Morning light spilled across the backyard like liquid gold.
Kenji stood barefoot on the packed earth, his breath slow and steady, both hands gripping the long weapon his grandfather had entrusted to him. The blade gleamed faintly, its surface dark yet polished, etched with patterns that seemed to shift subtly when viewed from different angles.
He moved.
A horizontal slash—clean, controlled.
A step forward, weight shifting smoothly into a thrust.
Then a pivot, the weapon reversing orientation as his grip adjusted, transforming seamlessly from sword form into spear form. The shaft extended naturally under his hands, the tip whistling softly as it cut through the air.
Kenji stopped, exhaled, and reset his stance.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Each repetition refined something small: balance, timing, posture, intent. He wasn't rushing. He wasn't chasing power. He was learning the weapon.
From the edge of the yard, his grandfather watched silently.
After a long while, the old man spoke.
"You're beginning to listen to it."
Kenji paused and turned. "Listen… to the sword?"
His grandfather nodded. "Every true weapon has a will—not a consciousness like a living being, but a presence. Especially this one."
Kenji looked down at the blade, curiosity flickering in his eyes. "Grandpa… you never told me its name."
The old man stepped closer, his gaze distant, as though staring into a memory far older than Kenji himself.
"I didn't tell you," he said slowly, "because a name carries weight. And once you know it, you must bear it."
Kenji straightened instinctively.
"This weapon," his grandfather continued, "is called Zhurong."
The name resonated in the air.
Kenji felt it—not as sound, but as pressure. Heat, restrained and coiled.
"Zhurong…" he repeated softly.
"A long time ago," his grandfather said, "before you were born… before this city was what it is now… there existed a dragon."
Kenji's heart skipped.
"A true dragon?" he asked quietly.
His grandfather nodded once. "A powerful one. Its name was Zhurong. A dragon of flame and war. It ruled a mountain range beyond this region, its presence alone enough to warp the land."
Kenji listened, utterly still.
"I fought it," the old man said calmly.
Kenji's eyes widened. "You… fought a dragon?"
"Yes," his grandfather replied, as if stating something ordinary. "It was not a battle of brute force alone. Dragons are ancient beings. They test your will as much as your strength."
He placed a hand lightly on the blade.
"When Zhurong fell, its core—its essence—was still burning. I used it to fuse its power into this weapon. Not to enslave it, but to preserve its strength. To give it purpose beyond destruction."
Kenji swallowed hard.
"So… this sword—"
"—contains the remnants of a dragon's power," his grandfather finished. "Not unleashed. Not wild. Dormant. Waiting."
Kenji felt a chill run down his spine.
"That is why," the old man continued, "you must not rely on it yet. If your body is weak, the dragon's power will consume you. Physical strength comes first. Always."
Kenji nodded solemnly.
"With your discipline," his grandfather said, eyes sharp, "and continued refinement, Zhurong will respond to you. Not as a crutch—but as a partner."
He paused, then added quietly, "If you persist… you may one day wield it better than I ever did."
Kenji clenched his jaw.
"I won't waste it," he said.
"I know," his grandfather replied.
That afternoon, after classes ended, Kenji headed not for home—but for the school library.
The building was old, quiet, and smelled faintly of dust and ink. Rows upon rows of shelves lined the walls, filled with manuals, theory texts, and low-level martial guides accessible to students.
Kenji moved deliberately, scanning the titles.
Most were basic.
Too basic.
Then he saw it.
"Foundational Sword Techniques: Tenfold Path"
He pulled it free and flipped through the pages.
No flashy techniques.No exaggerated claims.
Just posture.Footwork.Grip transitions.Intent control.
This is perfect, Kenji thought.
He checked it out and found an empty practice room behind the library—one of the unused training chambers reserved for quiet practice.
Kenji stood in the center of the room, closed his eyes, and took a breath.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, Zhurong appeared in his hands—emerging smoothly from his storage ring.
He practiced slowly.
One technique at a time.
Each time he completed a sequence, he paused, reflected, adjusted.
No rushing.No shortcuts.
When he finished a session, he wiped the blade clean, focused his mind, and returned Zhurong to the storage ring.
Again.And again.
The discipline became ritual.
As Kenji exited the practice room and turned down one of the library aisles, he wasn't paying attention to anything except the lingering sensation of movement still echoing through his muscles.
That's when it happened.
Thump.
He collided with someone.
"Oh—!"
Both of them staggered slightly.
Kenji instinctively reached out to steady the other person. When he looked up—
He froze.
The girl stood directly in front of him, eyes wide, hair falling loosely around her shoulders, a book clutched tightly to her chest. She stared at him.
He stared back.
Neither of them spoke.
The air seemed to still.
One second.
Two.
Three.
Kenji realized, distantly, that she had very clear eyes.
She realized, distantly, that he looked far more composed than rumors suggested.
Neither moved.
"Wow," a familiar voice said loudly. "Am I interrupting something, or is this the part where you two confess eternal love in the middle of the library?"
Kenji flinched.
The girl blinked.
Riku leaned casually against a bookshelf nearby, grinning like an idiot.
"Riku!" Kenji hissed.
The girl's lips twitched.
"…You're friends with him?" she asked Kenji, her tone neutral but amused.
"Unfortunately," Kenji replied without thinking.
Riku clutched his chest dramatically. "Wounded. Deeply wounded."
The girl laughed softly despite herself.
The tension broke.
"I'm sorry," Kenji said, bowing slightly. "I wasn't paying attention."
"It's fine," the girl replied. "I wasn't either."
She adjusted her grip on her book, then nodded politely. "See you around."
She walked past them, footsteps quiet against the floor.
Riku watched her go, then leaned closer to Kenji.
"…So," he whispered loudly, "when's the wedding?"
Kenji elbowed him in the ribs.