Chapter 7: Those Who Don't Smile at Winter, Will Never Laugh at Spring (2)
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The Blue Gleaming Shore.
Dewdrops slid down from the varied snow leaves, branches swayed, and the shimmer of water spread across the sands of the shore.
The biting cold had diminished, and the snows of winter were melting.
The first signs of warmth proudly revealed themselves.
Between night and day, the sky was divided between dark hues and radiant ones.
It was the time of spring.
The blond youth stood before the crashing waves over the blue sands.
What he held in his hands was a weapon.
His blue eyes were deep.
His expression was bitter and weary, yet not despairing.
A sword.
What is a sword?
Some see the sword as nothing more than a weapon that cuts things, rusting when overtaken by time.
Some see the sword as an embodiment of their hatred—blood, killing.
But on the other side, there is the swordsman.
Morning comes, and he clasps his sword within his arms, burdened by the toil and misery of the world.
Night falls, and he closes his eyes, embracing his sword, His nightmares cling to it, his dreams are obsessed with it.
No matter how time flows, he never lets go of his sword.
In the youth's eyes, there was nothing but mist.
The sword lay within his arms.
His shoulders were squared, his hands open, his lower body rooted in the sands.
No essence energy, no ego, no supernatural force.
Just the simple body of a 17-year-old boy, and a sword in his hands.
That was all his understanding of the weapon relied upon.
The sword was raised high.
Fernando closed his eyes, focusing his senses on hearing and touch.
Hearing caught sounds—the breath, the waves, the wind. Touch perceived the feel of the sword and the sense of the world.
Through those senses, imagination was forged.
A swordsman's imagination is what his blade cuts through.
Every person has their wall.
What is the greatest obstacle to a sword's swing?
The despair of life? The bitterness of the world? The sting of suffering?
Whatever one asks of the world, it will never grant it as wished.
Love will never be perfect, Relationships will not last, Age will reach you in its time.
If you free a corrupt man, he will repay you only with injustice.
The sick will not vanish, Hollow moon nights will not disappear, Hunger in the world will not fade.
The world doesn't bend to what one lives through.
And in the end, you die.
"Such is life."
Man does not live because he feels—he lives because he suffers.
What is your pain?
When you imagine the source of your deepest wound, what torrent of emotions crushed your heart?
Let that torrent flow into your arms, Face your heavy emotions, Accept the truth of yourself before them.
Those ugly emotions are an accumulation, built slowly, without care for shedding light upon them.
Then they become a wall.
Be patien, Recognize your moment.
The time to cut through your wall will come without doubt—whether a day, a month, a year, or an age. The sword will cut.
What stopped Fernando from cutting was a wall the size of a mountain.
That mountain was not fear, nor worry, nor the weight of responsibility.
The sword in his hands was heavy.
Yet despite its weight, he did not let go of it, He did not suppress his emotions, nor halt the flow of his thoughts.
With an inhale through his mouth, his slackened grip tightened.
"Haap!"
Swish!
The sword's path flowed through the air with minimal resistance, The swing was neither too fierce nor too light.
The silver gleam of the blade reflected across the blue sands, the breeze scattering countless grains.
Despite the swift cut, his arm did not tremble.
There was no grace, no beauty, no mastery in the swing.
That cut was nothing more than an expression of confusion.
Yet the cut was filled with devotion.
Anyone who saw such devotion would marvel.
And yet…
"Weak and hollow."
Fernando was not satisfied.
If someone were to ask him what a sword is, he could not answer.
Whether it was just a weapon, whether it was self-expression, or a way of life—everyone had their own answer, conscious or not.
Fernando had none.
Confusion and loss.
If he had to describe his sword, it symbolized being lost in the fog.
He did not know what he wanted to cut.
Swish!
The sword did not stop.
Swish!
A vertical slash, a thrust, a guard, a horizontal sweep.
Swish!
Through the clashing paths and wavering flows, the youth's sword never ceased.
Whether a man becomes good or evil, his actions will one day fade.
A person's life is full of stumbles, and on their path, they are possessed only by confusion.
And through what they devote their life to, their unique nature will take form.
Fernando no longer cared about such thoughts. Once, yes—but no longer.
The most important thing was not to regret.
Fernando's sword had no "flow."
It merely displayed the nature of his pain.
To live is to express your pain. And Fernando's pain branched endlessly, just like his swordsmanship.
He did not know how to express it.
And yet, he did not abandon his sword.
He did not see himself as obsessed with it.
Surrendering was easier.
It was just that …
Meaningless.
Surrendering to time and the cold snows of winter.
It was meaningless—and all the more sorrowful.
