Chapter 3 - Chapter 3 — The Path to the First Branch

The morning air was heavy with the smell of salt and rosemary. Waves crashed in the distance, their rhythm steady against the stone cliffs that framed the little house. Inside, sunlight spilled through the shutters in pale stripes, dust swirling like tiny ghosts in its glow. Eren sat cross-legged on the floorboards, toy sword beside him, eyes locked on the worn pages of the book his mother had brought home weeks ago. The Roots of Ijon. He had read the same passage five times already, lips moving silently as he traced the ink. To walk one's Path, the body must be still, the breath even, the thought sharp. One must see the Tree within, and know its name. Without name, there is no growth. Without growth, there is no Path. The words burned in him. They had ever since the night he closed his eyes and glimpsed something—something unstable, fragile, but undeniably his. Reality. But when he tried again, nothing came. He sat now with palms flat on his knees, eyes squeezed shut, breathing slow. The house hummed with faint noises—his mother humming softly as she folded cloth in the next room, the creak of the rafters, the distant call of gulls. Eren tried to push it all away. He pressed his thoughts inward, into that space where the strange branch had once appeared. Nothing. He frowned, forcing the air out through his nose, and tried again. Darkness. A flicker. Then… silence. His chest tightened with frustration. "Why won't it work?" he whispered, opening his eyes. The wooden planks stared back, blank and unsympathetic. He clenched his fists, tried once more, but the harder he pushed, the more it slipped away. His breaths grew uneven, his chest hot with anger. Finally, he let out a sharp growl, shoving himself upright. "Darn it!" The words echoed harsher than he intended, bouncing off the small space. He grabbed his toy sword, gave it a single, sloppy swing at the air, then threw it aside. He didn't want to look at it. From the other room, his mother's voice drifted in. "Eren? What was that?" "Nothing!" he snapped, then bit his lip. Silence followed, broken only by the soft rustle of cloth. She didn't press him. She rarely did when he got like this. Eren stepped outside, slamming the door harder than he meant to. The sunlight hit his face, sharp and blinding, and he squinted, rubbing his eyes. The air outside felt cooler, freer, and yet his chest still burned with disappointment. He trudged down the narrow dirt path toward the village, kicking at loose stones, watching them skitter into the tall grass. He wanted something. A sign. A way forward. Anything but this stuck feeling, this sense that the branch he'd seen was slipping further from him each day. That was when he saw the man. The stranger walked the road with the ease of someone who had traveled far and grown used to it. His cloak was worn, edges frayed by salt and dust, and a hood shadowed much of his face. A leather satchel hung at his side, the weight shifting with each step. But it wasn't his travel-worn clothes that caught Eren's eye. It was the sword. The weapon rested against the man's hip, sheathed in dark leather, the hilt bound with pale steel bands that gleamed in the light. It was no villager's tool, no rusty blade for chopping driftwood. This was a warrior's weapon, meant for battle, carried with pride. Eren froze in the middle of the path, eyes fixed on it. His heart thumped faster. He didn't even realize how openly he stared until the man's gaze flicked toward him. For a heartbeat, Eren thought he might be scolded, or ignored. But instead, the stranger's lips curved into a small, knowing smile. "You like swords, boy?" His voice was low, roughened by years of smoke and shouting, but not unkind. Eren straightened, heat rushing to his face. "Of course!" The man chuckled, adjusting his pace until he stopped just a few steps away. Up close, his features were clearer—sun-browned skin, a jawline marked by an old scar, eyes sharp but softened with humor. He crouched, resting an elbow on his knee so that his gaze met Eren's. "Have you ever seen a warrior swing one?" Eren nodded quickly. "My father! He practices every day in the garden. He can cut through wood like it's nothing." The stranger tilted his head, studying the boy. "Then you've already seen something worth remembering." He extended a hand, calloused and lined. "Kaelen Veynar. Like your father im a swordsman. Though I've walked roads he has not." Eren shook his hand without hesitation, his small fingers swallowed by the man's grip. "I'm Eren." "Eren," Kaelen repeated, as if testing the name. "Strong sound to it." The boy's eyes flicked again to the hilt at Kaelen's side. The man noticed and laughed