Chapter 1 — The Farmer's Blade
The sickle came before the sword.
Before I learned to kill men, I learned to cut weeds.
I was born to soil so poor it could barely feed the worms. My parents coughed their lives away when I was ten, and the village priest said it was mercy. Maybe he was right—hunger never showed mercy to anyone.
For three years I lived on what I could steal or dig up. When soldiers came recruiting—or raiding—they dragged every orphan they could find into their war camps. I was thirteen, light as straw, easy to carry.
That camp wasn't a place to live; it was a place to die slowly until you learned how not to.
They gave us wooden swords and beat us until we swung back. The ones who didn't fight back were buried behind the tents.
A farmer's child knows tools. My hands already knew rhythm and weight—an axe for wood, a sickle for grass, a knife for fish. Same motion, different purpose. By fifteen I could cut faster than boys twice my size. They called it talent; I called it hunger.
Then war came.
The first battle smelled of mud and hot iron. We weren't soldiers—just fodder pushed toward real warriors. I remember slipping in the blood of men I didn't know, cutting, blocking, cutting again. The first time my blade struck flesh it shook all the way up my arm. The tenth time it didn't.
After that, I stopped counting.
War makes you numb.
By twenty-one I could run faster than a horse for a minute, chop trees in one swing, split a stone the size of a man. Strong enough to live, not strong enough to matter. The world was full of men stronger than me.
When the food ran out I deserted, hid in the forests, and robbed caravans.
A bandit, yes—but not a greedy one.
I stole for training. I hunted bears and tigers for meat, for vitality. My body grew harder than the blade I carried.
One night I attacked the wrong caravan—a noble's escort, guarded by a second-grade martial artist. He broke my arm before I touched him. The noble spared me, said I fought like a hungry wolf, and hired me instead. His guard taught me the Foundation Sword Art—simple, fast, and lethal. Every stroke was a step closer to perfection.
Years passed. I became the noble's protector. Bandits came; I killed them.
The sword became part of my hand, its weight lighter than breath.
Then our king went mad. He waged war on a stronger nation and sent soldiers to silence anyone fleeing. A hundred men came for us—among them, third-grade and second-grade martial artists.
We fought in the forest for a day and a night.
I killed until my arms locked and my skin peeled from the grip.
When it ended, I was still standing—half dead, but alive.
We escaped to another kingdom. There I trained again, refining the Foundation Sword Art into my own style—raw, practical, mine.
It ended on another road, another caravan. Two second-grade and four third-grade martial artists came for the noble's life. We were outnumbered and surrounded.
I fought because there was nothing else to do.
Steel split my thigh, my arm, my ribs. I stopped dodging. I started killing.
Pain vanished; only rhythm remained.
One of them jeered, stepped too close. I caught his throat in my teeth and tore.
They cut off my hand, then my leg. I didn't stop.
When the final blade rose, I smiled.
I had no family left to mourn me, no love to lose, no children to curse my name.
Even if I had reached the first grade of martial mastery, I'd still be a pawn on someone's board.
The strong ruled, and I was only strong enough to die standing.
The sword fell.
And for the first time, everything was quiet.
> "If I ever live again," I whispered to the darkness,
"let me have power enough not to be someone's cannon fodder."
The world faded. The warmth of blood became cold wind.