He drilled a single technique until it approached a semblance of perfection before moving to the next, only to begin the process all over again. Time marched forward with this relentless rhythm, each passing day measured not by the sun but by the growing precision of a slash and the deepening resilience of his body.
The wide, empty patch of land he had found in the forest allowed him, eventually, to chain techniques into fluid sequences, the spacious clearing granting his movements the room they required. He practiced the blade continuously, even through exhaustion, the heavy jade bracelets throwing him off balance as fatigue set in. The sword danced in the air; calluses grew on his palms only to be ripped away, leaving behind bruises and blood. He would reach into his pocket, pull out torn fabric from an old tunic, and wrap his hands once more before continuing.
He swung the blade as if in a trance—through rain on stormy days, sinking in mud on damp days, his lips cracking on overwhelmingly hot days. Krey's physique grew denser and more muscular, a change invisible to the eye but noticeable to him, as it was his own body.
As time passed, he found himself less governed by the inertia of the four burdens on his limbs, his movements settling into a grounded, deliberate style. On one particular day, as he trained, a familiar four-legged figure emerged from the treeline. Krey took a large gulp from his wooden water bottle, set it down, and used his teeth to tighten the makeshift bandages on his hands.
"I thought you were never going to step out, you stalking fiend!" he shouted.
The cry caught an ashen-haired witch off guard; she had been hiding in a nearby bush, holding two leafy branches over her head.
"He didn't notice me… right?" she thought, her face suspicious.
Growling, the wolf crept slowly forward, its heavy mass leaving impressions in the earth.
"You know, I found it weird that I hadn't been attacked by any wolves all this time," Krey called out. "You must not have wanted anyone else to take your prey!"
What he didn't know was that Nixsen had slain the nearby wolves during her expeditions. Today, however, she hadn't stopped this one—no, she hadn't intended to. In her view, battles should be ended by those who started them.
Krey widened his stance, lowered his center of gravity, and raised the sword before him, its tip aimed at the wolf. The giant beast recalled their last encounter and grew wary, but prey was still prey. It bared its fangs and lunged.
Krey reacted. Raising the sword above his head, he took a small, sharp step forward before making the blade descend with unrelenting swiftness. Reading this obvious movement, the giant wolf dodged to the side. But what the wolf didn't expect was a feint. It had read Krey's movement wrong; it wasn't a horizontal slash. Midway through its descent, Krey pivoted his hips and shoulders. The strike changed its course, becoming a vicious diagonal slash aimed at the wolf's neck.
"Tsk, too blunt," Krey thought.
Following through, he pulled back, raised the dull blade to his chest, and thrust toward the wolf. The wolf anticipated it, lunging to the side with its drool-covered maw agape. With his arms extended, Krey had no time to retract the sword, so he jumped backward—a crucial mistake.
The wolf was too close. Even as he leapt back, it sank a fang toward him. But Krey swung his arm, striking the tooth with a jade bracelet. The fang snapped off, and the wolf tumbled sideways in agony.
As Krey walked toward the wriggling beast, standing over it to end its misery, two streaks of crimson suddenly appeared across his chest, tearing through the tunic Nixsen had bought him.
"…What the—"
Stumbling back, he put a hand to his chest, then raised his palm to his face. It was wet with blood—his blood. The damned wolf had clawed him.
The wolf stood, its anger now burning with a deep, engraved hatred. It leapt again, attacking with its claws this time, an unbearable throbbing pulsing from its broken fang.
Hidden nearby, Nixsen prepared to intervene, ready to break her own rule—but before she could, an unexpected sight made her eyes widen.
Krey kicked the wolf mid-air, pivoting its aim off course, then grabbed a leg and pulled, flipping the beast onto its back. As it lay exposed, he swung the dull blade down onto its rear legs, shattering the bones where muscle was too thin to protect them. The wolf could no longer stand.
"I have you now, you bastard!"
The wolf desperately swiped its large claws, leaving several cuts on Krey's body. Gritting through the pain, he stabbed it through the neck. The skin was tough, but the blade pierced as it had before.
Yet the wolf refused to yield. It tightened the muscles of its neck, resisting the steel. But Krey was just as desperate.
"Ugh… go down, go down, go down!" he yelled.
What the wolf did not understand was Krey's desperate will to survive—that in unavoidable combat, he would give his flesh to take their bones.
Leaning his whole weight onto the sword, he drove the blade deeper. "Just die already!" A gurgling scream escaped him.
As the sword sank, his balance shifted. The wolf rolled its massive body, throwing Krey down and pinning him beneath its weight. The pommel pressed into his chest, making his breath shallow. He lost his grip on the sword and now held the wolf's maw open, his strength fading, its remaining fangs centimeters from his face.
"Where did I go wrong? It was a perfect victory!"
In a final, brutal move, Krey craned his neck and bit down on the wolf's tongue, pulling back with all his might. The slippery flesh resisted, but in a sickening tear, it came free, blood drenching his face.
The wolf's jaws continued to clamp. Undeterred, Krey bit into its lower jaw, ripping away skin and flesh. Then, suddenly, he was no longer struggling. He pushed the wolf upward, crawled out from under it, and gasped deeply.
Groaning in agony, Krey passed out on the ground, blood pooling around him.
"…You damned wolf… why… couldn't you just go down easier? …"
He mumbled as a stream of blood fell from his mouth. The four jade bracelets grew heavier.
As his vision blurred, a familiar figure rushed toward him in a panic, her voice calling out—but it was soon drowned by a ringing in his ears.
"Krey!…Krey!…Krey!…Kre—"
He jolted awake in a warm, comfortable bed. For a moment, he thought it must be a dream and decided to enjoy it. Then a thunderous noise blasted in his ear. He turned his head and was caught completely off guard.
"Wait, wait, wait—what is she doing here? This is my dream. Go interrupt someone else's sleep!"
As soon as he spoke, the fragile bubble of illusion popped. The woman beside him stirred awake, rubbing her eyes with a confused look before turning toward him.
"…Good morning, dear. Did you sleep well?"
Still convinced he was dreaming, Krey leaned in close to inspect her face. "Wow, this feels so real."
"Too close!" she screamed, pushing him off the bed.
He hit the floor with a thud. "No way—that felt real!"
"You're not dreaming, Krey. You passed out after killing the wolf. Turn around."
He turned. There, grotesque and still, hung the wolf's corpse, a wooden bucket beneath it to catch the dripping blood.