He did not know how to express his sword, but he knew its direction.
A sword that wished to shine in the brightest nights of madness.
And that was the flame of hope in his heart.
"… I still have a long road ahead."
As he watched the night stars fade with the rising sun, Fernando's thoughts grew heavier.
One month.
That was the time left between today and the entrance ceremony of the academy.
Although he was the son of a noble family of the Cairo Empire, Fernando refused to register as one of that nation's members.
That decision had displeased the Senate, but he did not care.
What could they do?
"Strip me of my title as young heir? Heh, I'd like to see you try."
Since he was the only male child, they had no choice but to involve him in the chaos of choosing the successor of the Nicholas family head.
Although he was the only male child, they had no choice but to involve him in the chaos of choosing the successor for the head of House Nicholas.
Choosing women as successors in such matters was unthinkable.
Since nobles valued reputation above all else, how would society view them if one of Fernando's sisters were chosen while he was still present?
Those old men would never accept being ruled by a woman!
There was also the possibility of pregnancy through adultery, and with the common law of transferring authority to the husband, whoever married the family's matriarch could take power from her.
"Women are creatures ruled by emotion."
They were indeed deeper in understanding emotions—and thus, more vulnerable to them.
But rational judgment was the foremost requirement for ruling people.
Raising a family and governing a household were not the same.
"Not that it's my problem."
His talent had yet to awaken, and he was now just an ordinary human.
Fernando knew this—he could not help but know.
His talent was barely average, and he had delayed awakening it because his value to the family would vanish the moment that day came.
Just as they needed him for their benefit, he needed them for his.
Now that he had even a slim chance of excelling here, how could he falter?
The swings did not cease, fatigue poured upon him without mercy, yet his hand did not leave the sword.
Regardless of the reasons, Fernando had chosen to register as a member of Moon Island, specifically as a resident of White Lake Village.
With his background and some bribes, how could the village chief refuse?
Impossible.
Yesterday, he had heard rumors of an unknown son of Lucas, the chief of Black Sand Village, But he paid them no mind.
"As long as he doesn't stand in my way, nothing will happen."
And if he did seek trouble?
He would be crushed.
The sword continued cutting despite its weary master.
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In Black Sand Village
The people had their own customs, their traditions, their unique systems—their distinctiveness was their pride.
Some laws were clear, such as those on dealing with riots and vice, Others were vague, like taxation and the limits of the Senate's authority.
Though Lucas was the village chief, it was impossible for him to rule alone, Thus, circumstances had forced him to form a Senate, and at the time, it worked.
Now, more than a decade later, as the saying goes: people can share anything but power and reputation.
Naturally, the voices of those elders had grown stronger, entrenching themselves as indispensable figures.
Lucas was stronger than all of them, but he wished to avoid the consequences of open conflict—first because of external threats, second because of his position.
Who in their right mind would submit to a man who killed even his own followers and elders?
Only a demonic warrior could do so—without fear, without restraint.
Such a man had an unbreakable will and a mind of steel—but no refuge, for he was almost always alone.
And lastly, there was the nature of the conflict itself, Though the elders meddled in most matters, it was merely a clash of interests, They had never harmed Lucas's family directly.
Lucas and the elders knew this, and thus neither side broke the fragile balance.
Inside the Black Bamboo Hall, six elders sat on raised seats—members of the Senate.
Jake sighed, holding a few papers.
"The rumors were true after all."
"The fact that Chief Lucas has a son—who would have expected it? Knowing him, it's obvious he wasn't born of adultery. That leaves only one or two possibilities."
Victor's face was grim as he adjusted the bandages on his severed arm.
"He is either a child born without anyone's knowledge—or adopted."
Carlos stroked his red beard, muttering: "Tsk tsk, that cunning bastard. At such a critical time, he makes his move. What could he be thinking?"
The others' eyes gleamed in agreement, though they were not as blunt with their words.
"Show some respect, Elder of the Hall of Law," Elder Bureau said coldly. "Though I understand your anger—one of your followers was harmed by Chief Lucas's son—this is not the time for criticism. We must first think of our current problem: White Lake Village."
At the mention of their bitter enemies, killing intent surged through them all.
The struggle between the two villages was not just a clash of interests—it was a war of hatred.
Carlos had lost his young granddaughter during a trade caravan raid, After intense searching, he discovered she had been assassinated on the order of a White Lake Village elder.
Had it not been for the Elder of the Tax Hall, Carlos would have launched a suicidal attack back then.
Victor had lost his arm to the venom of the White-Eyed Green Snake, The poison still festered in his severed limb to this day. Not only was the antidote costly, but its source was monopolized by White Lake Village.
