His eyes opened slowly, the world hazy and sluggish around him.
Shapes blurred and swayed like waves—until he recognized the familiar pattern above:
The rough, sun-bleached reefwood of his treehouse ceiling.
Instinctively, he tried to push himself up.
To sit upright—but a sharp, stabbing pain tore through his ribs and back, freezing him mid-motion.
A groan escaped, half-frustrated, half-conscious.
He forced a slow breath and shifted only his head, scanning his surroundings.
The small firepit.
The scattered tools.
The shelves he had cobbled together.
Unchanged.
Relief unfurled through him, gentle and grounding.
He was back. Home.
For a long moment, he simply lay there, letting the quiet of the treehouse wash over him, a stark contrast to the chaos that had thrown him into unconsciousness.
"How did I get back here?" The words slipped out before he could stop them, curiosity edging every syllable.
His head tilted slightly, still aching, as his eyes swept over the familiar corners of the treehouse.
From the entrance, a figure emerged—fluid and silent.
It carried a pot, half-filled with water.
It set the pot carefully on the three stones arranged in the center of the firepit, just as he had done countless times before.
Watching it, he realized how naturally the Servant of Darkness had learned his routines—his little experiments, his chores, the small rhythms of life in this treehouse.
"Were you the one who brought me back?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
It wasn't really a question—just a thread to acknowledge what he suspected, a way to bridge thought and reality.
The shadowy figure raised its right hand.
He sighed softly, letting the tension in his shoulders ease.
And finally pushed himself fully upright.
Every movement reminded him of the pain still lingering from the fight.
The ribs.
The bruised muscles.
A few more questions tumbled out.
That was when he learned the truth:
He had been asleep for three days.
Three days… lost to nothing but recovery.
He sighed... as he stared blankly at the fire.
.................................................................................
(The next day)
He settled onto his favorite branch, high above the riverbank.
From this perch, the world below seemed to slow, each movement softened by distance.
Leaves whispered in the gentle breeze, and sunlight dappled the water in shifting patterns, turning the river into a ribbon of glass that caught the morning light.
Below him, monsters moved with quiet purpose, slipping in and out of the forest to drink from the river.
He watched them without fear, their movements a delicate rhythm that both fascinated and soothed him. There was a strange joy in observing life unfold, wild yet ordered, in its own way.
The waterfall's constant murmur reached him even here.
A sound that filled the air with serenity.
It was more than white noise.
It carried a sense of calm that sank deep into his chest, easing the tension in his muscles and the restlessness in his mind.
"If I had known beforehand that I'd be thrown in this wilderness, I would have picked combat skills instead." Another sigh left him.
He leaned back.
Arms draped over his knees.
Eyes tracing the slow arcs of flying birds and ripples across the water.
Here, in this quiet corner of the forest, he could simply exist.
.................................................................................
(A few more days later)
He stood at the edge of his workplace, holding two wooden swords he had fashioned from thick, straight sticks.
The rough wood pressed familiar weight into his palms, unpolished yet sturdy, a tangible promise of the weapons he hoped to craft.
He raised them above his head, testing balance and grip, imagining the flow of a real fight.
These sticks weren't just practice—they were prototypes, a blueprint for the swords he intended to forge.
Unlike his current double-edged blade, these wooden swords had only a single edge, modeled after the sleek, deadly assassin weapons he had seen countless times in movies and anime.
He turned them slowly in his hands.
Imagining the strikes.
The blocks.
The rhythm of combat.
Every fiber of the wood seemed to hum with possibility.
And for a moment, the forest around him faded, leaving only the swords, his hands, and the vision of what they could become.
He ran his hands along the surface of the wooden swords, feeling the grain and the balance.
Then he appraised them.
And a screen appeared in front of him.
Name: Wooden Sword
Quality: Excellent
Description: A wooden sword made of hardwood. It has no cutting power, but its blunt force could cause internal damage.
Satisfied, he slung the swords across his back, forming a perfect X.
He grabbed his satchel, heavy with supplies, and stood at the edge of the balcony.
Today's plan was clear.
They would explore further north, toward the mountain range, seeking high-quality materials for crafting his real swords.
Iron ores.
Mithril ores.
Whatever metals could give shape to his vision, he would find them.
.................................................................................
(One month later)
Each day followed a relentless rhythm:
Training in the clearing at dawn.
Testing his strength and technique.
Then venturing into the forest toward the northern mountains to scout materials and survey the land.
Training. Exploration. Training. Exploration.
The repetition was grueling, but it honed him.
In the forest, every step was measured.
Every path memorized.
Every encounter with monsters a lesson in patience and observation.
He learned where to move.
How to anticipate.
And how to respect the balance of the world around him.
At night, he would sit by the firepit, reviewing the day, sharpening the edges of his skills as he sharpened the sticks and stones he used to practice.
.................................................................................
(One peaceful day)
The steady clang of stone against metal rang through the clearing, echoing faintly against the surrounding trees.
The sound was sharp, purposeful, and rhythmic.
An almost meditative percussion marked the beginning of another long session at his makeshift forge.
Around him lay the remnants of countless attempts:
Swords, if they could even be called that, scattered across the workspace.
Some were broken, splintered shards of wood and metal.
Others were unfinished, crude shapes waiting for the hand that could breathe life into them.
Each failure told a story of experimentation.
Of trial and error. Of pushing the limits of his skill.
