The next morning arrived crisp and quiet. Pale light filtered through the trees, and a fine mist clung low over the forest floor, drifting lazily between the roots and stones. The air was cool and damp, carrying the scent of pine and earth.
Ruth stepped outside, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He expected the usual start — running laps around the clearing, hauling water buckets from the stream, then long hours of stance practice until his arms trembled.
But something felt different. The forest seemed to be holding its breath.
The old man was already waiting by the cabin door, standing tall and still, a small travel pack slung over his shoulder. His face was calm, unreadable, yet there was a faint energy in his posture — a quiet readiness that told Ruth today wouldn't be ordinary.
"Get ready," the old man said without preamble. His voice cut through the morning stillness. "We're traveling today."
Ruth blinked, caught off guard. "Traveling? Where?"
"To a few places you need to see," the old man replied. His tone left no room for doubt or delay — simple, firm, absolute. Yet there was something in it, a quiet weight that stirred Ruth's curiosity even more.
He hesitated. "For training?"
"In a sense." The old man adjusted the strap on his shoulder. "We won't be gone long. But training can't teach you everything. Some lessons need… different ground."
Ruth straightened instinctively, that familiar mix of anticipation and unease building in his chest. "Do I need to bring anything?"
"Just yourself," the old man said. Then, after a short pause, he added, "And that wooden sword. The rest, you'll learn on the way."
He turned and began walking toward the forest path, expecting Ruth to follow — and Ruth did, without another question.
They walked for hours through winding paths, the forest thick with sound — birds calling from high branches, leaves whispering in the breeze, the steady crunch of boots against the soil. Occasionally, sunlight broke through the canopy, painting shifting patches of gold on the ground.
Ruth's legs ached, but he didn't complain. Traveling with the old man always felt purposeful. Even silence carried lessons.
Eventually, the trees began to thin, the forest opening up to distant hills and faint trails of smoke. The soft hum of voices reached them — a rhythm of life and chatter.
Ruth quickened his pace. "We're going to a town?" he asked, a spark of excitement in his voice.
The old man gave a short nod. "There's a sword tournament being held today. Well-known in this region."
Ruth's eyes widened. "A tournament?"
"Watch carefully," the old man said. "Your training isn't only about strength. You need to see how others fight — technique, intent, the difference between discipline and recklessness."
Ruth's curiosity flared. He'd only ever sparred with wooden weapons, his movements shaped by drills and repetition. To see real swordsmen — to feel the energy of a true duel — it was something beyond imagination.
As they entered the town, the change was immediate. The air buzzed with excitement. Colorful banners hung from wooden posts, fluttering in the breeze. Merchants called out to passersby, the scent of grilled meat and baked bread filling the streets. People of all kinds — farmers, traders, travelers — crowded together, all moving in one direction: toward the large open arena at the town's center.
The sharp clang of steel echoed through the air — crisp, rhythmic, alive.
Ruth's heart pounded. He had never seen so many people gathered in one place.
"This tournament draws fighters from several villages," the old man said as they approached the arena gate. "Some are skilled. Some are foolish. But all of them will teach you something."
They entered, blending into the murmuring crowd. The ring stood wide and dusty in the center, enclosed by wooden rails. Two fighters were already locked in combat — swords flashing, feet sliding across dirt, every motion deliberate and dangerous.
Ruth's breath caught. He leaned forward unconsciously, his eyes wide, following each strike as if the movements themselves whispered secrets.
"You came here to learn," the old man said beside him, his voice low and steady. "So watch. And don't blink."
They stayed near the edge of the arena. Around them, the crowd roared with every heavy blow, gasped with every close dodge. Ruth's pulse quickened, his hands tightening around the hilt of his wooden sword as if his body wanted to move with the fighters.
For all the discipline of his training, he was still just a boy — and seeing real warriors battle in front of him stirred something fierce and bright inside him.
Each fighter had their own rhythm. One moved with swift precision, almost dancing on the tips of his feet. Another fought with brute strength, his sword crashing down like thunder. There were calm fighters, reckless fighters, clever fighters — each showing a different truth of combat.
Ruth's gaze darted from one to another, trying to catch every angle, every parry, every faint shift of weight before a strike.
Beside him, the old man stood unmoving, arms folded. His expression stayed calm, but now and then, his eyes softened — especially when he glanced at Ruth.
He had brought the boy here to observe, to understand. That was the reason he gave.
But in truth, there was more.
He knew Ruth's life had been nothing but struggle — days of pain, silence, and harsh lessons. The boy had carried his grief quietly, buried it beneath discipline.
So today, the old man let him be what he had almost forgotten how to be: young.
He let him watch.
Let him smile.
Let him feel wonder again.
Because even in a cruel world, a boy deserved moments that reminded him he was still alive.
When a fighter landed a clean, decisive strike, the crowd erupted, and Ruth cheered with them — loud, unrestrained, his face bright with awe.
The old man allowed himself a rare smile — small, fleeting, but real.
"Enjoy it well," he thought quietly. "Because soon, your path won't be this light."
As the sun dipped behind the hills, the noise of the tournament faded into memory. The two walked the forest path back home, the air cooler now, filled with the soft hum of insects and the rustling of leaves.
Ruth's steps were lighter than usual. His mind replayed the scenes he had witnessed — the quick strikes, the sharp footwork, the bursts of courage.
"Old man," he said suddenly, his voice breaking the quiet. "The tournament was… really fun. I learned a lot watching them fight."
The old man looked down at him, eyes reflecting the fading light. The usual hardness in his features eased, replaced by a faint gentleness.
"I'm glad," he said softly.
They walked on for a while in comfortable silence, until the old man added, his tone calm but firm:
"From tomorrow onward, you'll be training even harder."
Ruth blinked, surprised. "Even harder?"
"Yes." The old man's voice was quiet, steady. "You've seen now how people fight. You understand what's out there. If you wish to stand on that stage one day — if you wish to survive in this world — your training must grow with you."
There was no coldness in his words this time, no harsh edge — only clarity.
"It'll be tough," he said. "But don't fear it. You're ready to take the next step."
Ruth nodded, gripping his wooden sword tighter. The weight of it felt different now — heavier, more meaningful.
"…I'm ready," he said.
The old man said nothing more. But as they walked into the deepening twilight, his faint smile remained — a quiet mark of pride hidden beneath his weathered calm.
And somewhere deep in the forest, the sound of their footsteps faded into the stillness of night — the master and his student, both knowing that tomorrow would begin a new chapter of the same unending path.