Afternoon – Break Time
Training had been brutal since morning.
The air was thick with the scent of dust and sweat, and the summer sun burned overhead, relentless and unyielding. My shirt clung to my skin, soaked through, while every breath scraped my throat like fire.
"That's enough for now."
Her voice sliced through the heavy air—calm, composed, distant as ever.
Master lowered her sword with a fluid, almost lazy motion, the blade catching the sunlight in a flash of silver.
"Let's rest."
I staggered over to a nearby stone—worn smooth by years of wind and rain—and slumped down heavily, wiping my forehead with a ragged sigh.
The clearing around us shimmered under the late afternoon sun, the grass bending under lazy gusts of wind. Beyond the ring of trees, the woods stretched endlessly: ancient oaks with thick, twisted roots, their leaves whispering secrets high above.
Master, of course, looked entirely unbothered.
She leaned back against the massive trunk of an old willow, her silhouette framed by drooping vines and dancing motes of dust that floated golden in the sunlight.
Her long white hair swayed with the breeze—fine, weightless, almost otherworldly.
I dug through my worn bag and pulled out our modest lunch: a few pieces of dried meat, hard cheese, and a flask of water.
"Would you like something to eat, Master?" I asked, my voice cracking slightly from thirst.
She shook her head with a tiny motion, her eyes half-lidded in a rare moment of rest—until a glint of glass tucked near the bottom of my bag caught her attention.
Her gaze sharpened, the lazy afternoon suddenly feeling a little heavier.
"What's that?"
I froze. "Eh? Th-this? It's, uh… just wine. A neighbor gave it to me yesterday. I-I didn't drink it, I swear!"
With a grace only she could manage, she reached out and plucked the bottle from my fumbling hands, inspecting the dusty label like a jeweler appraising an old gem.
"Local wine," she murmured, her voice dipping into something… softer. A shade of nostalgia brushed her usually cold tone.
"…Have you had it before?" I asked, blinking in surprise.
"Just a little," she said, almost to herself.
Then, with a casual flick, she uncorked the bottle and took a sip.
I could only stare.
The breeze picked up again, carrying the earthy scent of moss and wildflowers through the clearing.
A pair of birds chirped somewhere high in the trees, their voices bright and carefree.
Meanwhile, I watched my master get drunk in slow motion.
At first, it was subtle.
A slight flush blooming across her porcelain cheeks.
A glassy sheen to her crimson eyes.
But five minutes later, I realized something was very, very wrong.
"Master… you're not drinking too much, right?" I asked carefully, watching the bottle—now suspiciously half-empty—dangle from her slender fingers.
"I'm just… tasting," she muttered, the words slightly slurred.
And then she took another sip.
And another.
Her stance, usually so composed, wavered just a little. Her smile—Gods, she was smiling—was loose, unguarded, utterly disarming.
I gawked, my heart doing backflips.
"Maybe you should lie down, Master," I suggested weakly.
She snorted.
Actually snorted.
"Your stamina's weak… your technique's sloppy… but whatever…" she mumbled, chuckling to herself.
I stared in horror and awe as she leaned back against the willow, her hair tumbling like a silver waterfall against the bark, laughter spilling from her lips in soft, broken bursts.
The sunlight caught in her hair, turning it almost translucent, while the world around her seemed to blur into nothingness.
Then she stood up—swaying slightly—and looked straight at me.
"My name is… Lunareth," she announced proudly, her smile dazzling enough to shame the sun itself.
I forgot how to breathe.
'W-what kind of smile is that?! Even royalty would kneel!!'
I turned red, then purple, then some color not yet discovered by man.
"I-I-I'm heading back!!" I yelped, grabbing my bag and bolting like a man possessed.
Behind me, I could still feel her gaze—warm, tender, unbearably beautiful—like sunlight in winter.
"…Was my smile really that bad…?"
Her soft voice drifted after me, almost lost in the golden afternoon light.
