The air was dry with the scent of rusting steel and forgotten blood. Broken blades jutted from the earth like the bones of fallen titans, and the setting sun cast long shadows over the abandoned sword graveyard at the edge of the Vohar Clan's territory.
Raen sat cross-legged in the dust, his crippled leg stretched uselessly before him. He ran a finger across the chipped hilt of a buried sword, its handle etched with age-worn runes.
"Still nothing," he muttered, eyes narrowing. He'd spent the last three years here—digging, meditating, bleeding—hoping for a miracle. Hoping to feel anything.
Once, he had dreams of becoming a swordsman like his father, a war hero who died on the battlefield. But the day his cousin shattered his spine during a 'friendly' duel, those dreams turned to ash.
"Why do you keep coming here?" a girl's voice called from behind. It was Nira, the blacksmith's daughter. "There's nothing left but ghosts."
Raen didn't turn. "That's exactly why I come."
She sighed. "They say the spirits of swords whisper to those worthy. You think you're worthy?"
"I don't need to be," he replied. "I just need them to speak."
She frowned, pity in her eyes, but said nothing more. Raen was used to it—sympathy that cut deeper than insults.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, cold seeped into his bones. He remained still, meditating in silence as darkness fell. The graveyard became a sea of shadows, each blade gleaming faintly under moonlight.
Then, for the first time, something changed.
A cold breeze swept through, unnaturally sharp. Raen's heart skipped. The air trembled.
A voice—soft, broken, yet commanding—echoed in his mind.
"Why do you sit among corpses, boy?"
His eyes snapped open. No one stood before him, yet the voice rang loud and clear.
"Who are you?" Raen whispered.
"A swordsman. A failure. A teacher."
Raen's breath caught. "You're… one of them. One of the buried."
"I died with my blade shattered, but my will lingers. I saw you bleed here. I saw your hatred. You desire strength."
Raen clenched his fists. "More than anything."
"Then listen well. The sword remembers. The earth remembers. I will teach you what was once forbidden. But you must pay the price."
A sharp pain lanced through his head. Images flooded his vision—ancient footwork, forgotten stances, the taste of blood, the howl of wind-split steel. He screamed, but no sound escaped his lips.
When the vision faded, Raen was on the ground, drenched in sweat. His body trembled… but not from weakness.
He could feel it. The weight of the sword in the earth. The breath of wind on his fingers. His instincts sharpened like honed steel.
He had heard the first whisper.
From the distance, bells tolled. The clan's midnight signal. Something had happened.
But Raen only smiled, eyes gleaming in the moonlight.
"Teach me," he whispered to the blade. "I'll listen to every scream, every sorrow. I'll learn it all. I'll become the blade."
And for the first time in years, the sword graveyard answered.