Another day.
Another training.
Eight weeks had passed since the morning I first picked up that wooden sword.
At first, every movement had felt foreign.
Every swing too slow.
Every block too late.
Now, things are different.
Not dramatically.
Not enough to call myself a blade master.
But enough to notice.
I could see it in my body.
My shoulders had begun to take shape beneath my shirt, no longer as narrow and frail as before. My arms, though still thin, had grown firmer from the endless repetition of swings, push-ups, and climbing. Even my legs carried me differently now, steadier, less hesitant, more rooted to the ground.
I was still small.
Still young.
Still far from capable of defeating anything truly dangerous out there.
But I could feel it.
Progress.
Slow but steady.
In our daily sparring, I lasted longer against my father now.
Sometimes I even forced him to step back.
Not often.
Not enough to call it victory.
But enough for the wooden clash of our swords to feel less like punishment and more like conversation.
Still… I hadn't stopped there.
The training with Mika had become part of my days, a rhythm as steady as the sunrise, but once the wooden swords were put away and the yard fell quiet, I continued on my own.
The dagger never left my side.
Every evening, once the village had settled into its usual hush, I would start
Short movements.
Quick steps.
Unlike the wooden sword, the dagger felt natural in my hand.
Lighter.
Closer.
As if it belonged there.
The sword taught me balance, reach, and discipline.
But the dagger…
The dagger understood me.
Its weight was small, yet it moved with me instead of against me.
No wasted motion.
No broad swings.
Just speed, instinct, and intent.
If I were honest, the sword did not suit me.
It felt too large for the way I moved.
Too slow.
Too exposed.
I never said that to Mika.
I knew what the training meant to him.
I knew he saw it as the path of a hunter.
But deep down, I had begun to realize something.
If I faced him with the dagger now…
I might actually be able to win.
That thought lingered for a moment before another pushed its way back in.
Because even as my body grew stronger…
something else had been eating at me.
Ever since that night around the fire.
Ever since I saw it.
That red light.
Faint against the horizon.
It had not left my mind.
It feels like it's calling for me.
I could not explain why.
I only knew that every day I ignored it, the feeling grew heavier.
As if something there was waiting.
For me.
Fear was not what held me back from going earlier
I mean after dying once… fear felt different.
What is there to lose
This life still felt borrowed.
A second chance I had never asked for.
And yet…
going there alone, at night, into the dark beyond the village safety
Even I knew how reckless that sounded.
Still.
I had already made up my mind.
I was going.
Tonight.
Behind the house, in the small yard where my mother dried clothes in the morning sun, I had built a crude dummy.
A child-shaped thing made from bundled branches, tied together with rough twine.
I stuffed it with straw, dirt, and old cloth until it carried something close to my shape.
The clothes were mine.
Old ones I had long outgrown.
The fabric still carried the faint scent of smoke and soap.
It would pass well enough as me.
At least, I hope it will.
My mother rarely came to wake me once I was asleep.
If I could fool her until morning…
That would be enough.
Night came slowly.
The village softened beneath twilight.
The air cooled, carrying the scent of earth, woodsmoke, and the faint sweetness of the jungle flowers that bloomed only after sunset.
Inside, dinner was nearly ready.
I had to get something else out of the way
A need.
Not fear.
Not doubt.
Something else.
I needed to say goodbye.
Even if only for one night.
There was no certainty I would return.
The world outside the village did not make promises.
And if something happened,
I did not want to leave without saying something.
Anything.
Before my father left for his night guard duty, I stopped him near the doorway.
He turned, one hand resting on the spear slung across his back.
The firelight caught the lines in his face, the old scars, the tired eyes, the quiet strength he always carried.
For a moment, the words refused to come.
Then I forced them out.
"Mika."
He froze.
Not because of the words.
Because I had spoken first.
Because I had used his name.
I almost never spoke to him unless necessary.
His expression softened.
I looked away slightly and said, quieter this time,
"I appreciate our training."
"Today… and every day."
"It has helped me."
Simple words.
Broken.
Uneven.
But enough.
A slow smile spread across his face.
Warm.
Proud.
No words were needed after that.
He understood.
He placed a rough hand on my shoulder, firm and steady, before stepping out into the night.
That touch stayed with me longer than I expected.
I went back inside.
My mother was still at the table.
The candlelight danced across her pale hair, turning the silver-white strands almost golden.
Her long ears caught the soft light at their edges.
She looked tired.
But beautiful.
Gentle in a way the world around us never seemed to deserve.
I sat down again and stared at the bowl before me.
The soup had begun to cool.
Thin broth.
A few vegetables.
A little meat.
I took another spoonful.
And then the words came to me.
Unexpectedly.
"This is the best food I've ever eaten."
She stopped.
Her hand, still resting near the bowl.
She looked at me.
Really looked.
For a moment, I thought I had said something wrong.
But then I saw it.
Her eyes had filled with tears.
Before I could react, she leaned forward and pulled me into her arms.
Her embrace was warm.
So warm.
Her chest rose and fell softly against me.
Her hair brushed against my cheek.
For a moment, I stayed still.
Part of me meant the words.
Part of me had said them for another reason.
If I did not return,
I wanted her to remember something good.
A kind word.
A moment.
Something.
I did not know why that suddenly mattered so much.
But it did.
Tonight…
it mattered.
As planned the night kicked in and i made my move,
Dummy in my bed,
A goal in my head.
I jumped out of the window and started sneaking.
Keeping low, I moved along the shadows cast by the wooden homes, slipping past stacked barrels, drying racks, and fences patched together from old timber.
Every step felt louder than it probably was.
The outer wall came into view.
Rough logs bound tightly together, tall enough to keep out beasts—
or children who knew how to climb.
I found the spot I had chosen earlier that day.
A section where the wood bowed slightly near a pile of old crates.
Enough to give me leverage.
I climbed.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Fingers digging into the cracks between the logs.
When I reached the top, I looked back once.
The village lay beneath the moonlight in quiet silence.
Peaceful.
Safe.
Then I dropped down the other side.
The moment my feet touched the earth beyond the wall, something shifted inside me.
There was no turning back now.