The trees swayed, scattering petals and leaves through the air, and somewhere deep inside me, something quietly, irrevocably changed.
I still remember the day I saw her smile for the first time.
Not a warm one, of course—more like the first crack of spring breaking through endless winter.
And I ran.
Not because I was afraid,
But because my heart was pounding so loud,
I didn't know where to hide it.
After that, our training resumed as usual.
She never brought it up.
And I never asked.
— Year Two and Three
My days were filled with pain.
Not the kind that fades after a night's rest, but the kind that settles deep into your bones and lingers.
I ran through the morning mist until my legs burned and my lungs screamed for air.
By noon, my body would already be drenched in sweat. But training didn't wait for comfort.
Swing. Step. Breathe.
Over and over again, I swung a wooden sword until my palms tore open—then again until the wounds bled through the bandages.
Some days, I collapsed before the sun set.
Other days, I forced myself back up, gritting my teeth, chasing a shadow that always felt just beyond reach.
But pain slowly turned into strength.
My body—once clumsy and weak—began to respond.
Each muscle, each movement started to align with the rhythm of her blade.
It was never perfect, not even close.
But I could feel it.
I was getting closer.
My reflexes sharpened.
I stopped thinking mid-swing and started moving on instinct.
Strike. Block. Parry. Counter.
They became more than just drills. They became my language.
Lunareth rarely spoke.
Sometimes, an entire day would pass with nothing but the sound of swords clashing and my own ragged breathing.
And yet, in that silence, she said more than words ever could.
When I stumbled, she didn't help me up.
When I cried, she didn't offer comfort.
But when I pushed through—when I stood back up without complaint—
She would give me a small nod.
Just a nod. That was it.
But gods… that single nod carried more weight than any praise I'd ever known.
It was acknowledgment.
Recognition.
It made every torn muscle, every sleepless night, every bruise worth it.
Because in that silent approval…
I felt seen.
And for someone like me, that was enough
— Year Four and Five
I began hunting real creatures.
The first was a two-eyed wild hound—
vicious, hungry, eyes glowing with a feral madness.
My legs refused to move at first. My body tensed.it snarled, saliva dripping from its jagged teeth.And when it lunged, time slowed.
I dodged on instinct. The first strike missed.
But the second—landed clean across its neck.
Blood spilled. My breath caught.
The hound whimpered once before falling limp.And for the first time, I felt afraid…
not of the beast—
but of myself.
My hands trembled, not from exhaustion, but from the sheer weight of what I'd just done.
A life, taken by my own hand.
I looked to Lunareth.
She stared at the corpse with calm eyes, then met mine.
"You survived," she said. "That's enough."
No praise. No scolding.
Just quiet acceptance.
But that single sentence lifted something heavy from my chest.
From then on, the trials escalated.
A horned bear that tore trees apart with a single swipe.
A serpent that slithered through riverbanks, coated in mud and venom.
Creatures with shells harder than steel, eyes that glowed in the dark,
and screams that could tear through a man's sanity.
Each fight was a trial of death.
And I bled in nearly all of them.
But I learned.
To read the wind.
To sense killing intent.
To strike not with emotion, but precision.
Lunareth watched in silence.
Sometimes she stepped in when I was seconds from death.
Other times, she simply observed from afar, testing how far I'd go.
And through it all, something in me changed.
My sword arm grew steadier.
My fear dulled.
My resolve sharpened.
I was no longer just mimicking her movements.
I was fighting—
to survive.
To protect.
To become someone who could stand beside her… not behind.
— Year Six and Seven
We began to move.
Left the cabin, the forest clearing, the comfort of routine.
Stepped into the world beyond—with only our weapons and silence.
We didn't head for towns.
But we didn't avoid being seen either.
Sometimes, travelers caught a glimpse of us from a mountain ridge.
Sometimes, merchants whispered of a pair walking through the frost-covered trees.
A woman cloaked in darkness and snow, and a boy with a dull blade and burning eyes.
