Chapter 1 - A Swordsman's Despair

Time is a merciless thief.

It takes away your strength, then your speed, your senses, your pride. And finally, it takes your life.

I have outdueled kings.

I have slain tyrants.

I have vanquished dragons.

I have shattered armies.

Yet here I sit, defeated not by a foe but by the steady march of years.

But I am no fool. I have long known even the mightiest must fall. It is not my life that I mourn but the death of my legacy.

This world does not remember the warrior, it remembers the war. Techniques vanish like footprints in the sand, swept away by the tide of time.

No one will remember my stance.

No one will remember my strike.

No one will remember the path I carved with this sword.

Unless… I give myself to eternity.

This sword, Kyrine, has been my companion through it all. It is not just a weapon. It is a testament to every battle, every sacrifice, every life I have taken.

If it could speak, it would tell stories far greater than any bard's song.

But why should it merely remember when it can become?

Yes. That is my answer.

My flesh is failing, but my soul still burns.

Let this burning soul of mine feed the sword.

Let it carry my art.

My will.

My legacy.

My very being.

Let it stand upright until someone worthy comes to claim it, someone who will not squander what I bled to create.

I shall not die today. I will become.

***

The swordsman opened his eyes. His fragile body trembled with exhaustion; even the slightest breeze might claim his life.

Yet his eyes burned.

He gripped Kyrine, its hilt warm under his failing hands, and placed it gently into the earth before him. He knelt before Kyrine.

The cavern walls shimmered with a faint glow as energy began to whirl around the swordsman and Kyrine.

“Kyrine,” he whispered.

“You have been my ally, my guardian, my judge, and my family.”

“Now, you will be my vessel.”

With a final breath, he pressed his forehead against Kyrine's hilt. His monologue fell silent as he poured his soul into the sword.

His body shimmered and dissolved into glowing particles. Like a swarm of fireflies, the particles circled Kyrine before burrowing deep within its steel.

And just like that, the cavern was left behind with a sword planted in the earth.

***

I am not a mere weapon.

I am his soul.

I am his essence.

Sealed within me is the story of a boy who endured misery, a man who embraced destiny, and a legend who paid the ultimate price.

But I am not here to tell just anyone.

Only those who lift me may know his tale. Only those who seek a path greater than themselves will feel my presence.

It has been a decade ever since the passing of my master and this cavern has been silent ever since. However today, the silence of this cavern is finally broken.

In my slumber, I can vaguely hear footsteps echoing against the darkness. They grow louder and closer.

And now, I stir.

A figure emerges. It is a young boy. By my master's standards, he is merely a teenager.

At first glance, I can tell this boy is weak and untrained. His overall appearance is that of a peasant. Rags for clothes, torn linens for shoes.

Even without probing him with my energy, his fear and anxiety are evident in his fidgeting body. Yet, in his eyes, there is a hint of determination, hunger, and desperation.

When the teenager sees my blade protruding from the earth, his eyes glint with hope, and he runs toward me.

“Is it true?” he whispers. His voice is uncertain, but his hands reach for my hilt. “The sword of a great master... the one who remains undefeated even in his death. They say you hold his power.”

I feel his thoughts as if they are my own. A village boy, son of a farmer, dreaming to escape from the life of drudgery.

‘Power?’ I speak, my voice echoing in his mind.

The boy stumbles back, eyes wide, but his grip on my hilt tightens.

‘I am a storyteller,’ I reply. ‘A guide. A trial. If you wish to claim strength beyond your imagination, you must listen to my story. You must experience it.’

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I pause and take a closer look at the boy's expression. Nervousness is painted on his face, and he cannot even form words despite his gaping mouth.

‘Do you accept?’

The boy hesitates. But he swallows hard and as if something within him snaps, he nods, “I accept.”

‘Very well, this is a tale of a swordsman's despair.’

***

The world around us dissolves.

He finds himself in a grand hall. He looks down and sees a pair of small yet callused hands.

The boy is no longer himself, but my master.

A boy of eleven, with a wooden practice sword sheathed by his side. That boy is my master.

I whisper into his mind, 'Right now, you're an eleven-year-old child and the son of a baron. Look around.’

He glances up with a pounding heart. The hall is vast, with sunlight streaming through tall windows. Suits of armor gleam along the walls, and the servants bustle about with trays of food and wine.

“Come, my child!” a woman's voice calls. He turns instinctively to see her, my master's mother. Her smile lights up as she beckons him closer. “Let's see your new sword, shall we?”

‘That is your mother,’ I whisper again.

Next to the woman is a little girl, around the age of eight. She giggles and holds up her arms. “Happy birthday, brother! Huggy!”

‘And that is your sister,’ I whisper once more.

The boy hesitates before bending down and holding the little girl up.

Then, a man's loud laugh echoes through the room. It's a large man who has a similar face to the boy but is more mature and weathered. He is holding something wrapped in fine silk.

When the other servants see him, they bow. “Greetings, Master.”

In return, the man laughs and waves at them. “Good day, isn't it?”

Seeing his children and wife eagerly waiting for him, the man grins wide. “Who's our birthday boy, huh?!”

'That man is your father and the baron of this estate,’ I add when the man walks over.

The boy, my master, smiles sheepishly at his father's words and places the little girl down. “Greetings, father.”

