The stick felt wrong.
Too light.
Too fragile.
Alias swung it again.
Step.
Turn.
Swing.
The air parted—
But nothing pushed back.
"…No resistance."
His grip tightened.
Again.
Swing.
The same result.
"…This won't shape me."
Days passed.
The same routine.
Swing.
Step.
Turn.
Fall.
Stand.
Repeat.
Rain came.
The ground softened.
His foot slipped.
He fell.
"…Tch."
Mud clung to his hands.
His body stayed still—
For a moment.
Then—
He stood.
Again.
"…No stopping."
Seasons shifted.
Cold mornings.
Warm afternoons.
Time moved—
Quietly.
And so did he.
Alias stood in the yard.
Stick in hand.
He swung.
Stopped.
Looked at it.
"…Too light."
"…Too weak."
"…Useless."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"…Then I'll fix it."
That afternoon—
Alias walked toward the edge of the village.
Trees stood tall.
Silent.
He looked at one.
Then another.
"…Straight."
"…Strong."
He stepped closer.
His hand touched the bark.
Rough.
Solid.
"…Good enough."
He found a fallen branch.
Not perfect.
But close.
Thicker than the stick.
Heavier.
Alias lifted it.
"…Better."
Back home—
He sat on the ground.
A small knife rested in his hand.
Not meant for battle.
But enough.
He stared at the branch.
"…Let's begin."
Scrape.
The blade shaved the wood slowly.
Rough edges falling away.
His hands weren't steady at first.
Too much pressure.
"…Careful."
He adjusted.
Slower.
More controlled.
Scrape.
Again.
Again.
Hours passed.
The sun moved.
The shape began to form.
Not perfect.
Not clean.
But intentional.
"…A sword."
Emi watched from the doorway.
"…What is he doing?"
Haruki crossed his arms.
"…Making something."
"…With a knife?"
"…Looks like it."
They stayed silent.
Watching.
Alias didn't stop.
Even when his hands grew tired.
Even when small cuts formed on his fingers.
He continued.
"…Almost."
By sunset—
He held it up.
A crude wooden sword.
Uneven.
Rough.
But real.
Alias stared at it.
"…It will do."
The next morning—
He stepped into the yard.
Wooden sword in hand.
He swung.
The air pushed back.
Slight.
But present.
Alias's eyes sharpened.
"…Yes."
Again.
Swing.
Step.
Turn.
This time—
His body adjusted.
Naturally.
"…Better."
Years passed.
Not all at once—
But piece by piece.
Age five.
The wooden sword moved clumsily.
Too heavy.
His arms trembled.
"…Again."
Age six.
"Why do you train so much?"
Emi asked.
Alias paused.
"…Because I have to."
She frowned slightly.
"…You're still a child."
Alias looked at the blade.
"…Not really."
Age seven.
His movements sharpened.
Less wasted motion.
More control.
Still imperfect.
"…Not enough."
Age eight.
Breathing steady.
Steps precise.
The wooden blade cut cleanly through the air.
Faster.
Stronger.
Then—
"…Nine years."
Alias stood still.
The wind moved quietly around him.
The wooden sword rested in his hand—
No longer foreign.
No longer heavy.
Natural.
He stepped forward.
One breath.
Then—
Swing.
Clean.
Precise.
A leaf fell.
He moved.
A single strike—
The leaf split in two.
Silence.
Alias lowered the blade.
"…Better."
But his face remained calm.
"…Still not enough."
From the doorway—
Haruki watched.
"…He made that himself…"
Emi nodded softly.
"…He's always been different."
Haruki's gaze stayed on Alias.
"…Too different."
Later that day—
The village stirred with unusual noise.
Voices gathered near the entrance.
Alias walked closer.
Curious.
A man stood there.
Worn.
Dust-covered.
A traveler.
"…You people are lucky," the man said.
"…Peace like this…"
He shook his head.
"…Doesn't last."
Alias listened.
"…Explain."
The traveler sighed.
"Monsters are appearing more often."
"…Closer to villages."
"…Stronger than before."
Whispers spread.
"…Monsters…"
Alias's grip tightened slightly.
"..Monster, huh."
Nearby—
Two villagers spoke in hushed tones.
"Did you hear?"
"…That village…"
"…The one near the hills?"
"…Burned."
"…Attacked."
"…Few survived."
Silence fell.
Fear followed.
Alias stood still.
"…So it begins."
Night came.
The village quieted—
But not peacefully.
Something lingered.
Uncertainty.
Alias stood outside.
Wooden sword in hand.
The moon hung above.
Silent.
Unchanging.
"…Nine years."
His grip tightened.
"…I can speak."
"…I can move."
"…I can fight."
A slow breath escaped him.
"…But is it enough?"
The wind answered—
With silence.
Alias raised the wooden blade.
Held it steady.
"…Next time…"
His eyes sharpened.
"…I won't lose anything."
The sword was crude.
Rough.
Imperfect.
But it was his.
Forged by his own hands.
Shaped by time.
And carried by resolve.
And this time—
He would be ready.