Chapter 2 - Chapter 2 — Sparks in the Dust

Eren was only a year old when he first realized he was alive. Not in the way all children are, drifting between sleep and color and sound. No — he remembered noticing things. Remembered the shape of the wind. The weight of wood. The way people smiled when they thought no one was watching. His father called him sharp-eyed. His mother just kissed his forehead and called him her "green-eyed ghost." Because he rarely cried. Rarely screamed. He simply watched. And when he could stand on his own, he reached for a wooden sword. The toy was old — carved roughly from seaborne driftwood, its handle wrapped in faded cloth. His father had once swung it as a boy, and now Eren gripped it with both tiny hands, wobbling on unsteady feet, mimicking the motions his father showed him each morning. Slashes. Stabs. Steps forward. Steps back. He barely came up past his father's knee, but every morning, he trained. One afternoon, a boy from the village — Verren, barely four — challenged him to a "duel." The older boy grinned and bounced on his toes, already holding a better-carved sword, the edge dulled for safety. Eren raised his own without a word. At first, it wasn't even close. Verren's strikes were stronger, faster, more practiced. Eren backed up, fumbled, slipped on the dirt. He barely blocked the blows in time. A final swing from Verren came fast, aiming for Eren's side — meant to end the game. But then — it happened. The world shimmered. Not loud. Not bright. Just a blink — a shift — a glitch. Eren's body moved before the hit landed, slipping not just to the side, but through Verren's wooden blade. It didn't make sense. The blade passed through his chest like it struck mist. And in the same motion, Eren's own sword came down — thwack — right onto Verren's forehead. The older boy yelped and fell backwards into the dirt, tears welling up in shock. Eren just stood there, blinking. His father had seen everything. He walked over slowly, crouched beside his son. "How… how did you do that?" he asked, voice low, not angry — just stunned. Eren looked up, unsure. "I don't know." He meant it. The energy that had twisted around him — it was gone. Like a match that burned out before he could see the flame. No matter how many times he tried after that, he couldn't do it again. But something inside him remembered. And that was enough. The next weeks passed in quiet rhythm. His father trained him more seriously now. Light footwork, breathing exercises, proper balance. Even if Eren was small, his father said, he could be faster, smarter, better. "You'll be the best swordsman this island's ever seen," he'd say, ruffling his hair. "You'll protect people. Just like your old man." Eren smiled when he said that. He liked that dream. On the morning of his third birthday, the sea breeze was cool and the sky a clean blue. His mother knelt beside him, packing small cloth bags with herbs and dried goods. She looked up and brushed his hair from his face. "Eren," she said, "I need to go to the mainlands soon — to the capital." "Why?" he asked, sword toy in hand. "There are things we can't grow here. Things we need. Medicines, spices. Books." "Books?" he perked up. She smiled. "Yes. I'll bring you one, if you promise to behave." "Can I come?" he asked. She hesitated. Then nodded. "If your father agrees. And if you promise to listen." Eren nodded so hard he nearly fell over. That night, while the house slept and the sea whispered softly outside, Eren sat by the candlelight, flipping through a borrowed book — thin, faded, but magical to him. Its title was simple: "The Roots of Ijon." Inside, he read stories of the great tree that spread across all reality. Of Paths — invisible forces that chose people, guided them, grew with them. Each path was unique. Fire. Wind. Shadow. Illusion. Time. But only those who understood their Path could grow stronger. And to understand, one had to walk inward — through meditation. Stillness. Thought. To see your own Tree of Ijon, you had to close your eyes. Still your body. And think only of your Path's name. Eren placed a hand on his chest. He didn't know what his Path was called. But something in him whispered: Reality. He closed his eyes and tried. Just once. For a moment, he saw only darkness. Then a single branch, twisting and unfinished, blinked into view. It shimmered — unstable — like it didn't belong. But it was his. And that was all he needed.