The man stood calmly in front of the veil-draped dais of Water Tree Tower. Riatsu Raizu, a trusted attendant of Lady Mizuki, had long served her with loyalty and discretion. But even he felt the sharp tension in the air today.
Lady Mizuki's voice sliced through the stillness like the draw of a blade.
"How dare that miserable boy reject my proposal… and even threaten me." Her tone was calm, but it carried the weight of cold fury.
Riatsu lowered his head slightly, choosing his words carefully.
"My lady, please… calm your mind. That boy… he is not the same fool from before. I admit, I thought he was dull—slow to speak, easy to ignore. But now…"
He hesitated.
"He's clever. He calculates every word, every step. It's dangerous."
Lady Mizuki's amber gaze sharpened like a blade's edge.
"Send someone to keep an eye on him. I want to know everything—where he goes, who he meets, what he does. Nothing escapes me."
The evening wind rustled gently through the curtains of Vern's house as he stepped back inside. His thoughts were a tangled storm, but one question surged to the front:
"If the Black Wind sword truly belonged to Vern's mother… why can't I remember it?"
Before he could dwell further, Azum Hemda stepped forward, concern etched into his weathered face.
"Young Master… are you alright? Did Lady Mizuki… harm you?"
His voice was low, cautious.
Vern gave a faint shake of the head, his voice calm.
"No, I'm fine. Don't worry."
Azum hesitated, then gave a slight nod. "If you say so…"
But before Azum could step away, Vern suddenly asked,
"Azum… do you know anything about my mother's sword—the Black Wind?"
The question settled heavily between them. For a moment, Azum said nothing, only looked away, the memories pulling at him like an old wound.
"…Yes, Young Master," he finally replied, voice thick with sorrow.
"When Lady Venisha passed, I kept it safe for you. I waited for the day you were ready."
Azum turned and walked quietly into the depths of the house. Vern followed.
They entered Azum's room. It was modest, clean, and neat—bare save for a low bed, a clay lantern, and a chest tucked beneath the frame. Azum knelt and drew the chest out, undoing the thick iron lock with a worn key. With reverence, he opened it.
Inside, wrapped in layers of silk cloth, was a long sword.
Azum unwrapped it slowly—and revealed the Black Wind.
It was breathtaking.
The sword lay across the silk like a sleeping dragon carved from twilight. The hilt, wrapped in deep indigo leather, was framed by silver fittings shaped like coiling clouds and storm-kissed petals. Ancient symbols, barely visible, shimmered faintly beneath the steel.
The blade itself glowed faintly with a bluish-purple hue—as if it drank the light around it. Faint veins of silver ran along its surface, pulsing like the lifeblood of a slumbering beast. The fuller was lined with intricate celestial engravings, and near the base, the sigil of the Stormvale clan was inlaid in obsidian.
When Vern touched the hilt, a faint hum rang through the room—a deep, low tone like the wind moving through a narrow canyon. It wasn't just a sword.
It was alive.
A rush of cold air swept over Vern's body, and his instincts screamed with recognition. His essence stirred as if awakened. He knew in that moment—this was no ordinary sword.
"Celestial Iron…" he whispered. "And the resonance… this sword… it's Domain Grade…"
Azum nodded solemnly.
"Yes. The twin of the Patriarch's White Wind. This is the sword your mother entrusted to you through me… the Black Wind."
Vern stared at the weapon, feeling its silent voice echo through his soul.
' This feeling I can feel the sword, It is just like my life long
Vern held the Black Wind Sword in his hand—its weight familiar, yet strangely gentle. A soft pulse traveled from the hilt into his fingers, into his arm, and finally into his core. It wasn't just the pulse of metal and essence.
It was the sword's acknowledgment.
'This sword… it's speaking to me.'
He could feel it—not in words, but in presence. A silent truth whispered between them:
You are my rightful heir.
You carry her blood.
You are accepted.
The essence in the air shifted subtly around him, like the world itself bowed slightly, acknowledging not just the weapon—but its wielder.
Vern's eyes softened, his grip firm but reverent.
'This world… is accepting her child.'
His thoughts drifted far beyond the room, far beyond the present.
'It's just like my old sword… Moon Breaker'
A wave of memory washed over him—bittersweet, clear as starlight.
Moon Breaker—the sword of Vern's past life as Markin —was not merely a weapon, but a soulbound companion, one that had walked with him through blood-soaked wars, solitary training under frozen stars, and the silent despair of betrayal.
He found it in the ruins of a forgotten moon-temple, hidden beneath layers of illusion and shifting sand, when he first stepped into second stage of the Resonance Realm , around the age of twenty-eight. The sword had no sheath, no inscription, and no name carved into it. But when his fingers touched its hilt, a silver glow surged through the hall, and the broken moonlight above aligned with its blade. At that moment, he named it Moon Breaker.
Its blade was neither warm nor cold to the touch—it was silent. Celestial-grade, forged from starmetal fallen from beyond the sky, it pulsed faintly with an ethereal silver light. It resonated only with its chosen bearer. When he wielded it, Moon Breaker never screamed, never roared—it hummed with the hush of moonlight slicing through clouds.
To him, Moon Breaker was not just a tool, but a reflection of his soul—quiet, persistent, and full of unspoken pain. Even when comrades left, and allies betrayed, it stayed. Until the moment of his death.
'That sword… it listened to my sorrow when no one else would.'
And now, as he looked at the Black Wind—his mother's sword—Vern couldn't help but compare. 'It's like him,' he thought. 'Cold. Noble. Powerful.'
'A new path. A new companion. But the same old soul.'
He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply.
Also this time, he would not walk alone in the dark.