint of admiration in his voice. “Too good.”

The memory faded, leaving him standing in the dim light of his home, the sword hanging silently on the wall before him. He couldn’t help but wonder what had become of that skill, that determination. Had it all been lost in the chaos of his life?

He had visualized the sword forms, various fights and opponents in his mind for the last two years, yet never trained. It was almost like if he raised a hand against someone or touched a sword, emotion would overwhelm and destroy him. That was why he was scared.

The realization hit him like a wave crashing against the shore. For the past two years, he had meticulously visualized sword forms, imagined countless fights against different opponents, and honed his skills in his mind. Yet, when it came to actual training, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. The fear that gripped him was paralyzing.

But he had grabbed its hilt today. He reached forward and touched it, stiffening as the familiar perfect feeling of the blade in his palm flashed before him.

He thought he was ready to unsheathe it, to finally face his fears head-on. But as he gripped the hilt and prepared to draw the sword, a flash of blood-red filled his vision, and memories of his past mistakes flooded his mind. He staggered back, his heart pounding in his chest as tears welled up in his eyes.

He curled up on the ground. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he whispered to himself, “I’ll try again tomorrow.

The next day, he mustered the courage to try again. With a heavy heart and trembling hands, he approached the sword hanging on the wall. Despite his efforts to push aside the memories of his past failures, the fear still ate at him from within.

As he reached for the hilt, a sense of dread washed over him. The image of blood-red flashed before his eyes once more, and he hesitated, his grip faltering. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't bring himself to draw the sword.

His master had come to him in a dream, he couldn't disobey him now.

With a newfound resolve, he combed his hair and put on his best clothes, albeit half-heartedly. He made a silent promise to himself and to his master, to follow his will and embrace the path laid out before him. No more cowardice. He was given another chance.

He slowly opened the door, covering his face by force of habit. Eyes bulging, he rushed back in the home, bringing out a mask that had collected dust.

With the mask firmly in place, he took a deep breath and stepped outside, determined to make a fresh start. However, as he began to walk, his nerves got the better of him, and he found himself going in circles, unable to break free from the confines of his own fear.

Lost in his thoughts, he barely noticed the old woman approaching him until she was right in front of him. She regarded him carefully.

The old woman raised an eyebrow, studying him with keen interest. “What are you doing, young man?” she asked, her voice gentle yet firm.

He flinched at the sound of her voice, his heart pounding in his chest. Without a word, he bowed awkwardly, intending to flee. But before he could make his escape, she reached out and grabbed his arm with surprising strength.

“You’re going to have some tea with me,” she declared, her tone leaving no room for argument.

The old woman led him to a quaint little store and rang the bell. A friendly voice greeted them from inside, inviting them in.

He hesitated, feeling the weight of his empty pockets. “I have no money,” he murmured, ready to turn away and leave.

But the old woman held onto his arm firmly, her grip unyielding. “I will pay,” she stated simply, her eyes locking with his.

He stiffened at her words, the gesture foreign and unsettling to him.

The waitress approached, her friendly smile faltering slightly at his silence. “What would you like?” she asked, directing her question to both of them.

He found himself unable to form words, his mind blank. It was the old woman who spoke up, ordering a normal iced tea for them both. He nodded in silent agreement, still feeling out of place in this unexpected situation.

The silence was overbearing.

The woman who had forced him to come here took a big sip. “Elaine, dear, why don’t you join us for a cup of tea?”

The server shook her head. “Oh, I don’t want to intrude…”

“Nonsense, dear. It’s always nice to have company. Come, sit down.”

As they sat there in the silence, the server, Elaine, hesitated before speaking up. “Why did you invite him?” she asked the old lady, a curious expression on her face.

He kept his eyes closed, still feeling out of place and unsure of what to say. The old woman simply smiled and replied, “His eyes.”

Elaine nodded in understanding, shooting him a sympathetic glance before taking a sip of her tea.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

His confusion deepened as he listened to their conversation. He imagined himself placing both hands on the table and bursting into laughter at how absurd it all sounded. But instead, he remained still, his gaze fixed on the tea in front of him, absentmindedly stirring it in circles.

The old woman broke the silence, her voice gentle yet probing. “So, why were you out there, wandering like that?”

He hesitated, thinking for a moment before responding. “I wanted to spar in the Tenko Swords.”

“Interesting… you seem so pale. Are you nervous?”

He shook his head slightly. “No, I was born this way. And… I have this weird scar on my neck too.”

The old woman leaned forward, her eyes filled with kindness. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” she said softly. “And as for the Tenko Swords, they’re very beginner-friendly. You don’t need to worry about it.”

“Thank you. I will take my leave.”

Both women smiled warmly at him. “Please visit again,” they said in unison.

As he talked away, he felt a warm sensation in his chest. For the first time in a long while, he wondered if this was how normal people felt when they talked to others.

With shaky steps, he made his way to the dojo, the anticipation building with each step. He paused at the entrance, placing his hand on the door. His hand trembled slightly as he took a deep breath, summoning the courage to step inside.

Before he could muster the strength to push the door open, someone gently took his hand and opened it for him. He stumbled forward, falling inside. Countless faces turned to look at him, their expressions a mix of curiosity and surprise. Instinctively, he touched his face to check if his mask was still on, feeling the reassuring presence of its fabric against his skin.

