The meeting beneath the crescent moon was only the beginning of a second birth. The young man followed the hooded figure through winding mountain paths until they reached a hidden camp, cradled in the embrace of stone and silence. It felt less like a refuge and more like a crucible. Here, in this place carved by time itself, his past was extinguished, and only a future forged of sweat, pain, and blood awaited.
Faces in the Dark
He was not alone. Dozens of others trained there—each scarred, hardened, or silently battling their own demons. On his first day, Saif al-Din, a sharp-eyed youth, approached as the stranger struggled to lift a training blade. With a smirk, he sneered:
> "You look like a child who's lost his toy. Do you think trembling hands will make you one of us?"
The young man swallowed his anger but replied, voice unsteady yet resolute:
> "I may be weak now… but I did not come here to stay that way."
Then there was Lian, whose gaze was sharp but whose heart proved far gentler. When he fell, bruised and breathless, failing to climb the training wall, she stood beside him and said softly:
> "Don't see the peak as your enemy. See it as a mirror… the higher you climb, the clearer you'll see yourself."
Her words struck deeper than scorn or laughter ever could.
The Master's Wisdom
The hooded man who had brought him here remained the most enigmatic. He never gave his name, and none dared ask. His presence alone carried the weight of command, and his words, though few, cut like blades.
One night, after a grueling day, the young man sat by the fire, drenched in sweat. The master's voice broke the silence:
> Young Man: "I'm not like them… every step feels like my last."
Master: "We all fall. The difference is that some rise, and some remain face-down in the mud. Which one will you be?"
On another day, after failing again and again with the hidden blade, the youth hurled it to the ground in anger. The master bent, retrieved it, and placed it back into his palm.
> "Steel does not make the killer. The hand that believes in what it holds gives the weapon life. Trust yourself first, and the blade will follow."
The words burned like embers pressed into his chest, painful yet unforgettable.
A Year of Fire and Stone
The months dragged on, filled with bleeding fingers from mountain climbs, bruises from sparring, and sleepless nights teetering on the edge of despair. Slowly, though, the laughter turned to silence, and silence into a grudging respect.
Then came the Leap of Faith. From the top of a stone tower, he looked down at the void below, his legs trembling. The master stood beside him, voice steady as the wind:
> "Life itself is a fall. But only a few choose to leap willingly."
Without hesitation, the master jumped first, disappearing into the straw below. Alone with his fear, the youth stood frozen… then he leapt. And in the rush of wind, he discovered that the true terror was never in the fall, but in the hesitation before it.
The New Name
At last, after nearly a year, the camp gathered in solemn assembly. The young man climbed the tower once more, the mountain air cutting across his face. The master's voice rang out:
> "If you wish to be one of us, bury your past. Choose a name born of this moment."
The silence was absolute, broken only by his heartbeat. He lifted his eyes to the stars and, with a voice steadier than it had ever been, declared:
> "My name is… Arkan."
Then he spread his arms and leapt. This was his final Leap of Faith, not into straw alone, but into a new life. When he rose, the camp erupted in cheers. The master placed the hidden blade in his hand and proclaimed:
> "Today you are no longer a stranger. Today, you are one of us."
Torches flared, chants echoed against the cliffs, and in that moment the boy from another world was gone. The nameless stranger had died, and Arkan was born: child of shadows, disciple of the Creed.
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