The Garden of ?
Chapter four:
Training and life 2:
Two years passed, and the little boy who once stumbled with a stick had changed a lot. Leif was eight now, taller, sharper, and his blue eyes held a seriousness beyond his age. His white hair was longer, sometimes falling into his face while he trained, but he never bothered pushing it back. He had grown used to the rhythm of training, and his body was no longer soft like before. His legs were quicker, his arms stronger, and his heart more determined.
Airen noticed it first. One morning, while watching Leif hold his stance under the rising sun, Airen crossed his arms and gave the smallest smile. "You're not just a boy swinging sticks anymore. You're starting to understand." Leif didn't reply, but inside, those words burned bright. His father rarely praised him, so when he did, it felt like a reward greater than anything else, and his father's love for him only grew stronger with every passing day.
Training was harder now. Airen no longer allowed Leif to stop after a few swings. He made him repeat movements hundreds of times. Forward step, swing, back step, block, repeat. Leif's body would ache, sweat soaking his clothes, but he never quit. Each drop of sweat felt like proof that he was getting closer to his goal.
Sometimes, when he couldn't go on, Ferexia's voice would echo in his mind. "Strength is not just in the body, Leif. It is also in the heart." Those words gave him the push to finish his father's drills.
But training wasn't just about the body anymore. Ferexia started teaching him how to sense Spiritflow properly. At first, Leif felt nothing. He sat under the tree, closing his eyes like she asked, but all he felt was the wind. "That is it," she said softly. "The wind is also a spirit." He frowned. "But it just feels like air." She laughed, shaking her head. "Then you are already sensing it without realizing."
Little by little, he began to notice. The way the breeze brushed against his skin felt different when he focused. The warmth of fire during winter carried something more than heat. The sound of water in the river felt alive. Leif couldn't control it yet, but he began to believe his mother's words—that the world itself was speaking to him.
By now, his wooden sword had been replaced with a real practice blade, blunt but heavier. The first time he held it, his arms trembled. He almost dropped it, and Airen raised an eyebrow. "If you can't hold it, you can't wield it." That night, Leif lay awake staring at the ceiling. His hands ached, but he promised himself he would not be weak.
Weeks later, the trembling stopped. He carried the sword everywhere, even when his friends teased him. Some of them laughed, saying, "You're acting like a grown man already." Leif didn't care. He wasn't training to impress them. He was training for something he couldn't yet name, but he felt it burning inside him.
At nine, his routine grew tougher. Airen woke him before dawn to run laps around the fields. The air was cold, and his feet felt heavy, but he kept running. After that came sword drills, then balance training, then sparring. Airen didn't go easy on him. Their wooden swords clashed, and even though his father held back, Leif often ended up on the ground, gasping for breath. "Get up," Airen would say. "The fight isn't over until you can't stand."
Each time, Leif forced himself back to his feet. Even when his body screamed to stop, his spirit refused. Slowly, he began lasting longer against his father. Sometimes, he even managed to land a hit, though Airen's block always came right after. Still, those small victories meant everything.
Ferexia's lessons grew deeper too. She began teaching him meditation, longer and harder than before. Leif hated sitting still for hours, but he tried. Sometimes, when his concentration was strong, he felt something stir inside him, like a faint pulse of energy that wasn't just his own. The first time it happened, he gasped and opened his eyes, breaking the moment. Ferexia only smiled. "You felt it, didn't you?" He nodded slowly. That night, he couldn't sleep from excitement.
Not every day was victory. There were failures too. Some days, his sword felt heavy no matter how hard he tried. Some days, he couldn't sense anything during meditation. Once, after losing badly in sparring, he threw his sword aside and shouted, "I'll never be strong enough!" Airen stood silent for a while, then picked up the sword and pressed it back into his son's hands. "Strength isn't about winning every time. It's about never giving up."
Those words stayed with Leif. He began to see training differently. Pain, failure, exhaustion—they weren't enemies, they were part of the path.
By the time he turned ten, the changes in him were clear. His body was leaner, muscles beginning to show from years of drills. His movements were quicker, sharper, more precise. His swings no longer looked like a child's play. Villagers sometimes stopped to watch him train, whispering among themselves about the young boy who worked like a grown warrior.
