*Content Warning: This chapter contains mature themes, violence, blood, and morally dark actions. Reader discretion advised.*
***
The sun had long set, leaving the small house wrapped in the quiet embrace of night. Leon finished his meal — a simple broth warmed over the dying fire — and felt the weight of exhaustion pull him down. He lay on the mat near the hearth, the embers casting faint orange glows across the wooden beams. Sleep came swiftly, deep and untroubled, his body finally surrendering to the rest it had been denied for so long.
Outside, the old man sat in a weathered wooden chair on the porch, leaning back with his hands folded over his lap. The sky above was a vast canvas of dark blue, scattered with stars that shone like distant, unblinking eyes. Clouds drifted lazily, veiling the moon in soft silver. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying the faint chill of the forest's secrets.
The old man smiled faintly while looking at the cloudy sky with its shiny stars.
"Heh… I must be getting old. That's why my brain isn't working properly."
He continued talking while looking at the trees, their branches swaying gently in the breeze like silent sentinels.
"To think I would say something like raw talent to that kid. It's just sounds so damn ridiculous. That kid is not just about talent. No, no, no — to put it simply, he is a talent that appears once in a million years."
He then said while looking at his own house, the faint light from the window spilling out like a warm beacon in the darkness.
"To think someone can learn my swordsmanship in just two to three tries. Huff… I wonder how that is even possible. Even though it was the basic swordsmanship, Leon is someone who has never wielded a sword, if I am right."
The forest around him fell into deeper silence, as if the trees themselves were pondering the weight of his words.
He leaned back further, his gaze drifting upward again. The words came slowly, heavy with the weight of years spent watching paths diverge and fates collide.
"I wonder which type of path he will choose," he murmured, voice low and contemplative. "Or rather… which type of path he will make for himself."
He paused, letting the wind carry his thoughts.
"In this world, paths are not given — they are forged. Some follow the trails worn by others, seeking safety in the familiar, but they end up as echoes, faded and forgotten. Others carve their own — through stone, through blood, through the unyielding cruelty of existence. They do not bend to fate; they shatter it and rebuild it in their image. No mercy for weakness, no illusions of kindness. The strong endure because they must — they strip away the soft layers, the regrets, the attachments that weigh them down. Survival demands ruthlessness, a cold acceptance that the world owes you nothing. You take what you need, discard what hinders, and press forward, even if it means walking alone through endless night. That is the true path — unyielding, unforgiving, eternal. I wonder… will Leon walk one already laid, or will he forge something darker, something that even the heavens fear?"
The stars twinkled on, indifferent to the old man's words.
The old man closed his eyes, a faint smile lingering.
"Either way… it will be interesting to see."
Morning arrived with the soft hush of light filtering through the canopy. The sky was pale gray, the first hints of sun turning the mist into golden veils. Leon woke slowly, the mat beneath him stiff but familiar. He sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The house was quiet — no fire in the hearth, no scent of breakfast. The old man was nowhere to be seen.
Leon rose, stretching his arms. The aches from yesterday's training had faded to a dull hum — his body adapting faster than expected. He picked up the sword leaning against the wall — the one the old man had given him. It felt balanced in his hand, almost eager.
He stepped outside, the cool air brushing his skin. The clearing was empty. He walked to the training ground — the flat patch of earth from the day before, still marked with faint footprints in the dirt.
Leon took a stance — feet shoulder-width, weight on the balls of his feet, knees soft, just as the old man had taught. The sword raised in middle guard, hilt firm but alive in his grip.
"I can't always rely on the old man," he muttered, eyes on the blade. "I have to do something on my own."
He looked around — the plants nearby rustled faintly in the breeze. He began moving little by little, circling them slowly, sword extended. Footwork first: step, slide, pivot. The motions felt smoother already.
"I've been wondering about this for a while," he mumbled, gaze drifting to the horizon. "What if I use the technique the master taught me before? If I use it and mix it with my swordsmanship… I… I can literally grasp my limit in swordsmanship. Why didn't I think about it up until now? Damn it."
Leon stopped moving. A wide smile spread across his face — excited, determined.
"The time has come to use 'Soul Resonance Art.' Let's do it."
He closed his eyes, breath steadying. The world around him faded — the rustle of leaves, the distant bird calls — all narrowing to the rhythm of his heartbeat.
Leon centered himself, reaching inward. The Soul Resonance Art stirred — a technique not of raw power, but of harmony. He felt his soul pulse, threads of energy weaving outward: first to his body, binding muscle and bone in seamless unity; then to the sword, the blade humming as if alive, an extension of his will; finally to the environment, the ground beneath his feet, the air around him, the subtle flows of wind and earth aligning with his intent.
Hidden potential unlocked — strength surged beyond his limits, not in explosive force, but in perfect clarity. Every motion sharpened, every sense heightened. The art connected all — soul, flesh, weapon, world — into one unbreakable flow.
Leon opened his eyes. The sword felt weightless. The ground seemed to guide his steps. He moved — a simple cut, but flawless, the air parting with a faint whisper.
As Leon prepared to push deeper into the technique, a soft footstep broke the silence. The old man stepped into the clearing, his own sword at his side, a kind smile on his face.
"Hahaha… are you training all by yourself, Leon?"
Leon turned, lowering the blade.
"Ah… yes, old man. I was trying to use the technique my master taught me."
The old man mumbled to himself, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Leon's stance.
"What his master taught him? Hm… I really want to see it. I wonder if he used all of the power his master taught against me."
Leon mumbled while looking at the old man.
"Sigh… I would have performed Soul Resonance Art if only the old man hadn't come. But well… this is also good. If the old man will try to fight me, then I guess I can use the technique against him to see my limit with the sword."
The old man said while looking at Leon with a wide and kind smile.
"Well… what do you think, Leon? Let's see how much stronger you can get by using your master's technique… and at the same time with the sword too."
Leon said while smiling kindly and closing his eyes a little.
"No, no, no, old man. I am ready for the training. But the way you said 'your master's technique' sounds ridiculous. I mean… I haven't even seen him using the technique he taught me before. Not even once. It was as if he created this technique for me all alone. But let's do it."
The old man then mumbled while looking at Leon.
"Hm… how strange. His master hasn't even used the techniques he taught to his disciple for not even once? Is it because the technique is weak or something? Well… I don't know unless I see it with my own eyes."
The old man then said while picking up a sword that was near the plants.
"Okay then, Leon. Give me everything your master has taught you."
The fight began slowly — the old man advancing with measured steps, sword raised in a high guard. Leon mirrored him, heart pounding. The clearing felt smaller now, the trees like silent spectators.
The old man struck first — a clean overhead cut, blade whistling down. Leon parried, the clash ringing out like a bell. Sparks flew. The impact jarred his arms, but he held.
"Good block," the old man said. "But too rigid. Flow with it."
Leon countered — a side cut, low and fast. The old man slipped it easily, riposting with a thrust. Leon twisted away, barely.