To ease the heaviness, Marco clapped his hands once.
"Let's talk about our lives before all this, before here. Might help lighten things up."
Ivan and Yuhan hesitated, then nodded.
Ivan hesitated for a moment, as if weighing each word, feeling the weight of the story he was about to tell. Taking a slow breath, he let his shoulders relax and met their eyes, preparing himself to share a piece of who he truly was.
"So my family and I were traveling from Terwin Country to Sicilioon Country along that long road. The road in Terwin Country stretched endlessly, a ribbon of dust cutting through the wild lands of the Karvan Empire. Two massive iron-caged horse carriages rumbled ahead, each a monument to its owner's wealth and pride. Only a merchant of immense fortune—or boundless arrogance—could have purchased such monstrosities. The iron and steel gleamed under the sun, curved in intricate patterns, each detail screaming opulence.
Slaves walked close to the carriages, bare feet crunching over gravel. I rode silently, taking in everything. The driver's gaze flicked toward a shimmering lake ahead, and the master's booming voice cut through the clatter:
'Stop. Quench your thirst. You'll need strength for the road ahead.'
I stepped down from the second carriage, feeling the weight of the blade at my waist. My clothes were rich, flowing, embroidered to mimic royalty. Thick black hair fell past my shoulders as I scanned the landing, every movement precise, every muscle coiled. Danger could be anywhere; I could not afford to appear careless.
Workers and slaves clustered at the lake, drinking and resting after days on the road. Then the fat man descended from the first carriage—a grotesque contrast to me. Horseshoe-shaped hair dripping with gold, a bloated, red face, every gesture radiating entitlement. He stopped before me, arrogance in every line of his body.
SLAP. Pain flared across my cheek. His voice followed, sharp and venomous:
'You're wasting my time and money! I should never have adopted you—that was that bitch's decision! And why, after all this treatment and potions, does your hand still shake under pressure?'
Another slap. The resting horses tensed, ears flicking nervously. He struck again, harder this time, and the fair skin of my cheek burned crimson.
'You can't even beat a first-generation sword player,' he spat, turning away with a string of curses.
I said nothing. My expression remained unreadable—neither tears nor smile, only an utter void. For a heartbeat, everything was still.
Then shadows stirred at the forest's edge. Black forms emerged, moving like predators, steel glinting from every hand. They circled us. Even the fighters under my master's command hesitated, outnumbered, tense.
Two figures, cloaked entirely in black, stepped toward me. They whispered, almost casually, their words lost in the wind but their intent unmistakable. Before I could react, one bound my hands tightly, throwing me toward an iron cage. The world tilted violently as I struck the hard surface, the metallic scent of fear and iron filling my senses.
In that moment, the road I had walked with routine obedience became a battlefield—shadows moving faster than thought, and the world turning against me."
When he finished, Marco muttered with a weak smile, "We were trying to lighten the mood, Ivan."
Flustered, Ivan lay back down, cheeks burning.
Mikayle chuckled faintly. "No wonder you've got good stance. That trembling in your hands—it'll become your edge, someday."
Ivan turned wide eyes to him, shocked at the unexpected kindness.
Yuhan coughed into his hand. "My old master grew tired of me. I spent more time in the book room than doing chores, so he sold me—better to make money off me than keep me idle."
The others blinked. Yuhan's words, always sparing, carried a weight like coins.
Then Marco stood up. Maybe he was going to act out his story, as he often did—his way of drawing everyone in. Marco had always carried that personality in the group; being the oldest, he felt it was his duty to keep things balanced, to think before acting, to measure words carefully.
He moved to stand in front of the three of them, positioning himself so the sky formed a dramatic backdrop behind him. Sunlight caught the strands of his blonde hair, making them shine like threads of gold that framed his calm, composed face. The angle made him seem taller, more commanding, yet approachable—a storyteller in his element.
No one flinched or looked away. Instead, every gaze followed him with anticipation, curious about the tale he would share, the world he would bring alive. Even the youngest leaned forward slightly, caught in the silent gravity of his presence.
Marco inhaled deeply, letting the air fill his lungs. His chest rose steadily, shoulders squared. Then, he exhaled and let the story begin—not with words alone, but with the weight of his posture, the subtle gestures of his hands, the flicker of emotion in his eyes.
"I used to live far from here, in Michigan country. A village called Frain. It was quiet. Endless land stretched as far as you could walk—just fields and sky. Our lives were simple, bound to the soil. I lived with my mother, my sister, and my older brother. My brother… he was everything. Strong, handsome, good at everything he touched. My sister used to joke that he was my mother's favorite child. And maybe he was. But I didn't mind. I looked up to him more than anyone.
