The morning rose softly, pale light spilling across the clearing. The old man was outside the cabin, chopping wood with calm precision. Ruth stirred from his sleep and stepped out, watching silently as each swing of the axe landed clean and steady. When the old man noticed him, he paused and set the axe aside.
"So, you're awake," he said, his voice carrying the roughness of early morning. "Good. Then it's time we begin your training—to learn how to wield a sword."
The old man reached inside the cabin and returned with a wooden sword, its surface smooth from years of use. He handed it to Ruth, the weight unfamiliar but balanced in his grip.
"Take it," the old man said. "Now—show me your stance."
Ruth hesitated for a moment, then planted his feet the way he thought seemed right. The old man watched quietly, his sharp eyes noting every mistake, every tremor in the boy's posture.
"You're weak," the old man said plainly, his tone neither cruel nor kind—just honest. "And that isn't wrong. Everyone begins there. But if you wish to stand in this world, you'll have to become strong."
Ruth lowered his eyes slightly, gripping the wooden sword tighter.
"The training won't be easy," the old man continued. "It'll be harsh, relentless—but it's the only way forward."
The old man began listing the tasks in a steady, unyielding tone. "From today onward, you'll run ten miles every morning before sunrise. After that, you'll carry two water buckets balanced on a bamboo pole across your shoulders. You'll walk to the nearest river—two miles from here—fill them, and bring them back without spilling a drop."
Ruth's eyes widened slightly at the thought, but the old man's expression didn't waver.
"This is how you'll build your body," he said. "Discipline first—strength will follow."
And so began his daily routine. Every dawn, Ruth rose before the sun, his body still aching from the day before. He ran through the mist-covered forest trails, breath ragged, feet pounding against the earth. When he returned, he lifted the bamboo pole onto his shoulders, the weight of the water buckets biting into his skin as he made the long walk to the river and back.
At first, it was difficult. His legs burned, his shoulders ached, and every breath felt like fire in his chest. Many times, he stumbled, spilling water or collapsing halfway through the run. But he never stopped.
Days turned into weeks, and soon his body began to adapt. His steps grew steadier, his breathing stronger. The pain was still there, but it no longer broke him—it fueled him.
The old man occasionally sparred with him, testing his progress. At first, Ruth could barely block a single strike, his wooden sword shaking with each clash. But as time passed, his movements grew sharper, more focused.
Their training became more than lessons in combat—it became a bond. Between every swing, every bruise, and every word of guidance, something unspoken formed between them. They grew together, not just as teacher and student, but as something closer—like family.
Ruth grew more comfortable around the old man. The silence that once lingered between them began to fade, replaced by quiet conversations during their breaks. In his free time, Ruth would sit beside the hearth, listening as the old man spoke of herbs, survival, and the way of the sword.
Each word felt like a small lesson—not just in skill, but in life itself. Ruth asked questions now and then, his voice still soft but no longer afraid. The old man would answer patiently, sometimes with a faint smile tugging at his lips.
And as the days passed, their training grew harder and more demanding. The old man no longer held back—each session pushed Ruth to his limits. The strikes came faster, the runs longer, the tasks heavier.
Ruth's body bore the marks of effort—bruises, cuts, and calloused hands—but his eyes carried something new: determination. The old man noticed it, that quiet fire burning where fear once lived, and he knew the boy was changing.
One day, during a short break between sparring sessions, Ruth finally asked the question that had been building inside him.
"Old man… who are you, really?" Ruth said quietly. "Why do you move like that? You're the best swordsman I've ever seen. And I still don't know your name."
The old man lowered his wooden sword, his expression turning unreadable. For a long moment, he simply looked at the boy—measuring the question, weighing something within himself.
"You don't need to know about me," he said at last, his tone even. "Not yet."
Ruth waited, but the old man's gaze drifted toward the forest, distant and heavy with things unsaid.
"When the time comes," he continued, "you'll understand everything. Until then, a name won't change anything."
He turned away, picking up the axe resting beside the stump.
"Call me however you wish," he said. "It doesn't matter."
Ruth nodded slowly. He wanted answers, but he could see the old man had no intention of giving them.
"…Then I'll stick with calling you old man," he said.
The old man gave a faint exhale—something between amusement and resignation.
"As you wish," he murmured. "Now pick up your sword. We're not done yet."
After a while, the day's training finally wore down. The sun hung low behind the treetops, its fading light casting long shadows across the clearing. Ruth's breaths came sharp and uneven, sweat dripping down his chin as he steadied his stance for yet another strike.
The old man watched him for a moment, then lifted a hand.
"That's enough for today," he said.
Ruth lowered his wooden sword, shoulders rising and falling as exhaustion settled into his bones. The old man's voice carried no disappointment—just a simple acknowledgement that the boy had pushed himself far enough for one day.
"Go wash up," the old man added, turning toward the cabin. "Your body needs rest as much as it needs training."
Ruth nodded, grateful for the reprieve, though part of him still wished he could do more.
Ruth walked off toward the river, vanishing into the trees.
The old man watched him go, expression unreadable. When the clearing finally fell quiet, he let out a low breath.
"…Who am I?"
"I wonder."
He turned away, the question hanging in the air like a shadow that refused to move.