quietly, tapping the sheath with two fingers. "She has a way of drawing eyes. Forged in the capital, before the war bled its way into every forge and field. A good blade doesn't just cut flesh—it cuts doubt. Cuts fear. Holds steady when your knees want to buckle." Eren leaned forward, eager. "Can you show me? Just once?" Kaelen shook his head gently. "Not here. A blade drawn without need is a curse waiting to fall. But…" His voice lowered, a conspiratorial tone. "I'll tell you something instead. A story, if you'll listen." Eren nodded so fast his neck ached. Kaelen's eyes grew distant, as though the weight of memory pressed against them. "The war between elves and men dragged on longer than it should have. I fought in too many battles to count. Not all were glorious. Most were mud, smoke, and screams." He paused, pulling a breath through his teeth. "But once—only once—I faced someone unlike any other. A man who didn't fight with strength or speed alone. My blade passed through him as though he wasn't even there." Eren's heart jolted. His mind snapped back to Verren's wooden sword, passing through his chest. "What did you do?" he whispered. Kaelen's mouth curved into a grim smile. "I lost. Badly. But in losing, I learned. I realized that the Path I walked wasn't enough. My sword was steel, yes—but it could be more. Not just striking flesh, but striking deeper." "Deeper?" Kaelen leaned closer, voice low, as though sharing a dangerous secret. "The soul. A true sword master doesn't swing to cut the body. He swings to touch what lies within. That is what I glimpsed that day." Eren's brows furrowed. "Soul? What's a soul?" Kaelen blinked, then chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Too much. I've said too much. You're too young to wrestle with words that even kings stumble over." "But—" "Forget it." Kaelen's tone was firmer now. "Hold onto the training your father gives you. That's enough for now." Still, he reached into his satchel, rummaged for a moment, and pulled out a slim, leather-bound book. Its cover was worn, corners bent, but the clasp still held firm. He pressed it into Eren's hands. "Take this. I've no more need of it." Eren's eyes widened. "For me?" Kaelen ruffled his hair with a rough hand. "For you. Read it when you're ready. Not before. And remember what I told you—strength isn't just in muscle. It's in the path you choose, and the way you walk it." He rose to his full height again, the shadow of his frame stretching long across the dirt road. He adjusted his cloak, glanced once toward the village, and then back at the boy. "Be strong, Eren. I want to hear your name whispered in the capital someday." He tapped his chest. "Kaelen Veynar will remember it." Then he paused, cocking his head. "And what name will the capital hear?" Eren puffed his chest proudly, gripping the book tight. "Eren!" Kaelen's smile widened. "Good. Say it like that, every time. Loud. Clear. Like you believe it." With that, he turned and continued down the road, steps carrying him toward the cluster of wooden stalls where villagers sold fresh bread, salted fish, and herbs. His cloak swayed with the breeze, sword glinting once in the sunlight before the crowd swallowed him. Eren stood rooted, the weight of the book pressing into his palms. He felt like his chest was about to burst, every beat of his heart echoing Kaelen's words. Slowly, reverently, he opened the cover. The first page was filled with sharp, steady handwriting: The Sword Master Path is not walked with steel alone. To strike true, one must cut away the leaves of waste, of fear, of doubt. Each swing must be pure. Each thought must sharpen the tree within. A sword that does not touch the soul is just a stick of metal. Eren's breath hitched. He flipped further—pages filled with diagrams, notes, strange meditations, and cryptic comments about "strengthening the roots of the tree." He didn't understand half of it, maybe less. But he didn't care. That night, by candlelight, he tried again. He sat cross-legged, the book open before him. This time, instead of forcing his breath, he followed Kaelen's notes: Still the hands. Empty the eyes. Let the tree grow on its own. He closed his eyes. Darkness unfolded. Then—branches. Not one, but many, stretching outward, curling, twisting. Endless paths leading in every direction, glimmering faintly like starlight on water. His mouth parted in awe, though no sound came. The realm stretched beyond sight, infinite, waiting. For the first time, he didn't feel disappointed. He felt… small. But not in a bad way. Small, like standing before something so vast it could never be finished, only explored. And deep within, he felt the first stirrings of something more. Something real.