Farming was all we knew. Every family had land, either passed down or earned. My grandfather once worked in a noble house, and for that service, we were given a piece of land. It was ours. Our only way of living.
But then the bad years came. Crops withered, debts grew, and men began to break. Some… couldn't face their families anymore. They ended their lives. Our village was sinking.
A noble family came with promises. They would fund us for the next season, but until we paid them back, the land was theirs. Whatever the soil grew, it belonged to them. They said we could earn it back. There was a contract.
But the years dragged on. The nobles refused to return what they had taken. Even when villagers offered double, they wouldn't budge. The contract said one-tenth, yet they wanted everything.
It wasn't until the old king died and the new one rose that we had hope. He ruled that we could buy our land back at two-tenths. Costly… but at last, we were free again."
Marco's eyes softened as though he were back there.
"My uncle and brother handled selling our crops in town. One day, my mother gave me permission to go with them. I'll never forget that moment. For me, it was like a festival. I almost jumped out of my skin from excitement.
Before we left, she handed me two peanuts. Just two. To anyone else, it would mean nothing. But for me…" He paused, swallowing hard. "For me, it meant everything."
He smiled faintly, lost in the memory.
"My sister and brother always got peanuts as rewards when they did their chores well. But me? I never finished anything properly. I was useless. I never got any. Those two peanuts… they felt like proof that I'd done something right at last.
So we went. A cart full of vegetables, pulled by a cow. I remember staring at the fields as we passed, land after land, as though the world was nothing but soil and sky. When we reached the market, my uncle and brother whispered together, their faces tense. Then they told me to wait outside an abandoned temple while they handled business.
At first, I obeyed. But the place was too quiet. No voices, no footsteps—just the hollow echo of wind in the broken stone. Something felt wrong.
After hours, they returned—not with buyers for our crops, but with three wealthy strangers on horseback. My uncle's smile was wide, too wide. I felt relief at first, seeing my brother again. I thought it was over. I thought we'd head home soon.
But then… they looked at me. Not at the vegetables. At me. That's when I realized. The deal was me."
Marco's voice cracked.
"My uncle sold me to those men. My brother… he just stood there. Didn't say a word. Didn't move. I screamed, I cried, I cursed my uncle. I begged my brother to stop them. I thought, surely—surely he'd step forward. Surely he'd save me.
But when he finally looked me in the eye, all he said was… 'It was Mother's decision.'"
The silence that followed was unbearable. Marco's lips trembled, but he forced himself to continue.
"I kept telling myself it was a lie. That maybe my uncle had blackmailed him. That maybe my mother never knew. But deep down… deep down, I think those peanuts were her goodbye. Her way of saying she was done with me. That letting me go was… the best choice for them."
His hands balled into fists. His voice dropped low.
"Maybe leaving was the only good thing I ever did for them."
Tears welled, but Marco wiped them away with his arm, forcing a hollow smile.
"In the end, I believe they got the land back. Maybe… maybe they're free now."
The words hung heavy in the night. No one moved.
Then, suddenly, Mikayle stood and wrapped his arms around Marco. No hesitation. No words. Just a fierce embrace.
Marco patted his head gently, whispering, "It's nothing compared to what you guys faced." But even as he said it, his voice shook.
The silence lingered after Marco's words, thick and unbroken.
Mikayle still had his arms around Marco, but when he finally stepped back, his face carried a faint smile.
"So that's why you're always bossing us around. Oldest brother habits die hard."
Marco blinked, then let out a small snort. "Maybe."
Yuhan, who had been unusually quiet, cleared his throat and forced a cough.
"Well… if you're useless, then what does that make Ivan, who still can't swing a sword straight?"
Ivan jerked upright. "H-Hey! At least I don't waste half my day buried in books like you!"
The sharpness of his tone cracked, and even he couldn't hold the seriousness. His cheeks flushed as he flopped back down to the grass, grumbling.
For the first time since Marco's voice broke, laughter slipped into the air—small, hesitant, but real.
Mikayle chuckled, shaking his head. "Look at us. The 'future swordsmen,' lying under the stars and arguing like stray dogs."
Marco exhaled slowly, the tension easing from his shoulders. His lips curved in a tired grin.
"Better stray dogs together than alone."
That line stuck. For a moment, it bound them tighter than any oath.
The stars wheeled quietly above, endless and cold, but in that circle of four boys, warmth flickered—fragile, but unbroken.