My father was the kind of man who made the whole room feel smaller when he walked in. His red hair caught the morning light, his sharp crimson eyes seemed to see through everything, and his bronzed skin carried the marks of years of training. Even though he wore old, faded robes, he carried himself with the quiet strength of someone who didn't need fine clothes to command respect.
Everyone in the city knew his name—one of the strongest martial artists alive. But to me, he was just Father. And I was his only son, the one expected to carry on the Tiger Clan's name.
My older sister always felt like the unreachable star in our family. With her long black hair and strange violet eyes, she was already admired by teachers and elders alike. She was called a prodigy, someone born for greatness. She wore the silken robes of our clan effortlessly, as though she had been born to shine. Compared to her, I often wondered if I would ever be more than her shadow.
Mother was different. She was soft where Father was stern, gentle where he was unyielding. Her words were never sharp, never demanding, and in her presence, the weight pressing on my shoulders always felt a little lighter.
And then there was the youngest—my sibling, pale and fragile, with dark eyes and the same red hair Father and I shared. They were quiet, often clinging to Mother's sleeve, too young to understand the burdens the rest of us carried. But whenever I looked at them, I felt a simple truth: I wanted to protect them. No matter what.
Still, in the quiet moments, I sometimes felt something strange—like a scar on my soul. It wasn't a memory I could clearly recall, just a heaviness in my chest, as if I had lived through a tragedy I couldn't put into words. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just me. But it never left me.
Five years passed quickly, and one morning, Father called me to the training grounds.
The air was cool, the grass wet with dew. The sun had just begun to rise, painting the sky in soft gold. Father stood waiting, tall and steady, holding a wooden practice sword.
"Fan Ling," he said, looking directly into me with those piercing eyes. "Today, you begin."
He placed the sword in my hands. It felt heavy—far too heavy for a boy my size. My fingers struggled to wrap around it, my arms trembling as I tried to lift it properly.
"Our swordsmanship is not just about fighting," Father said. His voice was low, steady, like steel scraping against stone. "It is who we are. It is our blood, our honor. From father to son, it has always been passed down. And now, it is your turn."
I nodded, though my chest felt tight. I didn't want to disappoint him.
Then his voice grew sharper.
"Forge your heart like metal. Harden it. If you cannot harden your heart, then you cannot protect your mother, your sister… or this family."
The words hit me harder than the weight of the sword. My hands shook—not just from effort, but from fear. I was only a child, and yet in that moment, I understood what he was truly asking: to grow up faster than I was ready for.
I swallowed hard and lifted the sword again. My arms ached, but I didn't let go.
That morning, I wasn't just a boy anymore.
I was my father's son.