A hand reached down and pulled him up. “Hey, it’s automatic,” a friendly voice said. “No need to look so pale.”

“My name is Soren. What's yours?”

“My name…name is…” He hesitated, then quickly came up with a name on the spot. “Oni.”

Soren nodded, a friendly smile on his face. “Nice to meet you, Oni. Don’t worry, we’re all friends here. So, you want to wield a sword?”

He nodded eagerly, grateful for Soren’s understanding. The laughter of the others around them made him feel self-conscious, but Soren’s smile reassured him that everything was okay.

Soren explained that they trained five days a week, with two tournament days. Today happened to be one of those tournament days, so he had the option to sit out and watch the fights or compete.

He mustered the courage to ask, “Are there any spare swords available? And perhaps a room where I could stay alone?”

Soren nodded sympathetically. “Of course, we have spare swords you can use for training. As for a room, I’ll arrange one for you. You’ll have your own space to practice and rest.”

In the solitude of his room, He stared at the wooden sword lying before him. His heart raced with anticipation, and he could feel sweat forming on his brow at the mere thought of picking it up. For a few agonizing minutes, he hesitated, the weight of his fear almost suffocating.

But then, with a deep breath, he closed his eyes and reached out, his hand trembling as it closed around the hilt of the sword. Slowly, he lifted it.

“S..S…Stance One.”

His feet were planted firmly on the ground, shoulder-width apart. His knees were slightly bent, providing stability and flexibility. The wooden sword extended in front of him, held with both hands, the tip pointed toward an imaginary opponent. His arms were relaxed yet poised, ready to strike or defend at a moment’s notice.

Despite his initial trembling, He found a sense of calm wash over him as he settled into the stance.

“Stance Two.”

He started shifting his feet, but flashbacks looped through his mind and he dropped the weapon, clutching his head.

As he began to shift his feet, memories of past failures and regrets flooded his mind, causing him to drop the wooden sword and clutch his head in anguish.

But amidst the turmoil, a resolute determination emerged within him. “I haven’t fulfilled my debts,” he muttered through gritted teeth, his voice trembling with emotion.

With a shaky hand, he reached out and picked up the sword once more, his palms slick with sweat. Despite the weight of his past mistakes, he refused to be consumed by them. He had moped for two years, and it would continue no more longer.

He began to cycle through every sword style that he had mastered, even a few physical combat tricks that he had visualized for all those years. However, his body refused to move like it used to.

In the silence of the room, he fought against the inertia of his own body, willing it to remember, to respond. The wooden sword felt heavy in his hands, but he gripped it tighter, forcing himself to continue. Sweat dripped down his face, and his breathing grew ragged, but he didn’t stop.

“Again,” he muttered to himself, resetting his stance. “Stance One. Stance Two.”

Each time he repeated the motions, his movements became slightly more fluid, his body slowly recalling the muscle memory buried deep within. It was far from perfect, but it was progress. And for the first time in two years, he felt a flicker of hope.

He wondered if he could do the third form, the one that had always challenged him the most. Tentatively, he shifted his stance, positioning his body for the move. As he began to raise the sword, a vivid memory surged to the forefront of his mind.

In his mind’s eye, he saw himself in this very position, swinging a knife. But then, he remembered the moment when everything went wrong: the sensation of being cut down, his body crumpling, and the haunting image of his head rolling back, coming to rest near a man with a sad expression on his face.

The memory hit him hard, knocking the breath from his lungs. His grip on the sword faltered, and he nearly dropped it again, his heart pounding in his chest.

Sweat dripped down his face as he tried to steady his breathing, the room spinning around him. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting to push the traumatic memory away.

“I can’t… I can’t let this stop me,” he whispered to himself, his voice trembling.

But once he lifted it up one more time, his hand slipped, and he dropped the sword. The clatter of the wooden blade hitting the floor seemed to echo in the room, amplifying the silence that followed.

Pain consumed him, not just physical but emotional. He could almost hear the voices of hundreds of people surrounding him, their accusations ringing in his ears.

“Murderer,” they whispered, their voices a chorus of condemnation.

His vision blurred as the weight of their judgment pressed down on him, suffocating him. He could see their faces, twisted with anger and fear, staring at him from every corner of his mind.

"No," he muttered, clutching his head as if to block out the voices. "I’m not... I didn’t mean to…”

The room spun faster, and he fell to his knees, tears mixing with the sweat on his face. The memories were relentless, dragging him back into the darkness he had fought so hard to escape.

He felt the weight of his guilt and shame bearing down on him, threatening to crush him. The faces of his family all haunted him in that moment.

"Please, stop," he pleaded, his voice barely a whisper. "I didn't want this. I didn't choose this."

The accusations grew louder, drowning out his feeble protests. He curled into himself, wishing he could disappear, wishing he could find peace from the torment.

In the midst of his anguish, a faint memory of his master's voice surfaced, cutting through the noise. "Face your fears," it urged. "Only then can you find redemption."

With a Herculean effort, he forced himself to his feet, his body trembling. He reached for the sword once more, his fingers brushing the worn wood. This time, he gripped it tightly, refusing to let go.

"I will find redemption," he whispered, his voice steadier now. "I will only stay alive until I fulfill the promise I made to him."

And with that, he raised the sword again. But just as he began to move, the door burst open.

“Oni!” Soren’s voice was urgent. “There’s an emergency.”