The mountains loomed vast and silent, their ridges veiled in a rolling shroud of morning mist. The air was sharp and cold, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. It had been two weeks since the General's funeral when the Captain finally reached this secluded place, his march long and heavy with unspoken thoughts.
On the slope ahead stood a small wooden hut, weathered by wind and rain, its roof patched with bark and straw. A modest barn leaned beside it, goats shifting within, their faint bleats breaking the silence. Two young men worked there, stacking bundles of firewood, their movements steady and practiced.
The first was dark-haired, his eyes sharp with the fire of youth. The second bore streaks of gray in his hair despite being no older, his face calmer, tempered as if by hardship.
When their gazes lifted to the lone figure approaching the hut, both froze. Recognition came swiftly, followed by instinctive respect. They set aside their burdens, stepping forward.
"It has been a while, Captain," the black-haired youth said, bowing his head low, voice carrying weight not just of respect but of memory. "We never thought we'd see you climb this mountain again."
The Captain's cold eyes softened, if only faintly, as he regarded them. He remembered their faces—boys once too eager with wooden swords, sparring under their master's watchful gaze. Now men, yet still bound to this quiet place.
He inclined his head in return, his reply measured, dignified.
"Time has weathered us all. I see the mountain air has kept you strong. It has been… longer than I intended."
The gray-haired one straightened, offering a faint smile. "Long enough, but not so long we would forget. The Master will be glad to know you've come at last."
The Captain allowed himself a short breath, the weight of past battles pressing at his shoulders. Two weeks of silence and marching had brought him here—not just to a mountain, but to the threshold of his own limits.
The Captain pushed open the wooden door, its hinges creaking with the strain of years. Inside, the hut was simple yet orderly. Sunlight filtered through a narrow window, falling across shelves stacked with jars of dried herbs and bundles of scrolls. A low table rested at the center, scarred by countless knife marks and old ink stains. The air carried a faint mix of pine smoke and age-old parchment, warm yet heavy with time.
At the far end of the room sat the man the Captain had come to find. His master.
The old swordsman was nearly seventy-eight now, his hair a crown of white that flowed to his shoulders. His body, once unyielding as iron, had withered; the years had taken his strength, and war had taken his legs. A carved wooden chair served as his throne, worn smooth by decades of use. Yet even in his frailty, his presence remained steady—his back straight, his gaze clear, his very silence carrying authority. His simple white suit, though not costly, hung clean and neat, a reflection of discipline that had never left him.
For a heartbeat, the Captain stood in silence, caught between memory and reality. Then he lowered his head and bowed deeply.
"Master."
The old man's eyes, clouded with age yet still sharp, lit with recognition. A smile touched his weathered face, lined with countless marks of hardship.
"So," he said, his voice rough but warm, "you still remember this old man. It has been a long while, hasn't it?"
The Captain's lips curved faintly, a rare softness breaking through his usual sternness.
"Too long, Master. Far too long."
The old man leaned back in his chair, folding his thin arms over his chest. His smile carried both warmth and mischief.
"Why have you come here, boy? I told you to do your duties properly. Don't tell me you've been loafing about, running to the mountains to avoid your work?"
His tone was light, playful, though his eyes studied the Captain with the sharpness of an old hawk.
The Captain lowered his head slightly, a respectful half-bow as he answered.
"No, Master. I have never turned from my duty. I came because of it. As you once taught me—when the path is blocked, a man must seek the way forward, not stand still."
The master's brows rose at the weight in his voice. He said nothing, only gestured with a faint motion of his hand for him to continue.
And so the Captain spoke.
He told of the battle, of the thing he faced that no strike could bring down, no stance could hold against. His words carried the heaviness of failure, yet also the hunger to overcome. The hut filled with his low voice, steady but edged with frustration.
As he spoke, pieces of the world outside threaded into his account—the capital still cloaked in mourning after the General's funeral, the King's frail health keeping the court in disarray, soldiers training in silence rather than boasting, and Cedric struggling to carry his father's name. It was a kingdom trying to hold itself together, even as whispers of betrayal and invasion gnawed at its edges.
Outside, the morning sun crept higher over the ridges, spilling through the narrow window. Shadows shifted across the wooden floor as time passed unnoticed, marked only by the steady rhythm of the Captain's account. By the time his words fell silent, the light had already turned toward noon.
The master sat still, eyes closed for a long while, as though weighing every word. Then a quiet chuckle escaped his lips.
The old man opened his eyes slowly, the weight of years in his gaze, yet still sharp as ever. He studied the Captain for a long moment, as if seeing not just the man before him, but the battles he had fought and the burdens he carried.
"So," the Master said finally, voice calm, measured, "you've come seeking help. Tell me… what do you wish from this old man?"
The Captain straightened, his usual stoicism softened by exhaustion and determination.
"I want you to teach me, Master. I want to become stronger than ever, so that no threat—no monster—can defeat me. I cannot face what I have seen again unprepared."
The Master's smile was faint, tinged with both pride and amusement. He shook his head slowly.
"You have learned everything I can teach you. Your body, your mind, your sword—they are honed beyond what most could ever achieve. You are strong, far stronger than you know."
The Captain's jaw tightened. "Then… what must I do? How can I surpass what I have faced?"
The old man leaned forward slightly, placing his hands on the arms of his chair. His voice grew quieter, deliberate, as if weighing each word.
"Listen carefully. What you faced—the wall that stopped you, the power that even you could not overcome—cannot be defeated by repeating what you have learned. You have mastered every technique I could teach. If you wish to surpass it, to stand against the monsters and threats that still roam this world, you must forge your own path. You must create your own style—a technique that is yours alone, born from your strength, your mind, and your will."
