Perched on a cliff enveloped by a vast forest and the gentle flow of a river below, a boy stood, sword in hand, moving with a grace that seemed to harmonize perfectly with the whispering wind. Each swing of his blade was reminiscent of a master musician, deftly playing an instrument. The very air around him vibrated with the rhythm of his movements, as if nature itself had paused to witness his performance.
With a deft pivot, the boy turned and drew a full circle, his sword slicing upward in a strike that felt ethereal, as if he could reach the clouds above. When his blade kissed the air, it left an indelible mark—a seamless cut that sent tremors through the surrounding trees. Some stood firm, while others succumbed to the force, crashing to the ground.
Turning to face his master, who stood in the shadows, clapping slowly, the boy felt no surprise or thrill at the display of his newly honed skills. The agony and relentless discipline of the past two weeks loomed in his mind—the countless hours spent swinging his wooden sword, pushing his body to the brink, until every swing felt like second nature. Yet, beneath the surface, insecurity simmered. His master's words about the imminent challenge haunted him; the opponent was already at a level he feared he couldn't hope to reach.
Noticing the boy's stormy expression, the master approached and offered a real sword, still encased in a sealed scabbard. He said nothing more, simply casting his gaze skyward and uttering, "Dance."
In that moment, the boy discarded his wooden sword. Grasping the new blade with both hands, he centred himself, feeling the weight and power it embodied. As he began to move, his master felt a shiver run down his spine. The boy's movements transformed into an otherworldly dance—elegant yet devastating, a storm of raw emotion poured into each stroke, blending beauty and brutality. It was as if he had become one with the sword, his own essence bleeding into the dance of steel that created the very being of destruction.
When the last note of the performance faded into silence, the master advanced toward him, a playful smirk dancing on his lips. "I think you performed the wrong dance," he said, an amused tone cutting through the gravity of the moment. "I did not teach you this." The boy was silent, a look of confusion washing over his face after his unexpected display of skill. His master, eyes wide with disbelief, exclaimed, "What on earth just happened? I didn't teach you that, yet you executed it flawlessly!"
To the boy, producing the move felt as natural as breathing. The master's expression shifted to one of realization; the boy was completely unaware of the significance of what he had just done.
After a moment of contemplation, the master grabbed a wooden sword and sighed, "Alright, let's see what you can do. I'm going to teach you a dance—one that won't come easily." He instructed the boy to raise his sword and prepare for an attack that would challenge everything he thought he knew. "The final lesson is simple: to learn how to dance with your weapon, you must move as if it's an extension of your body. You've already mastered the first step; now let's explore how to incorporate your blue aura. You showed me what you could do when you sparred with your friend."
The boy sensed the seriousness in his master's tone as he raised his sword, a fierce determination in his eyes. Just then, the master lunged forward, testing the boy's resolve. In sheer instinct, the boy struck back, closing the distance and swinging his sword toward his master's neck. The master remained unfazed, as if time had momentarily frozen in the midst of the boy's relentless onslaught.
As the duel progressed, the boy unleashed a flurry of attacks, each more fluid and fierce than the last. But as the master expertly parried each strike, the boy's energy began to wane. After a brief respite, the master seized the opportunity to counterattack, striking horizontally. The boy instinctively blocked the blow but was thrown off balance, his sword slipping from his grip as he stumbled backward.
Without missing a beat, the master struck again, pushing the boy to the ground. "Stay focused!" he called, his voice commanding yet encouraging. The boy scrambled to retrieve his sword, but his master was relentless, sending him crashing into a nearby tree.
Realizing his master wouldn't grant him any mercy, the boy resorted to his fists. As he launched a swift punch, the master's eyes lit up with approval. "That's it! Just because you lost your sword doesn't mean you lost your spirit."
Fueled by this encouragement, the boy unleashed a barrage of attacks, summoning all his strength to push his master back. He was surprising himself with every strike, the energy flowing through him.
With a sudden leap, he soared into the air, attempting to deliver a powerful kick. But the master, with grace and precision, dodged effortlessly. The boy, undeterred, continued to unleash a series of gymnastics-inspired kicks, each one met with the master's impeccable defense.
As he was propelled backward mid-air, the boy switched tactics, crashing into a tree to pivot his momentum. The master raised an impressed eyebrow, his lips curling into a smirk. "Not bad! But was it worth the risk?"
The boy, now slightly battered with a bleeding forehead, stood tall, sword at the ready. "Yeah!" he shouted, determination burning in his eyes.
And so, they continued to spar, pushing each other to their limits, until the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows in the clearing where their battle raged on. After that moment, the master ceased his gaze upon the boy, a hint of admiration in his voice. "It seems you've achieved more than I expected. You've been gathering your energy, preparing to combat me, but you should have unleashed it all at once for a decisive blow. Nevertheless, it's not all in vain, kid."
With that, he helped the boy rise from the ground, and they made their way back. In the following days, their training continued in relentless repetition, sharpening the boy's skills as he gradually found his rhythm. As he washed himself, he noticed something remarkable—his hair had grown longer, taking on a more delicate appearance. His master had left it uncut, recognizing now was not the time for such trivial concerns.
With every passing day, a bond like no other formed between the master and the student—an unexpected camaraderie. Each morning, the master would rouse him from sleep, leading him to the training field for hours of rigorous practice. Their evenings were filled with shared meals, laughter, and deeper conversations.
One night, as they sat together under the stars, the boy's mind wandered back to a piece of advice his master had given him about relationships. "Teacher, what did you mean when you spoke of Bron and Aleyas?" His voice was laced with curiosity.
The master paused, glancing at the boy before urging him to eat and rest. "You mean that day I told you to guard your connections? Ah, yes, that moment. I shared that because I once knew someone who fell victim to that path."
"Is it you?" the boy asked, surprised.
"No, not me," the master replied without hesitation, his eyes clouded with distant memories. "The person I spoke of is long gone. He was a man consumed by his ambitions—he became a murderer, sacrificing all for power and for strength, leaving destruction in his wake. But don't dwell on him; his tale is over in the other worlds."
Intrigued, the boy pressed on. "What do you mean—'one of the other worlds'?"
With a knowing smirk, his master said, "Let me clarify. I am not of this world, just as he wasn't. My clothing, this place—they are mere symbols of my origins. The foes you will face? They hail from realms beyond, their existence a testament to the fabric of multiple realities. That man you're destined to confront—his essence is foreign, much like mine."
"Do you know him?" the boy interjected, excitement bubbling in his tone.
The master raised a finger, ready to elaborate. "I've heard of him—not as a friend, but through whispers of his deeds. His name echoes louder than any other in countless realms. A name that has the power to shatter worlds—a name that sends shivers down spines."
The air grew charged with anticipation as the boy finally spoke, "The Hero of Serenity."
The master nodded, a flicker of approval in his eyes. "Yes, that's the name. It inspires many to strive for greatness, as it did for me, but remember, I, too, come from another world." Say this with a tone filled with joy
With courage swelling in his chest, the boy replied, "Master, I have something to confess—I'm not from this world either."