Just an old man of the First Moon—who would fight an entire village just to heal his arm?
The others had their own grievances as well.
"Though I dearly wish to gather our forces and strike them, we cannot—not with the current situation."
The situation Bureau referred to was the opening of registration at the Moonlight Academy, And that was not all—the Wild Tide would arrive in a week, followed of course by the Hollow Moon Nights.
"Our current problem lies with the younger generation. For some time now, we've had no talents worth nurturing—and that is a problem. This year, White Lake Village has several promising youths, especially that boy, Damian Arcadia."
Bureau's face grew grayer with every word, while the others concealed their bitterness behind stoic expressions.
Talent.
It is the ability to do what others cannot—whether of mind or body—and the ability to manifest that gift and benefit from it.
Everyone has a talent in something.
It arises from their inclinations, their personal constitution from birth, and how their body and mind develop through youth.
Possessing talent does not automatically mean one can express it or use it.
The right environment, dangers, and goals are also required.
There were ranks of talent, and the brilliance of a person's gift was their greatest resource in their first steps.
The same applied to an Ego warrior.
"While talent is influenced by four criteria, there are also four levels of talent."
The one speaking was an elder with blue hair and deep black eyes.
A glowing insect, the size of a fist, rested on his arm.
Its wings were transparent like shining glass, and its eyes round and red as blood, staring blankly into space like a mad creature.
Sometimes the glow in its eyes split across the air, then merged again.
Beside the large insect were smaller ones, their wings shining in four colors—black, gray, white, and crimson—blending, dividing, and merging.
The Madlight Firefly.
This insect was first mentioned in one of the oldest tales of time.
It was said to have lived in a lake formed from moonlight that had banished the sun for a thousand years, There, beside that lake, a man fell.
That man was the first to become an Ego warrior.
According to legend, the firefly was the necessary catalyst for the formation of a Core Heart.
As the years passed, the geniuses of history discovered various ways to use the Madlight Firefly—one of them being to reveal a person's potential.
And thus came the grades of talent.
Everyone watched the Elder of the Village Academy in silence—none dared interrupt him.
He understood the severity of the situation better than anyone.
Elder Michael stroked his beard, lost in thought.
"Talent, in essence, is nothing but a person's potential measured against their current abilities. But it is of utmost importance. And so, the sages of history set clear classifications: the Ignorant, the Ordinary, the Gifted, the Genius."
The Ignorant—those who do not understand themselves or their surroundings.
They blame the world for their misery and never learn, living off scraps of memory, afraid of a future that never comes, forgetting the present that slowly kills them.
These are the ones who succeed in awakening ceremonies but never know which path to take, which Ego to use, or how to advance. Most are stuck in the First Moon; some reach the Second.
Thus they lived in the darkness of ignorance, Their world was black.
The Ordinary—the talent of most warriors. They overcome their problems step by step.
As the saying goes, people's abilities differ according to their mindset.
Through perseverance, the ordinary reach the Second Moon, A few, if they survive the calamity upon attaining it, may reach the Third.
Neither light nor darkness—their world was gray, without hope or despair.
The Gifted—the heavy wall of reality. There are things only they can do, levels only they can reach.
They find obsession in their path, uniqueness in immersion, These were the leaders of the world.
Reaching the Third Moon was only a matter of time, The Fourth Moon was within their right, The Fifth, however, was far less certain.
They lived in the light of their hearts, and no matter how painful the world, they endured for a simple reason—a dream.
Their world was white.
The Genius—those who embodied the wonders of the world.
They were not people history remembered—they were its writers and storytellers.
Different from all, distant from all, They were the despair of life.
Their fate was to achieve extraordinary feats.
Their willpower was radiant, their minds unique, their creativity bizarre, their physical ability unmatched, their essence energy the purest and strongest.
The Third Moon was only a stepping stone. The Fourth was a right, Their ultimate brilliance lay in the Fifth Moon—the Moon of the world itself.
The color of life, of blood, of moonlight, of sunlight—the crimson hue adorned the genius.
Through it, they illuminated the world, for crimson lived in every story ever told.
"This year we had only the Ignorant and the Ordinary. White Lake Village was the same—until that boy, Damian. He is Gifted. And though Chief Lucas's daughter has reached the peak of Ordinary, the gap between Ordinary and Gifted cannot be bridged so easily."
Words none of them wished to speak—or hear—fell upon them like a bucket of cold water.
Gifted, Which meant he would inevitably reach the Third Moon in the future.
"… This is why the Sect of Red Frost has reached out to their village, even offering trade agreements and sending an elder to unite the two villages."
