The skies above the Silent Vale were bright that day, unusually clear. A soft breeze carried the scent of wildflowers across the fields. Ains was training in the bamboo grove when an unfamiliar voice called out:
"For a village boy, your strikes are far too sharp."
He froze. From the trees emerged a middle-aged man in ragged clothes, pushing a small cart of goods. His face was lined with age, but his eyes held the sharpness of long journeys.
"I'm a wandering merchant," he said with a faint smile. "Name's Taren. I've seen many sword forms in my travels. And your slash just now… not far from a sect disciple's."
Ains blinked. "Sect?"
Taren studied him, then nodded. "You've never heard? Beyond this valley lies a vast world. Great sects rule over Xyvarra. And as it happens…" his voice dropped, almost conspiratorial, "…in a month, the Frozen Mountain Sect will recruit new disciples. In the Far Snow City, three days' journey north."
Ains's eyes widened. "The Frozen Mountain Sect…?"
"Yes," Taren said lightly. "They are known for beauty and coldness alike. Their techniques weave snow and ice into weapons. It's said that a gifted disciple can freeze a river with a single breath."
Ains trembled—not in fear, but in longing.
That night, he sat before his home, his training branch resting at his side. "If such sects exist… and their gates are open… isn't this my path? I can't remain a shadow forever. I must seek the true essence of the sword."
Yet whenever he thought of his parents, his chest grew heavy.
The next evening, after a simple meal, he sat cross-legged before Reno and Lira. His voice was calm, but unshakable.
"I met a merchant. He said the Frozen Mountain Sect will recruit disciples in one month. I… I want to go."
Silence. The torch on the wall flickered.
Reno's face tightened, his voice bitter. "Ains, you're seven years old. How could you walk the world alone? Out there… it's not like your dreams."
Lira grasped his hands, tears in her eyes. "Ains… you're extraordinary, more than other children. But we're still your parents. We're afraid. We can't bear the thought of losing you out there."
Guilt gnawed at him, but his resolve stood firm. "Father, Mother… I love you. But I can't stay here. I once saw a man erase dozens of lives with a single sword. If I remain, I'll always be someone's shadow. I… I have to try."
Reno's eyes glistened. He placed a rough hand on his son's head. "Then go. But promise us one thing."
"What is it, Father?"
"That you'll return. Alive."
Lira pulled him into her arms, her body trembling. "Never forget your home, Ains. Whatever happens out there, you'll always have a place to come back to."
Ains swallowed his tears. "I promise, Mother. I'll return."
A month later, dawn bathed the valley in gold. Mist clung to the fields as Ains stood before his home, a small bundle slung across his back—dry bread, a few bronze coins, and the long branch that had become part of him.
Reno's hand rested heavy on his shoulder, pride veiling sorrow. Lira's eyes were swollen from a sleepless night.
"Go, Ains," Reno whispered. "Show the world who you are. But never lose your heart."
Ains bowed deeply. Then, with small yet steady steps, he walked away.
Behind him, his parents watched as their son's figure faded into the morning mist.
To the Silent Vale, Ains was only a village boy who left.
But to himself—this was the first step onto a road far greater, a world that would test whether his childhood vow could endure.