Lorian collapsed due to the exhaustion.
As Lorian's heavy eyelids fluttered open, the dim light of dawn filtered through the wooden ceiling. His body ached, his limbs felt like lead, and a dull pain throbbed in his temples.
"You're finally awake."
A deep, yet calm voice echoed through the room.
Lorian turned his head, his blurry vision focusing on an old man standing at the doorway. His figure was tall but slightly hunched, draped in a worn-out robe that hinted at years of hardship. A thick white beard covered half his face, but his sharp, piercing eyes held an unmistakable power.
"Who are you…?" Lorian's voice was hoarse, his throat dry.
The old man stepped forward, placing a bowl of steaming broth on the wooden table beside the bed. "Eat first. You'll need your strength."
Lorian hesitated but soon felt the gnawing hunger clawing at his stomach. As he slowly sipped the broth, his mind raced. Where am I? Who is this old man?
After a long silence, the old man spoke again. "I've seen that look in your eyes before… hatred, grief, the fire of revenge." He let out a heavy sigh. "But tell me, boy… do you want to throw yourself into the battlefield as you are now? Weak? Unprepared? Or do you want to truly gain the strength to destroy those who wronged you?"
Lorian's grip on the bowl tightened. He already knew the answer.
He would become strong. Strong enough to burn the world if necessary.
"Good." The old man smirked. "Then from this moment on, you are my student."
Lorian clenched his fists. The exhaustion still weighed him down, but his resolve burned brighter than ever.
"Who are you?" he finally asked, his voice steady despite his fatigue.
The old man pulled up a chair, crossing his arms. "Names can wait. First, answer me this—how much do you know about the limits of your own power?"
Lorian hesitated. He had awakened his shadow ability, created weapons from darkness, and even unlocked Emptiness—the skill that let him perceive everything in his surroundings. But he knew nothing about how far it could go.
"Not enough."
The old man nodded approvingly. "Good answer. Then let's begin."
Before Lorian could react, the old man raised his hand. A terrifying pressure crashed onto him like an invisible boulder, forcing him down.
Lorian gasped, his entire body screaming in protest. He could barely move.
"Lesson one." The old man's voice was calm but absolute. "Strength isn't just about power—it's about control. Your body, your mind, your abilities—if you can't command them at will, then they're nothing more than useless tricks."
The pressure increased, and Lorian gritted his teeth. His Emptiness activated on instinct, showing the old man's movements in a translucent blue hue—but it didn't help. He couldn't move his limbs, no matter how much he struggled.
"Damn it…!"
"You're relying too much on your instincts," the old man said. "What if your enemy can overwhelm those instincts? What if your power fails in the middle of battle? Will you just die like the rest of your village?"
Lorian's eyes widened. Rage flared inside him.
And then—
Boom!
A burst of shadow erupted around him, shattering the invisible pressure.
Lorian collapsed to his knees, panting.
The old man chuckled. "Not bad. Your will is strong. But that alone won't be enough."
Lorian looked up, his breath ragged. "Then teach me."
The old man grinned. "That's the spirit. Get up. Your training starts now."
Lorian stood up, his legs trembling under the lingering pressure of the old man's technique. His body still ached from exhaustion, but his mind was sharper than ever.
"Your name?" Lorian asked again, this time with more determination.
The old man smirked. "Names don't matter yet. First, take this."
He tossed a sword towards Lorian, a simple steel blade without any engravings or magical enhancements.
"This is just a normal sword," Lorian muttered.
"And yet, in the hands of a master, it can cut through anything." The old man's voice carried wisdom and weight. "Your power means nothing if your body can't keep up. Before you learn to wield your shadows, you will learn to wield steel."
Lorian tightened his grip on the hilt. His training had begun.
For the first six months, the old man drilled nothing but the fundamentals into Lorian. Stances, footwork, breathing—he had to master them all before he was even allowed to swing the sword properly.
At first, Lorian was frustrated. He wanted to train his shadow powers, to master Emptiness, but his teacher refused.
"Your foundation must be unshakable. Power is meaningless without control."
Lorian didn't understand at first. But after weeks of practicing his stance, he realized that his movements became smoother. His reactions became faster.
He was learning.
A year into his training, the old man finally allowed Lorian to learn advanced techniques that didn't rely on attributes.
Lorian pushed himself to the limit, training tirelessly day and night.
And as months turned into years, something changed.
Lorian had lost everything—his home, his family, his past life. But in those five years, the old man had become something to him. A teacher. A mentor.
A father figure.
Their training was grueling. Lorian had been pushed to the edge so many times that he lost count. His hands bled, his body ached, but he endured. And the old man was always there, watching over him, guiding him.
At night, they shared meals around a campfire, where the old man told stories about the strongest warriors in history.
"Strength isn't about how much power you have," he once said. "It's about knowing when to use it."
Lorian listened carefully. He had learned more than just how to fight. He had learned patience. Discipline. Strategy.
And finally, at the end of those five years, the old man stood before him with a different look in his eyes.
"This is the last lesson, Lorian."
Lorian tightened his grip on his sword. He knew what was coming.
"Show me what you've learned."
The final battle between teacher and student was about to begin.
The wind howled through the trees, rustling the leaves like whispers of an unseen audience. Lorian stood before the old man, his heart pounding like a war drum.
For five years, he had been trained, forged in the fires of discipline and hardship. Now, he would face the very man who had shaped him.
The old man raised his blade, a weathered yet deadly piece of steel that had seen countless battles. "Come," he said simply.
Lorian exhaled, gripping his own sword. His fingers were steady. His stance, firm. This is it.
Then—
The battle began.
