Two years had passed since that dark night. Time flowed swiftly, like a river that never ceased.
Ains was now seven years old. Yet anyone who looked at him would find it hard to believe he was still a child. His gaze was sharp, calm—far too mature for his age. Even the way he walked, the way he bowed his head, carried a weight that set him apart.
While other children still chased butterflies through the fields, Ains was often alone. By the riverbank, or in the bamboo grove, his small body moved with a long branch in hand—dancing to a rhythm only he could hear.
His parents, Reno and Lira, grew older with each season. Reno's back bent from endless days in the forest, carrying firewood. Lira's fingers grew calloused and scarred from weaving mats late into the night.
But heavier than their tired bodies was the fear they carried whenever they looked at their son.
Oftentimes, after Ains had fallen asleep, they sat together outside under the flicker of a single torch.
"I'm afraid, Lira," Reno whispered. "Our boy… he isn't ordinary anymore."
Tears welled in Lira's eyes. "I've seen him train. The branch in his hands moved like a true sword. The wind stirred, the leaves lifted, and the sound alone made my skin crawl. Reno… his movements are like that youth's. No… even more refined."
Reno's jaw tightened. "Yes. But what are we? Just villagers. We can't give him what he needs. He belongs to a bigger stage, not this valley."
They fell silent. To them, Ains was both pride and fear.
And Ains knew. Though his parents never spoke of it, he could feel their unease. He also knew in his heart—he could not remain in this valley forever.
A year ago, he had realized something.
While training, his branch suddenly whistled through the air, scattering leaves in every direction. Even his mother's hair shifted as she worked. Reno, returning home, froze at the sight—his son's silhouette overlapping with the memory of that mysterious swordsman. Yet this movement was different. Softer, sharper, more complete.
Since then, Reno and Lira had not known peace.
But Ains himself knew something was still missing.
"My movement… is only a shadow. His sword was alive. Mine is still dead."
He remembered the massacre, the strike that felled dozens in a breath. He could mimic its form, but not its essence. Something deeper eluded him.
Clues came from wandering merchants who passed through the village. While helping his father in the marketplace, Ains overheard their tales:
Of the Northern Star Sword Sect, whose disciples' blades flashed like lightning.
Of the Frozen Mountain Sect, whose palms could freeze rivers.
Of the Thousand Shadows Sect, whose enemies could not tell illusion from reality.
Ains's eyes lit with every name. "That youth… was he one of them?"
That night, he sat by the river, moonlight rippling across the water. Each swing of his branch carried a single question: How do I reach them?
Another evening, in the bamboo grove, his branch cut the air so sharply that birds scattered. He lowered it, chest steady, eyes on the burning sky.
"I'm only seven. But I've been here too long. If I stay, I'll remain nothing but another man's shadow. But if I leave… maybe I'll find the secret."
He closed his eyes, listening to the wind rustle through the bamboo. Inside, another voice whispered clearer:
"One day, I will leave this Silent Vale. One day, I will stand upon the great stage. And when that day comes… my sword will outshine them all."
Reno and Lira could not see what raged within their son. They saw only a boy who seemed to drift further from childhood with each passing day. Yet within their fear, there was a flicker of hope—that the vast world beyond might open a path for him.
That night, beneath the pale moon, Ains danced once more with his branch. His strikes were sharp, the wind bowed, his shadow merged with the stars.
For the first time, he no longer saw himself as a poor village boy—but as a swordsman in the making, whose name might one day shake all of Xyvarra.