Chapter 13 – The Price of Strength
Morning arrived with the sound of wood knocking against wood.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
I slowly opened my eyes.
The room was still dim, the first rays of sunlight barely slipping through the small window.
Another knock echoed outside.
“…Boy.”
The old man’s voice.
“If you plan on sleeping until noon…”
“…then at least do it after finishing your work.”
I rubbed my eyes and stumbled downstairs.
“…Good morning.”
The old man glanced at me before tossing a steaming bun across the room.
I barely caught it.
“You’ve got quick hands.”
“I almost dropped it.”
“But you didn’t.”
He turned back to kneading dough.
I stared at the warm bun in my hands.
“…Thank you.”
He didn’t answer.
Yet I noticed the corners of his mouth twitch slightly.
⸻
After breakfast, I expected another mountain of dirty dishes.
Instead…
The old man walked outside carrying two wooden swords.
He tossed one toward me.
I caught it awkwardly.
“…Why?”
“You carry a sword.”
“You should at least know how not to stab yourself.”
“I’ve never learned.”
“I know.”
He walked into the empty courtyard behind the tavern.
“That’s why we’re starting today.”
⸻
The courtyard wasn’t large.
Just a patch of dirt surrounded by a wooden fence.
Several chickens wandered around freely.
One of them stared at me as if questioning my existence.
The old man planted his wooden sword into the ground.
“What do you think makes someone strong?”
I answered immediately.
“Spiritual energy.”
“No.”
“Martial arts?”
“No.”
“A powerful weapon?”
He shook his head again.
“Wrong.”
I frowned.
“Then what?”
The old man smiled.
“Discipline.”
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He picked up his sword.
“Power is merely the reward.”
“The habit comes first.”
⸻
He stepped into a simple stance.
“There are thousands of sword techniques.”
“Hundreds of famous schools.”
“Millions of cultivators.”
“But before any of them learned a single technique…”
“They all learned one thing.”
He slowly swung the wooden sword downward.
Nothing flashy.
Nothing extraordinary.
Just one clean movement.
“This.”
He handed the sword to me.
“Repeat it.”
⸻
The first swing was crooked.
The second nearly slipped from my hands.
The third almost made me lose my balance.
The old man sighed.
“Again.”
I swung.
“Again.”
I swung.
“Again.”
The morning passed.
Then the afternoon.
Still…
Only one movement.
Downward.
Again.
Again.
Again.
By sunset, my arms had gone numb.
Sweat drenched my clothes.
Blisters formed across my palms.
“I…”
“I can’t…”
The old man looked at me calmly.
“How many swings?”
“I don’t know.”
“I do.”
He pointed toward a small pile of pebbles beside him.
One pebble had been moved after every swing.
“Nine hundred and eighty-three.”
I stared.
“You counted?”
“I’ve been counting since sunrise.”
He smiled.
“You still owe me seventeen.”
⸻
“I hate this.”
The words escaped before I realized it.
The old man laughed.
“Good.”
“That means you’re finally training.”
“No…”
“I mean…”
“I hate repeating the same thing.”
He nodded knowingly.
“Exactly.”
He slowly sat beside me.
“Do you know why most people fail?”
“They lack talent?”
“No.”
“They’re lazy?”
“No.”
“They become bored.”
His answer surprised me.
“Bored?”
He nodded.
“Everyone loves learning secret techniques.”
“Everyone dreams of becoming powerful.”
“But almost no one enjoys repeating the same movement ten thousand times.”
“They quit.”
“They look for shortcuts.”
“They blame talent.”
“They blame fate.”
“They blame others.”
His eyes met mine.
“They rarely blame themselves.”
The words pierced deeper than any sword.
Because…
Once again…
He was describing me.
⸻
That night…
After everyone had gone to sleep…
I quietly returned to the courtyard.
The wooden sword still leaned against the fence.
I picked it up.
The old man had said nine hundred and eighty-three.
I still owed seventeen.
One swing.
Two.
Three.
The blisters burst open.
Blood stained the wooden handle.
Five.
Eight.
Ten.
Every muscle in my body screamed.
Fifteen.
Sixteen.
Seventeen.
I lowered the sword.
For a moment…
I simply stood there beneath the moonlight.
Then…
Without thinking…
I swung again.
Eighteen.
Nineteen.
Twenty.
Not because anyone had ordered me to.
Not because I wanted praise.
Simply because…
For the first time in my life…
I wanted to improve.
⸻
Inside the tavern…
The old man silently watched through the window.
He had never gone to sleep.
He smiled to himself.
“So…”
“The boy has finally taken his first step.”
He didn’t mean learning the sword.
Anyone could swing a blade.
What mattered…
Was choosing to continue after the lesson had already ended.
⸻
Far beyond the city walls…
At the edge of the Forbidden Forest…
The mysterious traveler from the previous night stood atop a cliff.
Before him knelt three figures dressed in black robes.
One lowered his head.
“My Lord.”
“We’ve confirmed it.”
“The aura truly came from Ashfall City.”
The traveler gazed toward the distant lights of the city.
“The sword has awakened.”
His golden eyes reflected neither excitement nor fear.
Only certainty.
“Do nothing.”
One of the kneeling figures looked up in confusion.
“My Lord?”
“If the child dies now…”
“…history repeats itself.”
“If he survives…”
A faint smile appeared on the traveler’s face.
“Then this world…”
“…will never be the same again.”
The night wind carried his words across the mountains.
Unseen by anyone…
The gears of fate had begun to turn.
And a boy who spent the day washing dishes and repeating a single sword swing…
Had unknowingly become the center of a conflict that had been waiting for thousands of years.
End of Chapter 13