Nearby, round baskets woven from reeds sat neatly stacked, filled with ores he had collected from a northern cave.
Some of these veins were guarded fiercely by strong monsters, but with the help of Kagen, even the fiercest guardians were knocked unconscious without risk to him.
Iron ores for practice.
Mithril for his ultimate creation.
Each nugget was a small victory, a promise of the swords to come.
In front of the firepit, he stood.
Sweat was running down his face and soaking through his naked upper body.
The heat of the molten ore bit at his skin.
Carefully.
He poured the glowing liquid into the hollow of a long stone carved to shape it into a flat slab of metal.
The molten hissed violently.
Steam rising in swirling plumes.
He lifted another flat piece of metal.
Shaped and hardened from a previous session.
Then placed it on the anvil behind him.
Stone hammer in hand, he began to strike with deliberate force.
Each blow echoes through the clearing.
Strike after strike.
The rhythm became meditative yet punishing.
The clang of metal.
The smell of heated ore.
The sting of exertion.
All fused into a single, consuming focus.
The second and final phase of his preparation had begun.
Training. Blacksmithing. Training. Blacksmithing.
Then, time and again, he challenged the Crimson Manticore.
Pressing against the limits of his endurance, only to be bested repeatedly.
Each defeat burned into his memory.
A lesson folded into muscle and instinct.
Another month slipped by.
Each day is a blur of sweat, sparks, and steel.
Training had sharpened his body.
And the forge had transformed raw ore into something tangible.
Something that carried both his effort and his vision.
Now, at last.
He stood back and surveyed his work.
The forge lay cold behind him.
The last hammer strike echoes faintly in his memory.
Around him, the swords he had painstakingly shaped and refined gleamed faintly in the dying light, each one a testament to discipline, perseverance, and creativity.
Now. Only one thing remained.
One final step before his preparations could be considered complete.
Testing.
A small thrill ran through him—not of fear, but anticipation.
This was the moment where theory met reality, where imagination collided with action.
Every failure.
Every strike.
Every drop of sweat had led to this.
He flexed his fingers, feeling the weight of possibility in the air.
Soon.
He would see if his efforts had truly borne fruit, or if the forge and forest still held lessons he had yet to learn.
He placed the two swords side by side on the table.
Their polished edges caught the faint light of the firepit.
For a moment, he just stared.
They hadn't turned out exactly as he had envisioned, but for an amateur, he was more than satisfied.
He picked up the first sword.
He ran his fingers along the smooth, cold surface.
Then appraised it.
A screen appeared.
Name: Mithril Sword
Quality: Excellent
Description: Attacking specialist of the twin sword, works best when used together with its defensive counterpart.
He frowned slightly.
Then leaned closer to read the description again.
Something about it caught him off guard.
"What's this?" he muttered, a flicker of confusion—and curiosity—crossing his face.
Quickly, he appraised the second sword.
Name: Mithril Sword
Quality: Excellent
Description: Defense specialist of the twin sword. Works best when used together with its attacking counterpart.
A grin spread across his face almost before he realized it.
Two swords—one to strike, one to protect.
Perfectly paired.
The realization sank in, and a rush of pride and excitement pulsed through him.
"Oh wow... did I just create something amazing?" The words slipped out before he could stop them, a breathless mix of disbelief and excitement.
His eyes lingered on the blade, tracing the curves, the balance.
"Too bad there are no visible stats, hmmm…" he muttered, a playful frown crossing his face.
Pride swelled within him as he picked up one of the swords.
It was surprisingly light—far lighter than he had expected from a blade of this size and quality.
He ran a hand along the edge.
It was blunt.
Just like the wooden prototype he had first crafted, but the weight and balance told him everything he needed to know.
He stepped back, grounding himself, and swung the sword through the air.
The movement was smooth, fluid, almost instinctive.
A sharp whoosh cut through the quiet of the clearing.
For the first time, he felt the swords not just as tools, but as an extension of his body.
A perfect blend of training, imagination, and craftsmanship.
"Let's test this out, shall we?" he muttered, a smile tugging at his lips as he held the sword firmly in his hand.
The weight felt right.
The balance was perfect.
It was time.
"Kagen, you there?" He called out to the Servant of Darkness.
From the shifting shadows at his side, Kagen emerged, flickering like smoke given form.
Its presence was silent but unmistakable, a perfect partner for the trial ahead.
"Should we go baptize our new friend?" he said with a grin, stepping forward.
Kagen agreed.
Together, they moved toward the riverbank, the familiar terrain that served as their training ground for the past months.
As soon as they reached the clearing, the quiet of the morning shattered.
Swords clashed.
Black shadows slicing through the air with every swing.
Every parry. Every strike.
Sparks flew from metal on metal.
The rhythmic sound of impact echoed off the river.
He moved with fluid precision.
Testing the attack sword.
Deflecting with the other.
Feeling the synergy between them with every motion.
Kagen matched him blow for blow.
The shadowy figure's movements were a blur of speed and finesse.
Time became irrelevant.
Each strike.
Each step.
Each pivot flowed into the next.
A dance of shadow and steel.
By the time they finally paused, the sun had slowly sunk beyond the horizon.
Leaving the forest bathed in soft moonlight.
The river reflected its glow.
Quiet and shimmering.
As if applauding the new bond forged between sword, wielder, and shadow.