That day, gray clouds hung over the Silent Vale, as if the heavens knew tragedy still lingered.
The village slowly healed. Children once more ran along the dikes, adults bent to their fields, as if the massacre had been nothing but a nightmare. But for Ains, the nightmare never ended.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it—the youth's sword. A slash that split the air, steps light yet unshakable, a cold gaze that looked at men like insects. It haunted him.
Even while drawing water or peeling cassava beside his mother, his hand would move unconsciously, as though gripping a blade. The villagers whispered that he was strange, but Ains didn't care. To him, that single strike was worth more than every lesson nature had ever given.
At dawn, by the river, he gripped only a branch. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and recalled the movement.
"The sword came down, then curved… mid-swing the wrist twisted, the foot shifted half a step…"
He tried. The branch snapped. Again. Five times. Ten. Twenty. Each failure honed him. Each attempt drew him closer to the image etched in his mind.
Days turned to weeks. Morning at the river, noon in the fields, night in the yard—always repeating that one strike. Sometimes he forwent sleep, standing still for hours, mimicking the stance of the mysterious youth.
To others, he was only a boy playing with sticks. But in his mind, he was dissecting a secret.
A month passed. His small body now moved with startling grace. When the branch swung, the air hissed, pressure faint but real, as if the sword's shadow had come alive.
Perhaps if the seventeen-year-old youth had seen, he would have been shocked—for Ains, at just five years old, without teacher, manual, or Qi, had already grasped sixty percent of the technique.
Yet Ains knew his limits. His strikes were beautiful, but empty. "This movement… it looks right, but it is hollow. There is no power."
He remembered the Blood Claws falling beneath a single stroke. His branch would only break. His body, too.
"What did he have? Why was his blade so heavy, even when it moved so lightly?"
He didn't know Qi, or dantian, or cultivation. He was only a child—with willpower, and endless curiosity.
That night, beneath a pale moon, Ains sat with the branch across his lap. His parents slept, the fields sang with crickets.
"If I keep practicing, maybe one day I can mimic every strike… but mimicry isn't enough. I must find the secret. I must make the sword alive."
In his eyes, the branch was no longer wood, but a shining sword.
Days became weeks, weeks became months. The villagers forgot their fear. But Ains did not.
When other children played, he trained.
When adults plowed, he trained.
When the village slept, he still trained.
His body bruised, his palms blistered, his knees bloodied. But his eyes never dimmed.
And the more he trained, the more he understood—this strike was only a door. Beyond it lay a world far larger than he had ever known.
One night, his branch sliced the river and sent water leaping higher than before. He froze, startled.
"…Was that… a glimpse of its secret?"
He smiled faintly. Even without Qi, without guidance, he had touched the shadow of true power.
But he also knew—if the Blood Claws returned, he would still be powerless.
Under the moonlight, he clenched his tiny fist.
"I will keep learning. I will keep searching. Until one day… my sword moves like his. And beyond."
The night wind whispered, the river shimmered. In that small valley, a five-year-old boy danced with a branch—chasing the shadow of a sword that one day could shake the world.