The road to Far Snow City was no easy journey. Dense forests blocked the path, slippery rocks threatened each step, and the nights echoed with wolves' howls. Ains walked alone, carrying only a small bag, a piece of dry bread, and the long branch that had become his companion.
His body was thin, only seven years old. But his resolve was harder than stone. Whenever fatigue struck, he remembered the cold gaze of the swordsman who had once slaughtered the Blood Claws. That shadow of a blade became his torch in the dark, urging him forward.
On the third day, mist veiled the dirt road. Ahead, a wooden cart was stopped, surrounded by rough men. From inside came muffled sobs—women and children.
Ains froze. His heart pounded.
One man turned, spotting the boy alone. He sneered. "Look at this—street brat. Thin, but a decent face. We could sell him too."
Laughter rang out.
"Slave traders," Ains muttered, eyes narrowing.
The man stepped forward, hand on his rusted sword. "Come with us, boy. You'll eat well, sleep well—right after we sell you. Hahaha!"
Ains gripped his branch. His hands trembled, but his eyes stayed firm.
"I'm not your slave. If you come closer… I'll fight."
The bandits roared with laughter. "Hear that? The brat wants to fight—with a stick!"
One man lunged, sword raised. "Let's break his legs first!"
Ains inhaled sharply. The movements of nature flashed in his mind—the crane, the snake, the squirrel—and the shadow of that mysterious sword.
His foot slid half a step. His branch slashed.
CRACK!
The sword was knocked aside, blood dripping from the man's hand. He howled in pain.
The others' laughter died. "What…? This brat can block?!"
Ains didn't wait. He moved forward, the crane's strike. His branch smashed into the man's knee. The bandit collapsed screaming.
Four more rushed him.
Steel clashed. Ains darted back, nimble as a squirrel. A blade cut the air where he'd stood. He dropped low, twisting like a snake, spinning with his branch.
Two weapons struck his branch at once. The vibration stung his arms, but he gritted his teeth. Don't stop.
A blade thrust from the side. Ains ducked, thrusting his branch forward—THUD! The man doubled over, gasping, and crumpled.
Two more charged. Ains unleashed the strike he had practiced a thousand times—the swordsman's cut. From above to the side, wrist turning, foot sliding half a step.
WHOOSH!
One weapon flew from its owner's hand, another man's shoulder split with a sharp cry.
The last bandit stumbled back, pale. "This… this isn't a child… he's a demon."
Then their leader stepped forward—a hulking brute wielding an iron whip. "Cowards! He's just a boy! I'll finish this."
The whip cracked through the air—WHIPPPP!
Ains leapt aside, but the tip lashed his shoulder.
"AAAH!" He hit the ground, skin burning raw.
Cheers erupted. The leader sneered. "Now you see the real world, brat! Your stick is worthless!"
Ains rose slowly, blood trickling down. His breathing ragged, but his eyes still ablaze.
"I can't lose. If I lose, I'll be a slave. I'll lose my path. No—I must win."
The brute snarled. "With that tiny body?"
The whip lashed again.
This time Ains charged. He slid low, body coiling like a snake, then spun.
His branch struck—CRACK!
The iron whip snapped in two.
Gasps filled the air.
With a sharp cry, Ains struck again. His branch slammed into the brute's chest. The giant staggered, then toppled.
Silence.
One by one, the bandits fled.
Ains stood trembling, gasping for air. His chest ached, his shoulder burned, but his grip on the branch never faltered.
From the cart came cries again. He rushed over, breaking the wooden lock. Inside, women and children stared wide-eyed, wrists bound.
"You're… free now," Ains said hoarsely.
A woman whispered, eyes wide, "Who… are you?"
Ains lowered his head. "I'm… just a boy from the Silent Vale."
The sun dipped low, casting red-gold light on the bloodstained earth. Ains walked away slowly, branch in hand, shoulder bleeding, but eyes sharper than ever.
For the first time, he had fought men. For the first time, he had felt the sting of wounds—and the taste of victory.
His steps wavered. He glanced back once at the blood-streaked ground, chest heavy. He whispered to himself:
"This is only the beginning… if I want strength, I must endure all of this."
Beneath the crimson dusk, Ains walked on. His body wounded, but the fire in his heart had only just been lit.