That could mean only one thing—
"We're in trouble."
Carlos's expression was cold despite the danger in his words.
The rival sect to the Red Frost would intervene, And since Black Sand Village had no outstanding talent, unlike White Lake Village, there was no need for gifts or offerings, They would be subdued by force.
The worst part?
Their village belonged to no faction—no one would intervene.
"Elder Carlos, though you speak such words, I don't see your usual rage. It seems you don't think the situation is that dire."
The speaker was Carlos's only rival—Elder Thomas of the Tax Hall.
"You sharp-tongued old man," Carlos spat to the ground, cursing him.
"… It's not that there isn't a solution. I just don't like it."
"Enough whining like an old crone! If you have a solution, then say it!"
The other five stared at Carlos hungrily, as if they'd eat him alive if he was joking.
"Tsk! You bastards! Have you shoved your brains up your asses? Have you forgotten what happened to one of my men?!"
Bang!
Carlos slammed the table in frustration. Every time he remembered, his fury grew.
Now what would people say about his hall? A child beating down an adult—a trained Ego warrior at that! Who would believe it?
Had anyone told Carlos that, he would have thrown them naked into a ghoul village for telling such an obvious lie!
But everyone saw it happen, Who could deny it?
The others laughed at the matter, but they understood what the stubborn elder meant.
They could empathize with his feelings.
Chief Lucas's son.
"You're asking us to use him?"
At Thomas's words, Carlos snorted coldly—but did not deny it.
Carlos was not happy, even though he was the one who found the solution.
To turn to the one who had humiliated him? It was like being slapped on one cheek, only to offer the other for a better slap!
"I know how heavy this weighs on you, Elder. But we found a solution thanks to you. My gratitude."
Bureau understood Carlos's mind and nodded with appreciation.
There was always conflict of interest among the elders. Agreement was rare.
But with a common enemy and a problem that threatened them all, unity was their only choice—even at the cost of personal pride.
Since that youth had defeated one of the strongest guards, his talent was clear, Damian, though Gifted, had only recently awakened, He stood no chance against him.
Though much remained unknown about this boy, Leon, if they could use him to solve their crisis—so what?
Minor issues could be dealt with later!
"Hmph!"
Carlos looked away from the others' knowing, sympathetic eyes.
"You stubborn old man, accept gratitude when it's given."
"As if I would."
Thomas never missed a chance to irritate Carlos.
"This is good, very good—but…"
Bureau's voice turned cold, his grim gaze chilling the air.
"We will not use him. No matter how desperate or wretched we become, we will not turn into fools. Those who use their own people as mere tools walk only toward ruin. A tyrant king who ignores his people will fall. But a tyrant who listens to his people will never fall."
No matter how harsh we are to others, never forget—our homeland is our sanctuary.
Just as we protect Black Sand Village, Black Sand Village protects us.
"That is what homeland means."
The others nodded in agreement.
Naturally, they were not about to treat Leon as a mere tool, If they could not reach an understanding with him, they would seek another solution—even if it was more difficult.
"We have found one solution. But it is only one. I hope each of you considers alternatives. For now, we will rely on this. Any objections?"
Though Carlos's face was sour, he voiced no opposition. The others remained expressionless.
"Then we shall begin formulating a plan to deal with White Lake Village."
Thus the meeting ended.
Outside the hall, silence hung over the streets—no one walked.
On a chair near the hall sat a black-haired youth.
His blood-red eyes flickered.
"Homeland, huh."
Words of mockery, coming from old men near the grave.
On his left arm was a tattoo like a broken moon, glowing strangely, This youth was Leon.
It was his Ego of Revelation, So long as Leon identified someone as a target, and that person held emotions toward him, a bond would form.
That bond would transfer part of Leon's will into the target's essence Heart, allowing him to spy on them.
He had not humiliated the guards merely to make an impression.
His true target was Carlos—the one with the deepest grudge against White Lake Village.
Could he be exposed?
Unless the one in question was a Fourth-Moon master of Revelation, the possibility itself was impossible.
Such was the difference in power.
"Good, They acted exactly as I predicted, Though those last words were unexpected, they don't matter, Now—it's time to get serious."
Adjusting his calculations and altering some variables to match the current circumstances, he thought about White Lake Village.
Damian—a Gifted?
"Unexpected, but usable."
All he needed was the head of White Lake Village's chief, and the rest would fall like dominoes.
Leon stretched his body and walked away.
The place where the younger generation would gather.
The fallen sect—now nothing more than an impoverished academy.
Black Sand Academy, soon to become a vital piece in his plans.
Leon was headed there.