“Here you go! I'm sure you'll like this! I had our kingdom's greatest smith make it!” the man laughs, patting the boy's shoulder and handing him his gift.

Excited, the boy immediately jumps at his gift, unwrapping the fine silk. Inside is a silvery, glinting sword, adorned with intricate carvings and the emblem of his family.

Holding the sword up, the boy brushes his finger against the silver blade.

“Kiddo, this sword has a name,” the man chuckles at this sight. “Do you want to know her name?”

“Name?” the boy raises his head..

Grinning, the man says, “Yes, a name. Her name is Kyrine. In ancient Rofunese, it means justice.”

“Kyrine…” the boy mumbles as he grips the sword tightly at its hilt. “Is this your name?”

“Why don't you give it a go?” the woman by his side chuckles.

“Yeah! Go, brother!” the little girl pumps her fist in the air.

***

The boy barely has time to absorb the scene before the world shifts.

The sunlight dims, the air grows cold, and the distant sound of footsteps echoes through the hall. His father strides in, his face masked with a grim look.

“Guards! Be ready!” he says. “It's them.”

Panic ripples through the servants while the guards hurriedly step into formation, preparing to face the enemies.

“Stay with your mother and sister,” he commands as he unsheathes his sword. “Do not leave their sides.”

Before the boy can process the words, the first arrow shatters the window, stabbing itself into a servant. A scream erupts as the servants scatter in chaos.

His mother pulls the boy and the little girl close, shielding them with her body.

“Mom!” the little girl cries, trembling in fear.

“Stay with mommy,” she whispers, patting the children's heads. “Daddy will protect us.”

***

All of a sudden, his vision shifts. He finds himself thrust into the chaos.

An enemy soldier breaks through the defenses, charging toward him, his mother, and his sister.

‘Unsheathe your sword,’ I command.

“I-I can’t!” the boy stammers as panic seizes him.

‘You can, and you will,’ I roar in his mind. ‘If you don't fight, you will die!’

His trembling hands unsheathe my steel body from his waist. My size and weight feel unfamiliar to the boy.

But not to the original owner, my master.

The soldier lunges, and instinct takes over. He swings my body at the enemy. My steel cuts through the enemy's flesh, tearing it apart with ease.

He pivots and slashes out again. Again and again.

In the end, the soldier before him collapses, painting the marble floor red.

“I…” the boy rasps, his pupils trembling at the sight of the corpse.

‘There’s no time to doubt,’ I say. ‘More will come. Fight.’

The boy clenches his jaw and charges. His body moves and acts on instinct as he fights and kills attacker after attacker.

Each swing feels heavier than the last.

Each step feels more sluggish than before.

Each breath grows more ragged.

But the tide of enemies is endless.

***

The boy, still trapped in my story, watches as his father fights valiantly. His sword cuts through enemy after enemy. But even the baron cannot hold them back forever.

An arrow pierces his side, and he falters. Another strikes him, and he drops to his knees.

“Father!” the boy screams, slashing at the soldier in front of him and running to his side.

His father looks at him, his face pale. “Protect them,” he whispers. “Your mother… and your sister…”

Before the boy can respond, another arrow strikes his father down.

“Father!” the boy chokes, his vision blurred by tears.

A woman’s scream rings out. He immediately turns to see his mother fall. An enemy blade cuts her down as she shields his sister. She collapses to the ground, and the glint in her eyes dim.

“Brother!”

Soldiers grab his sister, dragging her away as she cries for help. The boy swings his sword wildly, but there are too many, too strong.

“Let her go!” he screams, his voice laced with pure desperation.

The soldiers sneer, and one of them knocks me out of the boy’s hands.

They leave him in the burning wreckage of his manor, with the bodies of his family and servants scattered around him.

The boy collapses to his knees, sobbing and tearing at the ground.

***

The world snaps back into the dark cavern. The boy finds himself kneeling on the earth, my hilt still clutched in his shaking hands.

He looks at me with hollow eyes. He opens his mouth, but instead of words, he retches and vomits.

Acidic liquid splashes onto the ground, and only the sound of his gagging fills the cavern.

Eventually, he manages to squeeze out his voice. “I… That… that was your life?” he whispers hoarsely.

‘It was the beginning,’ I reply. 'I witnessed someone who lost everything, someone who struggled between despair and survival.’

“I c-c-couldn’t save them,” the boy cries, tears streaming down his face.

‘Neither could he,’ I say. 'But he endured. He rose from the ashes and became something greater.’

‘Now you understand the burden of wielding me and the weight of the legacy you seek to carry.’

‘Tell me, can you go through this again? For the sake of power?’

He furiously shakes his head. “N-no, no more. I can't go throu-”

Before he can finish, he vomits again.

Seeing this, I sigh inwardly. ‘Leave. You are unfit to carry my master's legacy.’

The boy's hands fall limp at his sides. He rises unsteadily, his face a mask of despair.

Without another word, he turns and leaves the cavern, his footsteps echoing until they fade into silence.

I remain behind, alone once more.

So, the first candidate ends in failure. He couldn’t even stand still after listening to my master's tale.

Perhaps he will return one day. Or perhaps he will disappear. At the very least, he carries a fragment of my master's tale.

Maybe he will share this experience and attract others here. Or maybe he will not.

One day, the world will know my master's legacy.

Until then, I will wait.