Lane woke up the next morning.
The stone walls of the cave still held the cold of the night. A thin layer of dampness lingered in the air like mist, leaving a heavy atmosphere inside the room. Lane slowly rose to his feet. He walked to the small stone basin and splashed water onto his face. When the cold water touched his skin, his eyes narrowed slightly.
He lifted his head and looked into the mirror.
His reflection stood before him. Motionless. Silent. Hollow.
For a moment, he thought of nothing. Then his mind suddenly filled. Fragmented thoughts, broken memories, hesitations…
But at the end of all that chaos, the only thing he saw in the mirror was his own face.
In a voice barely louder than a whisper, he spoke to himself:
"Why is it so unsettling… to look at myself?"
His eyes locked onto his own reflection.
"Am I… afraid of myself?"
His words did not echo back from the cave walls. The silence swallowed everything.
Lane looked away. He grabbed the towel and dried his face harshly. Stepping away from the mirror, he opened the door and walked outside.
The cave was awake now.
People were packing their belongings. Wooden chests were being dragged across the stone floor, fabrics folded, weapons inspected. The village soldiers were tending to the wounded, children clung to their mothers. Everyone moved with a quiet urgency. No one raised their voice. Yet everyone knew… they would be moving soon.
Lane picked up the Dragon Sword. His fingers paused briefly when they touched the hilt. Then he walked out of the cave.
Gorn noticed him leaving. He said nothing. He simply followed a few steps behind, silently.
The forest was half-lit by the morning sun. Light filtered through the trees, casting fractured shadows across the ground. There were birdsong, yet an uneasy tension lingered beneath it.
Lane moved forward. The trees thinned. He reached an open clearing and stopped.
Slowly, he held the Dragon Sword before him.
His voice was calm, but firm:
"Dragon Sword… teach me the remaining techniques."
A brief silence.
Then the blade flared crimson.
A dense aura spread outward in waves. The air grew heavy. Leaves trembled. For a brief moment, the earth itself seemed to hold its breath.
Gorn watched from a distance, eyes narrowed. He could not understand what was happening, yet he did not retreat.
A voice rose from the sword. Deep. Resonant. Cold.
"Answer."
A pause.
"Are you a mage… or a swordsman?"
Lane's brows tightened slightly.
The question was simple. But its weight was immense.
He murmured to himself:
"A mage…?"
In his mind, the silhouette of the old master appeared.
"Or a swordsman who walks my father's path…?"
His eyes darkened slowly.
The world shifted.
He was there again.
The sea of blood. Rotting corpses. A thick, piercing stench.
His breath caught instantly.
"That smell…"
His stomach tightened. He fell to his knees and vomited. What fell to the ground mixed with the blood.
When he lifted his head, nothing had changed. Blood. Corpses. Silence.
A shadow rose.
The Blood Dragon.
Its eyes locked onto Lane.
"I will ask again."
"Are you a mage… or a swordsman?"
Lane did not tremble. But something inside him twisted.
A reflection appeared on the surface of the blood.
The face from the mirror.
The same silhouette he had seen moments ago.
Now it stared at him from within the crimson sea.
Lane dropped to his knees fully, placing his hands on the soaked ground.
"I…"
His voice faltered.
"What am I truly the wielder of?"
He focused on breathing. Slowly, he closed his eyes.
He gathered his thoughts.
Think.
"Magic… or sword…"
This time his voice was clearer.
"The difference between them is only the path I walk."
The blood rippled faintly.
"They both serve the same purpose."
He lifted his head.
"If the result does not change… why should one be superior to the other?"
He opened his eyes.
"I am not magic or sword."
A brief pause.
"I am the mind that chooses the path."
Silence fell.
The reflection on the blood's surface began to waver. The crimson liquid trembled though no wind blew. The image distorted… stretched… and vanished completely.
Lane slowly raised his head and fixed his gaze on the Blood Dragon.
His voice carried no hesitation now. It was powerful.
"I AM BOTH!"
The sea of blood stirred slightly.
"Magic and sword are only tools. What matters is the mind."
His words echoed.
"The beginning and the end of the path are determined by the mind. Sword and magic shape the journey. Causality is sword and magic… but the result is the mind."
For a brief moment, the oppressive air stilled.
The Blood Dragon tilted its head slightly. A deep sound rumbled from its throat.
"Hmm."
Then it spoke.
"A good answer."
Its massive head lowered toward Lane from above. Its eyes burned like dark embers.
"You did not place sword above magic. You saw them both as tools serving a purpose."
A short silence.
"Then… the second question."
The surface of the blood rippled again.
"What is the Way of the Sword?"
The question hung in the air.
Lane no longer felt the stench. The nauseating scent of decay seemed distant now. His senses had adapted. His eyes no longer turned away from the mutilated bodies.
He slowly rose to his feet.
He looked around.
There was nothing but carnage.
He began to think.
"The Way of the Sword…"
His voice was low, yet clear.
"Why does a person carry a sword?"
His gaze shifted to the blood at his feet.
"To protect themselves? To display power? Or as a companion to walk beside them in solitude?"
He shook his head slightly.
"None of those reach the true answer."
He took a deep breath.
