Aron woke up—not in his home, but somewhere unfamiliar. The air around him felt lighter, fresher, almost unreal. His eyes darted around as he slowly sat up. What he saw made him question his own senses. It was beautiful, breathtaking even, as if he had stepped into a dream. Flowing gardens stretched endlessly before him, streams and rivers of crystal water cutting through the land like veins of glass. The flowers swayed gently under a calm breeze, their colors almost too vivid to be true.
"Where… am I?" Aron muttered under his breath, unable to believe what he was seeing.
Before he could think further, a strange voice stirred the silence behind him, shaking him from his daze. Aron turned his head sharply, his heart skipping a beat. His eyes widened in shock—it was his sword. The weapon floated in midair, levitating before him as if alive.
"H-Hello?" Aron called out, his voice uneasy. The sword did not answer, but it lingered, staring at him—or at least it felt that way.
Then, without warning, a deep, manly voice echoed all around.
"How far have you gone?"
Aron froze. The words weren't coming from the sword, nor from any visible figure. They resonated from everywhere and nowhere at once.
"You grow stronger," the voice continued, heavy and firm, "but your mind is still weak. Tell me… what is the thing that you fear?"
A chill ran down Aron's spine. He clenched his fists, glancing around the dreamlike garden. The voice was everywhere, yet it had no form.
"Who are you?" he demanded. "What's your name? Why are you speaking to me?"
The voice replied, calm but stern: "It is not important who I am, nor what I am called. The important thing is… what are you? You seek revenge, vengeance burns inside you, but something stops you from embracing it. What is it, boy?"
Aron swallowed. The question pierced deep into him. He sat down slowly, uneasy. Fear gnawed at him, and though he wanted to answer, he decided against it. He couldn't bring himself to confess what held him back.
"No," he whispered to himself, shaking his head. "I won't say it."
The voice lingered in silence for a moment. Then, like a fading echo, it spoke once more.
"Indeed. From now on, take this gift. In this place, you may train—train your body, your spirit, and above all… your mind. Here you will learn balance, focus, and strength. Train harder, boy… Train until you ignite the Sparkle of Flames."
And just like that, the voice vanished.
Aron leapt to his feet. "Wait! How do I get out of here?" he shouted into the air, but there was no answer.
He stood still, the silence heavy. Yet the garden's beauty remained. The rivers whispered softly, and the grass swayed as if alive. He took a cautious step forward, and soon, in the middle of the garden, he noticed something peculiar—a wooden table.
Aron approached it, curiosity pulling him closer. On the table rested a book. Its cover was plain, but its presence felt commanding. He picked it up and opened it. On the very first page, a single word was written:
Balance.
Aron's eyes scanned the text beneath.
"Balance is one of the most important things in fighting. Every step, every motion, must be perfect. Only then will openings vanish and mistakes disappear. A fighter without balance is already defeated."
Aron closed the book, his mind stirring with thought. But when he lowered it, his heart nearly stopped.
A man stood before him.
The stranger was tall, his figure cloaked in age yet carrying the strength of a warrior. In his hand, he held a sword, steady and calm. His presence radiated experience, like a mountain that had withstood centuries of storms.
Aron stepped back instinctively. "Who… who are you?"
The man's voice was quiet, but firm. "Pick up your sword."
Without thinking, Aron obeyed. His weapon leapt into his grip, and his stance tightened. Then, without warning, the man moved.
The air cracked.
Boom!
Their blades collided with such force that the sound echoed across the entire garden. Aron staggered, his arms trembling under the sheer strength of the clash. He realized instantly—this man was holding back. He could end the fight at any moment, yet chose not to.
A swift kick slammed into Aron's gut, sending him flying backward across the grass. He landed hard, gasping for air. Pain shot through his stomach, but he forced himself up.
"Who… is this man?" he thought, wincing.
The warrior advanced calmly, one hand gripping the sword, the other left free as if mocking Aron's struggle. His eyes were sharp, but they carried no malice. Only purpose.
Aron gritted his teeth. He refused to give up. His spirit flared, pushing him to stand. The moment he regained his footing, however, the man vanished.
"What—?"
Before Aron could react, he sensed movement behind him. He swung his blade around in desperation. The man dodged with ease, stepping aside like water flowing past stone. A heavy punch struck Aron's face, sending him crashing to the ground.
White flashes filled his vision. His cheek throbbed in pain, swelling instantly. He could barely move. The fight was over before it had even begun.
The man loomed above him, unshaken, unscarred. He was impossibly strong. Aron's consciousness slipped.
When he opened his eyes again, he panicked. He sat up quickly, his heart pounding. His hand shot to his cheek—smooth, unbruised. He lifted his shirt—no injury, no pain.he was pretty sure the man killed him.
"What was that place?" he whispered. "Was it just… a dream?"
His eyes fell on something nearby. The book. The same book from the garden, lying closed by his side. His hands trembled as he picked it up. He flipped the pages—there it was again.
Balance.
Exactly as he had read it before. Goosebumps crawled up his skin. The man from his dream, the fight, the words—all of it had followed him into reality.
Questions raced through his head. How? Why? Who was that man? And why him?
Trying to steady his mind, Aron rose. He washed his face, freshened himself, and prepared a simple meal—warm bread, fruits, and milk. It grounded him, reminded him that he was still alive, still himself. He ate quickly, restless. The sky outside had only just begun to lighten. No one else was awake.
He decided to walk.
The forest paths he had crossed a hundred times before felt different now, as if they too carried hidden secrets. After some struggle, he reached the lake. Mountains surrounded it, standing tall like guardians. A wooden bench rested by the shore, weathered and half-rusted with algae.
Aron knelt, dipping his hand into the water. The ripples spread calmly, as though nature itself acknowledged his presence.
"Training…" he whispered. "Just how great was Norm?"
He leaned back against the bench, his eyes drifting upward. The sky painted itself with colors of dawn. Sunlight touched the lake, scattering reflections of gold across the green mountains and trees. For once, Aron felt peace.
Here, nature was his closest friend.
He closed his eyes, resting quietly, before finally standing. His thoughts returned to his duties. "Let's check the field," he murmured.
When he arrived, his heart filled with pride. The fields stretched before him, glowing fresh from the drizzle earlier. Every stalk, every plant reflected the hard work of many hands, not just his own. The drainage system they had built worked perfectly, protecting the soil from rain and drought alike.
Aron walked gently among the rows, brushing the plants with care. He noticed ants climbing along the stems. Smiling faintly, he scooped them up and placed them back onto the earth.
Somewhere far away, however, another story unfolded.
A figure cloaked in black reached the city of training. He climbed silently, perching atop the castle like a shadow. His gaze scanned the streets below. Children sparred, their blades clashing, their laughter echoing. Among them, a boy with reddish-brown hair easily bested another.
The figure observed, but his eyes carried no interest in the boy. He was searching for someone else. The one he truly wanted was not there.
Not yet.