Inside, Leif felt the difference too. When he meditated now, he could sometimes sense Spiritflow more clearly, like faint whispers surrounding him. The wind carried voices he couldn't fully understand, but he knew they were there. Fire, water, earth—they felt alive. He couldn't control them yet, but he was closer than before.
One evening, as the sun set and painted the sky orange, Leif sparred with his father again. Their wooden blades clashed in rhythm. This time, Leif lasted longer than ever before. His feet moved with confidence, his strikes faster, his defense sharper. Finally, with a burst of determination, he slipped past his father's guard and tapped his chest. For a moment, silence filled the yard. Airen looked at him, then gave the smallest nod. "Good."
Leif's chest swelled with pride, not because he had landed a hit, but because his father had acknowledged it. That night, Ferexia hugged him tightly. "You're growing fast, my son."
As he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, Leif thought of everything—the sweat, the failures, the small victories, the warmth of his family, the whispers of spirits. He was still a child, but he knew this was only the beginning. His journey was long, and he would walk it no matter how hard it became.
At ten years old, Leif whispered to himself the same words he had spoken years ago, but this time with stronger resolve.
"I'll become strong."
And this time, he truly believed it.
The next day......…
The wooden blades clashed again, the sharp crack echoing in the little training yard behind their house. The spring sun was warm, and a light breeze carried the smell of flowers that had just begun to bloom. Leif's white hair stuck slightly to his forehead from sweat as he darted forward, his small body moving quicker than it had a few months ago. His blue eyes gleamed with determination as he swung with all the strength his arms could carry. For a moment, Airen seemed untouchable, blocking every strike with ease. But then, just for a heartbeat, Leif slipped through his guard. The wooden blade grazed his father's arm. It wasn't much, just a touch, but it was enough.
Leif froze, staring wide-eyed. Then his face broke into a huge grin. "Father, I'll become very strong! See—I landed a hit on you!" His voice carried the confidence of a boy who finally felt the results of his hard work. Airen blinked in surprise, then chuckled, lowering his sword and shaking his head in disbelief. "So you did…" he muttered, his tone warm despite trying to sound serious.
Just then, Ferexia stepped into the yard, holding a basket of herbs she had been gathering. She smiled, her eyes soft with pride. "That's right, my boy," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "One day, you'll be stronger than even your father." Airen glanced at her, pretending to be offended, which made Leif laugh loudly. Soon all three of them were laughing together, their joy filling the fresh spring air.
That night, the house was quiet except for the soft sound of crickets outside and the steady rhythm of Leif's breathing as he slept curled beneath his blanket. The day's training had drained him, and his small hand still rested loosely as if clutching an invisible sword even in dreams. Ferexia sat beside the low table, brushing her hair out of her face, her eyes glancing toward the small figure in the corner of the room. "Honey," she said softly, her voice breaking the silence, "you're far too hard on him during training. The way you scold him… it happens every day. He's only a child, Airen." Her words carried no anger, only worry, like a mother trying to shield her son even when she knew she couldn't walk his path for him.
Airen leaned against the wooden wall, arms crossed, his expression heavy in the flicker of lamplight. For a moment he didn't answer, his gaze fixed on Leif's sleeping form. Finally, he spoke, his voice low. "Fei… I know. But I can't help it. I don't want Lei to end up like my brother." His eyes softened, but there was a shadow behind them, an old wound that never fully healed. "My brother's talent was greater than mine. Everyone praised him, everyone believed he'd rise higher than anyone else. But that talent made him overconfident. He rushed ahead too quickly, thought himself untouchable. And then…" Airen's words trailed off, but Ferexia didn't need him to finish. She had heard the story before—the battle his brother never returned from.
Airen let out a slow breath, his eyes closing briefly. "Our son… he wants this path. I see it in the way he looks at me, in the way he holds the sword. But I don't want him to face the same dangers. Not yet. Not so soon." His hand clenched slightly at his side. Then he opened his eyes and looked at Ferexia, the stern warrior replaced for a moment by a father's quiet pain. "But every time I think about saying no… every time I see those eyes of his, filled with fire and hope… I can't bring myself to stop him."
Ferexia's expression softened, her lips curving in a faint, understanding smile as she reached across the table to place her hand on his. The lamplight flickered between them, their son sleeping peacefully in the corner, unaware of the fears and love that weighed on his parents' hearts.