Steel clashed against steel.
The sound rang through the clearing — sharp, clean, unhurried.
Ruth's movements were steady, precise. Each step forward, each swing of his wooden blade came with calculated intent. The air around them rippled faintly as their strikes met. The old man moved with quiet ease, his eyes fixed on the boy's form, reading every motion, every pause, every controlled breath.
Dust lifted beneath their feet, sunlight breaking through the trees in fractured beams. The fight wasn't fierce — it was rhythm, discipline, and unspoken focus.
"Again," the old man said calmly.
Ruth nodded, his expression as calm as the wind brushing through the leaves. He struck again — diagonal, clean — the sort of swing that would split flesh from shoulder to waist if it were real steel. The old man met it effortlessly, his blade stopping the attack inches before impact.
A flick of his wrist. Ruth staggered back, adjusting his stance.
The old man studied him quietly. The boy had grown sharper — faster, steadier — but something was missing. His strength was growing, but it was hollow, unanchored.
He could feel it — the kind of strength that could break things easily… including itself.
Their sparring continued for a while — quiet, efficient. When the final strike came, Ruth dropped to one knee, breathing slow but not exhausted. Sweat glistened along his temple, yet his expression was cold, detached.
The old man lowered his weapon and looked down at him.
"That's enough."
Ruth rose, bowed lightly, and sheathed his blade. The old man's gaze lingered.
He turned slightly, staring toward the distant horizon — beyond the forest line, where faint outlines of the kingdom's lands shimmered under the sun.
He's growing faster than I expected, the old man thought. Too fast, perhaps. And strength without understanding is a curse the world doesn't forgive.
Ruth glanced at him briefly, but said nothing.
The old man finally broke the silence. "We'll leave tomorrow."
Ruth blinked once. "Leave?"
"For the road. Like I said,there are lessons the sword cannot teach. You'll see what I mean."
Ruth gave a simple nod. No questions, no resistance — only quiet acceptance.
The old man watched him walk back toward the cabin and sighed, his voice low and distant. "If he grows strong without seeing the world's scars, he'll become another hand that adds to them."
The next day, they set off.
The forest gave way to open plains, then to crooked villages and roads scarred by years of neglect. Their pace was slow, steady. The old man walked ahead with the ease of one who had seen too much; Ruth followed in silence, his sword slung across his back.
Days passed like fading echoes.
The roads were dry, the air thick with dust. They passed through towns where the roofs leaned like tired backs and wells stood dry, their stones cracked by heat. Ruth saw children barefoot on the roads, faces smudged with dirt, laughter faint but real. He saw men with hollow eyes watching carriages pass — the kind drawn by fine horses and guarded by men who didn't look twice at the ones bowing for coin.
No one spoke. The world spoke enough.
Somewhere along that road, Ruth began to feel something stir — not emotion, but unease.
The sight of hollow faces, the faint cries of hunger, the way people avoided each other's eyes — all of it gnawed at him in silence. It reminded him of the past he thought he had left behind — the cold nights, the begging hands, the stares that never offered kindness.
The memories pressed against his chest like an old wound reopening.
He clenched his jaw but said nothing.
The old man glanced at him once — he didn't ask, didn't need to. He knew what kind of thoughts stirred behind those quiet eyes.
They reached another town — larger, livelier, but no less rotten.
Guards of the capital were stationed there — men with clean armor and dirtier hearts.
The two travelers walked through the main street, eyes on the ground, silent among the noise. That was when Ruth's steps slowed.
A woman — frail, with a child clinging to her arm — was cornered near a well by two soldiers. Their laughter was coarse, their tone vile. One of them snatched her scarf; the other blocked her path when she tried to escape.
Her child cried out, small hands tugging at her dress.
The people nearby looked away. Some walked faster; others stood frozen, fear carved deep in their silence.
Ruth's hand slid instinctively to the hilt of his blade. His eyes darkened, breath steady but heavy — like a storm waiting for permission to break.
The old man noticed immediately and stepped slightly in front of him. "Don't," he said quietly.
"They're soldiers of the capital," Ruth said, his tone colder than ever.
"I know."
"Then—"
"Not like this."
Ruth's grip tightened. "You want me to just watch this?"
The old man's face hardened. "You want to be executed before you can change anything?"
Ruth's expression barely shifted, but the air around him trembled. "Then when? When do we act? You speak of lessons, but what lesson is there in silence?"
The old man's jaw tightened, his voice dropping low. "Do you think I'm blind to this? You think I don't see it every day?"
He stepped closer, voice shaking with restraint. "Justice isn't a blade you swing at whoever looks wrong. If it were that easy, the world would already be clean."
Ruth's eyes narrowed. "Then what are we doing here? Walking?"
The old man gritted his teeth. His right hand, hidden beneath his sleeve, was trembling — veins rising against bruised skin as he clenched his fist so tight it bled faintly.
"Can't you see how mad I am?" he muttered through his teeth. "Can't you see what I'm holding back?"
For a moment, Ruth saw it — not weakness, but control. A storm chained by wisdom, burning silently inside.
"There are things we cannot fix right now," the old man said finally, voice rough with anger and pain. "Not like this. Not yet."
He turned and walked past the scene, every step heavy with regret.
Ruth hesitated, then followed — not because he agreed, but because he understood that the old man's restraint came from something deeper than fear.
Behind them, the soldiers laughed and the crowd dispersed.
The sound burned in Ruth's ears long after it faded.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the old man spoke softly, almost to himself,
"Strength without timing is chaos. Justice without patience is suicide."
He looked up at the darkening sky, his face unreadable.
"Ruth," the old man said quietly, his voice low and trembling with meaning, "it's my duty as a…"
He stopped for a breath, eyes shadowed under the fading light. "Just remember—don't become like those greedy fools who rule this land."
Ruth walked silently beside him. He didn't respond — but his silence was no longer empty.
It carried something new: the quiet weight of understanding, and the heavy seed of resolve.