The jungle felt like it swallowed him the moment he stepped out of the cave. The hot, wet air wrapped around his skin and clung to him like a second cloak. Above, the sun poured down in gold, making every leaf shine and every blade of grass look sharp as a knife.Aren moved like a ghost, quiet and careful. His new cloak swung behind him with every step, almost like wings.
Each breath burned his chest, but he liked the pain. It meant he was alive ,and somewhere deep inside, he was still laughing, even if nobody could hear it.
He pushed forward, stepping over mossy roots and ducking under hanging vines. Insects buzzed around his head, and somewhere nearby, a monkey screeched in surprise when he passed too close.
Soon, he found an old, narrow path he hadn't walked in years. Only a few hunters ever used it. The path twisted like a snake, full of traps and hidden holes that could easily kill a careless man. But Aren knew it well. To him, it felt like an old song only he could dance to.
By the time the sun was high, Aren reached a small clearing with a broken stone shrine covered in vines. He crouched down, running his fingers over the mossy carvings.
His mind drifted to nights under the moon with Amira ; her laughter echoing in the dark, her eyes shining when she spoke about freedom and power.
His jaw tightened.
"Enough," he muttered, shaking his head and forcing the memories away.
He tore a piece of cloth from his cloak and wiped his face. Each swipe took more than just dirt and sweat. It stripped away the softness inside him, leaving only sharp edges and steel.
He started moving again, faster this time. His mind worked as he walked, going over every detail: the tunnels under Zehara's palace, the hidden passages near the east watchtower, the side gates watched by lazy guards who would never expect him.
He knew that city better than most men knew their own hands.
He wouldn't crash in like a wild animal. No — he would slip in quiet as a ghost, and when he struck, they wouldn't even know what hit them.When the sky turned dark, Aren found an old watch hut hidden in the roots of a massive tree. He slipped inside and dropped to the floor, breathing hard.
He pulled some dried meat from his pouch and ate quickly, each bite a reminder of how close he had come to losing everything ,his life, his freedom, his laughter.
When he finished, he leaned against the damp wooden wall. His eyes closed, but sleep wouldn't come.Instead, he saw Amira in his mind. The way she had looked at him before the betrayal. Her soft voice, her gentle touch that turned out to be a lie. The ropes. The guards. The taste of his own blood.
Aren opened his eyes again, restless. He stood and moved to a small, cracked mirror hanging crooked on the wall.
The face that stared back was thin, bruised, and wild-eyed. But deep inside, a spark still burned.
"You still in there?" he asked himself quietly, tilting his head like he was waiting for an answer.
The mirror stayed silent, but a small, dangerous smile started to spread across his face. It turned into a quiet laugh that echoed around the hut.
Then, something caught his eye. In the corner of the hut, half-buried under leaves and dust, lay a dagger. Its handle was carved with strange blue markings that seemed to glow softly in the dark.
Curious, Aren picked it up.
The moment his fingers closed around it, a voice echoed inside his head.
"Finally… a hand worthy enough to wake me."Aren nearly dropped it. He glanced around quickly, but he was alone.
"You… can talk?" he whispered.
"I can do far more than talk," the dagger answered, its voice deep and smooth, almost amused. "I am the Smiling Sword. Right now, I rest in this form. But with a thought or a click, I can become a sword, a spear… anything you need to cut through your enemies. I hold strength beyond your wildest dreams. But be warned — power always has a price."
Aren's breath caught in his throat. He looked at the blade, then at his old dagger lying on the floor.
"You picked the wrong jungle fool," he muttered with a small laugh. "I don't even know how to use you."
"That is why I chose you," the dagger said, its voice like a slow smile. "Because you are still unformed… wild… a true Laughing Blade."
Aren shook his head, still half-smiling. He tucked the glowing dagger into his belt beside his old one.
"Not tonight," he said softly. "I don't even know your real hunger yet."
"When you are ready… just call," the voice whispered in his mind. "And remember: a smile cuts deeper than any blade."
Aren shivered but felt something alive spark inside him. He looked back in the mirror one last time. His eyes were tired, but they burned bright.
When dawn finally came, soft golden light slipped through the trees. Aren stepped back outside, sharper than ever, the new dagger hidden under his cloak.
He fixed his cloak, checked his old dagger, and looked toward Zehara in the distance. Its towers glimmered like a promise in the morning sun.
Aren's eyes narrowed.
"Wait for me, princess," he whispered, his voice calm but sharp as steel. "Your Laughing Blade is coming home. And this time, he isn't laughing with you."
Then he started walking. Each step felt like a drumbeat, a promise and a warning at the same time.
Above, the vines rustled as if they were whispering secrets. Birds cried out and took flight into the rising light.
Deep inside, beneath all the rage and hurt, a small warmth still flickered ; a quiet echo of who he used to be. But he buried it now, sealing it behind walls of steel.
By nightfall, he would stand at Zehara's gates. By moonrise, the kingdom would remember his name.
Because when Aren moved, the whole world held its breath.
And this time, the Laughing Blade had come to collect every broken promise and every stolen laugh.
...