"The Way of the Sword… is a way of life."
The blood trembled faintly.
"Sometimes it is a path chosen by one's own will. Sometimes it is a path forced upon them by life, leaving no choice."
His eyes were steady.
"A person needs a sword because the world pushes them toward it. For some, it is a preference. For others, it is inevitability."
He paused briefly.
Then continued:
"The Way of the Sword is a cause."
His tone sharpened.
"The result is the mind."
The Blood Dragon's eyes narrowed.
"The Way of the Sword sharpens decision. Just as a sharp blade cuts without hesitation… so too does the mind of the one who walks that path decide without doubt."
Lane lifted his head.
"A sword sharp enough to sever even a beam of light… proves the sharpness of the wielder's will."
His final words rose louder:
"That is the Way of the Sword!"
The Blood Dragon remained silent for a moment.
Then a deep, resonant laughter erupted.
"HAHAHAHA…"
The sea of blood surged.
"A very clever answer."
Its voice grew heavier.
"Yes… the sword sharpens a person."
It lowered its head closer.
"But remember."
Its tone hardened.
"A sword is responsibility."
The surface of the blood seemed to crack.
"A responsibility that guides you. A sword without reason… is mere savagery. Without purpose in your hand, that blade will lead you nowhere."
Silence settled once more.
The final question came.
"How sharp can a sword be?"
Lane hesitated.
His eyes focused on a distant point. A scene formed within his mind.
He answered slowly:
"A sword… should be sharp enough to cut at the speed of light."
A brief pause.
"And it should leave no pain when it cuts."
The Blood Dragon remained silent for a long time.
Then it spoke in a heavy voice:
"You are ready for my teachings."
In an instant, its body dispersed like smoke. Crimson mist filled the air. The massive silhouette vanished.
In the center of the sea of blood, a figure appeared.
Silent. Composed. Fluid.
It took the sword and began to move.
Every form was flawless. The movements were neither fast nor slow. There was a calm yet lethal flow. Each step measured. Each strike precise.
Lane watched.
The techniques carved themselves into his mind. As if someone were writing directly into his thoughts. Just as before, but deeper. More permanent.
The movements were so smooth it was impossible not to admire them.
Yet at the same time…
They were terrifying.
Because within that flow, there was no mercy.
Only certainty.
All the techniques demonstrated by the figure in the sea of blood engraved themselves into Lane's mind.
When the final motion ended, everything fell silent.
Lane took a deep breath.
"Thank you…"
This time his voice was calm. There was no challenge, no defiance. Only acceptance.
The blood-soaked world slowly dissolved.
—
Lane opened his eyes.
He was back in the forest.
Morning light filtered through the trees. The wind was gentle. The real world was quiet… but Lane was no longer the same.
He tightened his grip on the sword.
He began to perform the same movements.
First form.
His steps were measured. His balance flawless. Shoulders relaxed, wrists flexible. The movements flowed naturally.
Second form.
The blade glided through the air without resistance. Sharp, yet composed.
Third form.
His feet touched the ground lightly, his weight shifting from one point to another almost invisibly.
Lane's physique adapted perfectly to the techniques. As if they had been designed for him. His muscles did not hesitate. His mind commanded, his body responded instantly.
He accelerated.
Leaves scattered into the air. Thin branches trembled. The surrounding air rippled.
Gorn watched from afar.
There was a gleam in his eyes. He observed with admiration. At first, Lane's strikes were gentle. Sharp but controlled. Every swing calculated. There was no display of brute force. Only mastery.
But that did not last long.
As he entered the fifth form…
The air changed.
Instantly.
The temperature of the forest seemed to drop. Silence thickened. The birds stopped singing.
The aura intensified.
It was no longer a faint presence. It became heavy. Oppressive. Suffocating.
An indescribable bloodthirst spread through the clearing. As if something unseen wrapped itself around the forest.
And that smell…
The scent of rot.
The scent of the sea of blood.
The admiration on Gorn's face shifted into unease. He took a step back.
Lane closed his eyes.
His voice was harder now. Deeper.
"DRAGON SWORD TECHNIQUE…"
He raised the blade high.
"FIFTH FORM: CORPSES!"
He brought the sword down from above.
The swing was not slow. Nor was it overly fast.
But the intent within it was razor-sharp.
The blade struck the ground.
The impact echoed.
The earth trembled.
Then it split.
Crimson energy seeped from the crack, as if the soil itself were bleeding.
For ten meters, the ground had been cleaved in two.
The forest was silent.
Even the wind did not dare move.
Lane remained still.
The aura gradually dissipated. The stench of decay faded.
The sword was still in his hand.
His gaze fixed on the torn earth.
He spoke inwardly.
"The techniques are flawless…"
His fingers tightened slightly around the hilt.
"There is power."
A short pause.
"But…"
His brows furrowed faintly.
"Something is missing."
He exhaled.
"These techniques have no equal. And yet… along the path of my sword and my magic, something restrains me."
He lowered his head slightly.
"A boundary."
Gorn watched from afar, unaware of these thoughts.
Lane was alone.
The sword was powerful.
But within his mind, there was still an unresolved knot.
And that knot… had yet to be cut.