Stories grew like weeds.
They gave us names—because names made fear easier to pass around.
"The Ice Woman of the North."
"The Shadow Swordsman."
Ridiculous.
But somehow, those words clung to us like mist that never left our clothes.
I still remember the night I mentioned it to her.
"People call you the Ice Woman of the North," I said, grinning through the firelight.
She didn't look up from sharpening her blade.
"Ridiculous," she replied—flat and cold.
But I saw it.
The smallest twitch at the corner of her lips.
A crack in her perfect stillness And somehow, that made the cold wind feel warm.
We hunted—not for fame, not for gold—but because something had to.
Old monsters stirred in forgotten places.
An ancient wyvern with wings full of poison that melted trees.A sludge beast, once human, now feeding on livestock from the riverbeds.A pack of shadow wolves that moved without sound, their fur darker than moonless nights.
We faced them.
Together.
Not always side by side—
but never apart.
Each fight was longer.
Each enemy, more cunning.
And sometimes, I saw her bleed.
Not much.
Just a scratch.
A cut.
But it was enough to remind me:
She wasn't immortal.
Just far, far stronger than I was.
So I trained harder.
Even when my ribs ached.
Even when my sword arm gave out.
Even when I couldn't lift my body after a fight.
I pushed forward.
Chasing her back.
Trying to reach that distant figure I followed since the day she first said,
"Pick up the sword."
And though she never said it—
I knew.
She noticed.
Because some nights, when she thought I was asleep,
I caught her watching me through the firelight.
Just watching.
Quiet.
Almost… proud.
The world called us monsters.
But I wasn't sure if we were.
Not yet.
That doubt vanished at the end of year seven.Because that was the year she gave me a name—
not mine.
But his.
A bandit.
A murderer.
A man who sold lives for coin.
— End of Year Seven – My First Human Blood
That day, Lunareth handed me a scroll.
Her handwriting was clear:
"Find him. Kill him. No hesitation."
He wasn't just a thief.
He kidnapped children.
Burned villages.
Laughed when others begged.
Someone like that didn't deserve a second chance—or so I thought.
I found him near a cliffside, seated between tall stones.
Roasting something over a fire.
He looked ordinary. Human.
And maybe that made him even more terrifying.
I drew my sword and approached in silence.
When he noticed me, his eyes widened.
"Who are you? Wait—wait—"
I froze.
Not out of doubt… but because of his face.It looked like any man's.
He had eyes. Breath. Fear.
And suddenly, my hands—so steady until now—felt unbearably heavy.
But then I remembered the children who never made it home.
I remembered Lunareth's voice:
"If you can't kill a human, you won't be able to save anyone."
I closed my eyes.
And struck.
The sound of the blade slicing the air.
Then—silence.
His body collapsed.
And I stood there alone—surrounded by blood, iron, and a coldness that didn't come from the wind.
I didn't vomit. I didn't cry.
But it felt like something inside me was buried with that body.
That night, we sat by the fire.
Lunareth didn't speak right away.
When I finally broke the silence, my voice was barely a whisper.
"Is this… something you used to do often?"
She looked at me, her crimson eyes reflecting the flickering firelight.
"Often enough," Lunareth said quietly, her voice carrying the weight of memories too heavy for the night to hold. "Enough to stop counting."
The flames crackled between us. I watched her, waiting, hoping she'd say more. Hoping she'd make it easier.
But she didn't.
Because some lessons couldn't be softened. Some truths had to be carried alone.
"You chose to act," she finally said, voice steady. "That's enough."
I nodded, but the ache in my chest didn't fade.
That night, under the watchful gaze of a thousand cold stars, I carved a new truth into my bones:
Survival was no longer enough.
Strength wasn't just for myself anymore.
I would become someone who could protect. Someone who could stand between the world and the ones I cared about.
Even if it meant staining my hands with blood.
Even if it meant losing pieces of myself along the way.