The Captain felt the weight of the Master's words settle deep into his chest. His fists clenched at his sides. This was no longer just training. This was the beginning of a new path, one that would demand everything from him—body, mind, and soul.
The Master leaned back, his eyes softening, as though he could see the spark of determination ignite in the Captain.
"Everything else you need… you will find within yourself."
The old man's eyes softened, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"Stay here for a while, Captain. Prepare yourself. The training ahead will be unlike anything you have done before. You will need every ounce of focus to forge your own technique. I will guide you—and the boys will assist you as well."
The Captain bowed deeply, the weight of gratitude and determination in his posture.
"Thank you, Master. I will try my best."
The Master's eyes grew sharp, his voice firm.
"You will tell the boys. Inform them that you will be here for a long time. They must understand, so they can prepare themselves accordingly."
The Captain nodded, a firm resolve settling into his expression.
"I understand. I will see to it."
With that, he turned, the soft creak of the wooden floor beneath his boots marking each measured step as he left the room. The morning sunlight fell across the shelves and bundles of scrolls, catching the dust in golden rays, as if blessing his departure.
Outside, the mist still clung to the mountains, and the quiet of the hut was broken only by the rustle of the pines. The Captain's mind was already racing, considering how to relay the news, how to prepare himself, and how to guide the squad through the days to come.
After seven hours spent in the mountains, training and pondering the creation of his own unique technique, the Captain returned to the hut. His mind raced with ideas, movements, and strategies, each step bringing him closer to clarity. The mountain air was still sharp, carrying the scent of pine, but the weight of thought pressed heavier on his shoulders than the cold.
At the doorway, Max—the black-haired boy—waited, his posture tense but respectful.
"Captain," Max called, his voice carrying across the crisp air. "The Master wishes to see you inside."
The Captain nodded and pushed open the wooden door, the familiar creak of the floorboards greeting him like an old memory. Stepping inside, he found the Master seated in his carved wooden chair, eyes fixed on him.
"Why have you called me?" the Captain asked, scanning the room.
The Master's gaze was calm, yet carried a weight that made the Captain pause. "I wanted to speak with you about the monster you faced," he said, his voice measured. "I think… you should stay away from it, for now."
The Captain froze, a flicker of shock crossing his otherwise stoic face. "Why?" he asked, his voice low but edged with surprise.
The Master leaned forward slightly, his frail hands resting on the arms of the chair. His eyes darkened, recalling a long-past memory. "That monster… Yoki… is not a new threat. It is a story that dates back nearly twenty years, when I was serving as a lieutenant in the capital under the security squad of the city."
The Captain's eyes narrowed, leaning in.
"At that time," the Master continued, "there were rumors… whispers of a monster who had destroyed an entire elite squad—two hundred and thirty men belonging to one of the richest families. I have forgotten the family's name, but the tale was that he did it alone."
He paused, letting the weight of the legend settle, before his voice dropped, carrying the gravity of his own past. "I was on duty moving prisoners that night when Yoki attacked. He was in his twenties then—far younger than he is now—but even at that age, he was terrifying. I was older, experienced, trained… yet
The Master's gaze hardened, his voice dropping low, as if speaking too loud might summon the nightmare back.
"It was a moonless night. The air was heavy, and the forest was silent—too silent. Even the crickets had gone still. My men marched in formation, forty of us in total, the prisoners in chains between us. Then… the darkness shifted."
His hand trembled as he raised it slightly, recalling the image burned into him.
"At first, I thought it was the wind, but no… it was him. Yoki. He didn't arrive like a man. He emerged—as if the shadows themselves had given him form. And then I saw them… his eyes. Red. Burning like embers in the night. That was the only light we had, and it was the light of death."
The old man's jaw tightened, his words rasping with remembered terror.
"He moved before we even realized what had happened. One moment, we were forty strong. The next—screams, steel flashing, men falling. The shadows obeyed him. No stance, no formation, nothing we tried could hold him back. He carved through us like we were nothing. And then… he took my legs."
His voice shook as he forced himself to continue, the memory dragging him back into the nightmare.
"Forty men… gone. I fell among them, bleeding, watching him move like a beast in human skin. His speed was unnatural, his strikes precise, deliberate. Those eyes—those red eyes—cut deeper into me than his blade ever did. In that moment, I knew… I was not facing a man. I was facing something born of darkness itself."
The Master exhaled slowly, gripping the arms of his chair as though steadying himself.
"I barely survived. A backup team arrived too late to stop him, but just in time to drag me from death's door. Yoki vanished with the prisoners, and I… I was left broken. My legs gone. My duty ended. That night ended my life as a soldier. It has haunted me every day since."
The Captain's heart pounded as he imagined the scene: the night, the shadows, the glowing red eyes of Yoki, the brutal strength of a being capable of annihilating a squad in moments. Every instinct screamed in awe and caution. He could feel the chill of that memory as though he were standing there himself.
But as he listened, another feeling arose. Determination. If Yoki, even in his twenties, could strike down a seasoned squad and cripple a man like his Master, then he had to grow beyond what he had learned. The path was clear. He could not rely on old techniques. He could not allow fear to dominate him.
He clenched his fists, jaw tight.
"I will not face him unprepared again," he vowed silently. "I will forge my own style. I will become stronger than even Yoki can imagine. I will surpass every wall I have faced."
The Master watched him, a faint nod acknowledging the resolve in the Captain's eyes.
"You understand, then," the Master said quietly, "that strength alone will not suffice. You must become something greater—something that can stand against legends."
The Captain exhaled slowly, letting the weight of the words settle, already plotting, already planning. The night's terror of Yoki was no longer just a story—it was a challenge, one he would meet head-on.