In a blur, the old man moved. His blade sang through the air like a whisper of death. Lorian barely had time to react—he twisted his body, just evading the first strike.
Clang!
Their swords met, sparks flying like fireflies in the dusk. Lorian staggered back, his arms shaking from the force. He's faster than ever.
The old man did not relent. He stepped forward, his movements precise, his blade flowing like water. Each strike was clean, effortless.
Lorian dodged. Wind Step! His body glided to the side, barely avoiding another deadly cut.
He's testing me. Pushing me.
Gritting his teeth, he countered. Phantom Cut! His sword feinted a downward slash before twisting mid-air. But—
The old man saw through it.
With a simple twist of his wrist, he parried the attack as if swatting away a fly. "Too predictable."
Lorian's eyes widened. He barely had time to react before the old man flicked his blade—
A shallow cut appeared on Lorian's cheek.
Blood trickled down his face.
His master narrowed his eyes. "Is that all you've got?"
Lorian inhaled sharply. His heartbeat steadied.
He couldn't win in a contest of strength. He couldn't outmatch his master in skill.
But he had learned something in these five years.
His master had drilled it into him, day after day, lesson after lesson—anticipate. Observe. Adapt.
Lorian closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. Then—
He activated Emptiness.
The world shifted into shades of deep blue. He could see the flow of his master's movements, the subtle shifts in his stance, the micro-adjustments of his grip.
His master's next move was already visible.
The old man lunged.
Lorian dodged before the attack even came.
The old man's expression flickered with surprise. "Oh?"
Lorian countered.
His blade shot forward with Sonic Dash, striking at an impossible angle. The old man raised his sword to block—
Too late.
A sharp sting spread across his shoulder. A cut. Not deep, but the first wound Lorian had ever landed on him.
The old man's lips curled into a smile. "Finally."
They moved like shadows, vanishing and reappearing in bursts of speed. Swords clashed, steel ringing through the forest like a symphony of war.
Lorian pushed himself beyond his limits.
His movements became unpredictable. His sword no longer followed rigid forms—it flowed, adapting to each attack.
The old man was no longer leading the fight.
Lorian was.
Then, in a final exchange, they both lunged.
Their swords flashed.
Silence.
Lorian stood, his blade just inches from his master's throat.
The old man's sword, however, had stopped just before piercing Lorian's chest.
A long pause.
Then—
The old man chuckled. "You've won."
Lorian let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. His arms trembled, his muscles screaming in protest.
His master stepped back, sheathing his sword. "You've surpassed my expectations, Lorian."
A strange feeling welled in Lorian's chest. Victory? Relief? No—
Pride.
His master placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "From today onward, you are no longer my student. You are a swordsman in your own right."
Lorian barely had time to process his master's words before—
Crack.
His sword trembled in his grip. A thin fracture spread along its length, splintering like a spiderweb.
Then—
Shatter!
The blade broke into two, the tip clattering to the ground.
Lorian stared at the remains in his hand. The sword that had been his companion for five years, the blade that had endured countless hours of training, had finally reached its limit.
Silence stretched between them.
The old man exhaled. "It seems your journey with that sword ends here."
Lorian clenched his fists. It wasn't just a weapon—it had been proof of his growth, his struggles, his sweat and blood. But now, it lay in pieces at his feet.
His master placed a hand on his shoulder. "Do not mourn a broken blade. A swordsman is not defined by the weapon he wields, but by the will that guides it."
Lorian looked up, meeting his master's gaze.
The old man smiled. "And I think it's time you forged a new one."
Lorian stared at the shattered remains of his sword, expecting his master to hand him a new one. Instead, the old man crossed his arms and let out a deep sigh.
"I've done enough for you, boy. Now you're on your own."
Lorian's brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"A swordsman must learn to stand on his own feet. If you want a new sword, find one yourself."
The words struck him like a hammer. After five years of intense training, was he just supposed to wander off and search for a blade? Where? How?
Frustration brewed inside him. He clenched his fists, thinking—no, knowing—that he deserved a weapon after all he had endured.
Then a thought struck him.
His Shadow Attribute.
His ability allowed him to create weapons, didn't it? He had summoned a dagger before. If he could do that… why not a sword?
Determined, he extended his hand and focused. He pictured a sleek black sword emerging from his shadow, its form rising like mist.
But nothing happened.
Lorian's jaw clenched. He tried again.
Still, nothing.
His frustration mounted. "Why now? Why won't it work?" He had trained relentlessly, endured pain, sweat, and blood for five long years. And yet, at the moment he needed it most, his ability refused to respond.
He took a deep breath, calming himself. "Maybe I'm thinking too much."
Instead of a sword, he imagined a dagger.
Whoosh!
A dark blade materialized instantly in his palm. Cold, solid, real.
Lorian stared at it, then gritted his teeth. "Why a dagger? Why not a sword?"
Closing his eyes, he delved deeper into himself. Just like the first time he awakened his ability.
All went black.
Then—
A shape formed in the darkness. A katana.
Not just any katana—his katana.
Dark as the abyss, its blade pulsed with a deep purple aura, like shadows coiling around it. It wasn't something he created on a whim.
It had always been there, waiting for him to claim it.
Lorian reached out.
The moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, power surged through his veins. It was overwhelming—an immense, suffocating presence coursing through his very being.
His eyes snapped open.
The katana was in his hands.
A perfect weapon, formed from the depths of his own power.
From a distance, the old man watched in silence. His eyes widened as he recognized the blade.
"It can't be… Is that…?"
A moment later, realization dawned on him. He exhaled, a small smile forming on his lips.
"Ohh… I see."