Pain dragged him back to life.It gnawed at his muscles, throbbed in his bones, burned behind his closed eyes.
The boy woke to the cold slap of reality.
His body was laid out on rough wooden floors — cracked and dusty.The dojo loomed around him like a dead giant, silent and unforgiving.
No soft beds.No bandages.No fire to warm him.
Only cold, sharp air.And the unbearable weight of existence.
"You're awake."
The voice —the same cold voice from before —cut through the air like a blade.
The boy turned his head, trembling.
There he stood.
The young man with white hair and emerald eyes, arms crossed, leaning against a cracked pillar.
He hadn't moved.He hadn't blinked.It was as if he'd been standing there, watching, waiting for the boy to wake up — just to see if he would.
The boy tried to sit up.
Every part of him screamed.Broken ribs. Torn muscles. Open wounds.
He collapsed back onto the floor, gasping.
The young man's voice hit him again, emotionless:
"If you can't even stand... then die."
No sympathy.No encouragement.
Only brutal truth.
The boy's fingers clawed at the floor.His nails snapped against the wood.
Again, he tried.Again, his body betrayed him.
Blood dripped from his lips as he coughed — but he moved.Inch by inch.Clawing.Crawling.
The young man's boots echoed across the floor as he walked closer, standing over the boy like a shadow.
He crouched low, grabbed the boy's bloodied hair, and forced him to look up into those cold, merciless emerald eyes.
"Tell me.""Why are you here?"
The boy, gasping, choking, managed to whisper:
"To get stronger..."
The young man's grip tightened.
"Wrong.""You're here because you have no choice. You either shatter the chains that bind you — or you die still wearing them."
He shoved the boy's head down into the floorboards and stood up.
The boy didn't cry out.He gritted his teeth, blood mixing with the dust.
The young man turned his back and walked toward the center of the dojo.
There, he drew a long, curved wooden sword from the ground — the wood gnarled and splintered like it had seen a thousand battles.
He tossed it at the boy's feet with a heavy thud.
"Pick it up."
The boy, trembling, reached out.
His hand barely closed around the hilt.
"From now on, you don't get to breathe unless you fight for it.""You don't get to sleep unless you earn it.""You don't get to live unless you prove you deserve it — every single day."
The boy, clutching the sword, tried to rise.Tried.Failed.
Tried again.
Collapsed.
Blood ran down his arms. His fingers blistered.His vision blurred.
But he did not let go of the sword.
Hours passed.
The sun shifted.Shadows stretched across the rotting floor.
Still, the boy fought to stand.
Not a word of encouragement.Not a hand to help him.
Only the relentless gaze of the white-haired young man.
Watching.Judging.
At sunset, when the boy finally, finally pushed himself upright — swaying, broken, but standing — the young man gave the smallest nod.
Barely a movement.
But it was there.
A silent recognition.
"Good.""Tomorrow, you start bleeding for real."
Without another word, the young man turned and vanished deeper into the hollow halls of the dojo.
Leaving the boy alone — sword in hand, blood on his face, fire in his eyes.
He had survived the first day.
But the mountain had only just begun to break him.
And deep within his battered chest, something pulsed —
Not hate.Not rage.Not fear.
Resolve.
A blade being forged inside him, hammered by pain and tempered by loss.