The morning light slipped quietly between the branches, soft enough to blur the lines beneath Ravan's eyes.
He opened them slowly, drawing a deep breath before turning toward Termo—
and there it was again.
That still face. That silent stare.
A look that said more than any explanation ever could.
For a moment, Ravan felt something heavy settle in his chest.
But he didn't ask.
He didn't want to start the morning digging through old wounds.
So he rose, dusted off his cloak, and said simply:
"Let's move. The road isn't getting shorter."
They pushed through the trees until the forest suddenly widened, letting them out into a narrow path surrounded by small wooden houses. Voices filled the air—sharp ones, tired ones, whispers of conversations that slipped between the buildings like smoke.
Something about those voices felt strangely familiar to Ravan…
too familiar.
He approached a man standing near a well and asked for directions.
The man blinked and replied with mild surprise:
"You're in the far side of Ghost Village."
Ravan stiffened for a breath.
That name…
He wasn't sure if he disliked it because it sounded strange, or because something inside him reacted to it.
Before he could say anything, the man continued:
"Where're you two from?"
"From the north," Ravan answered.
And then it began.
A name… a word… a whisper spreading through the people like a spark hitting dry leaves.
"The White Sword."
It passed from mouth to mouth, from glance to glance.
Every time it was spoken, people turned their attention toward them—not with fear… but with a strange mix of caution and curiosity.
The man leaned closer, lowering his voice:
"Do you know the White Sword?"
Ravan's answer was sharp, cold, controlled:
"No. Why should I?"
The man gave a smile—half mocking, half knowing.
"Just an old competition, nothing important."
He was lying.
Ravan recognized the tone instantly.
The way liars always mix truth with shadow.
As the name continued echoing around the houses, the man invited them to his home.
The place was simple, clean, and somehow warmer than the village outside.
They sat around a wooden table where he placed a meal that neither of them had eaten in a long time.
Through dinner, Termo was unusually quiet.
His eyes unfocused, his breathing still.
It was the kind of silence that hinted at something darker stirring beneath.
The man eventually spoke again:
"You really don't know anything about the White Swords, do you?"
Ravan didn't answer immediately; he just watched the man's expression.
So the man continued, lowering his gaze to the flickering firelight beside them.
"A long time ago, there was a group called the White Swords. Humans… who could turn into a certain type of demon. Not full demons—something in between."
Termo froze.
Only for a heartbeat.
But Ravan noticed.
"And among them," the man said, "was someone named Mok."
He spoke the name as if it carried a curse.
"Stronger than the rest. The most active member. Until one day… he turned on them.
Killed them all.
Every last one.
And after the organization collapsed… he vanished."
Termo's chest tightened in a way he couldn't explain.
A strange heaviness, like a memory he didn't have trying to surface.
The man kept talking, unaware of what the name meant to the boy sitting across from him.
"Some say he died. Some swear they saw him again. No one knows."
He laughed, but it wasn't a comfortable laugh.
More like someone trying to act braver than he felt.
He didn't know—couldn't know—that everyone in Termo's old village believed his brother had died fighting a demon.
And Termo himself had no idea that the name whispered in this village…
might be tied to his own blood.
The next morning, Ravan and Termo walked the edges of the village.
Ravan wandered through a narrow pathway when something caught his eye—
a small pile of ash…
and beside it, bones.
Tiny bones.
Child-sized.
Old, burned, left to disappear under dirt and time.
His jaw tightened, but he didn't stop moving.
Something about the entire place felt wrong to him.
Termo explored alone.
Each step he took felt heavier, as though the earth beneath the village carried secrets the people refused to speak.
He sensed a darker side to human life here—
but he didn't care enough to investigate.
Not now.
Not with everything else that weighed on him.
When they regrouped, neither said much.
Their only decision was simple:
"Next stop: Tanti City."
The road stretched long before them.
The sky dimmed into orange, then violet.
Ravan gathered wood and lit a fire, letting the warmth battle the creeping night air.
That night, the nightmare returned.
He stood once more inside the burning village—
flames swallowing homes, screams filling the sky, smoke choking the horizon.
And he was there in the center, clutching his sword, unable to move.
Unable to save anything.
He woke with a violent gasp, heart pounding, as the first hint of dawn pushed away the darkness.
He didn't sleep again.
In the morning, they continued toward Tanti.
Termo's thoughts remained tangled in the story of the White Sword…
and in a question he wasn't ready to face.
Who was Mok…
really?
As they walked, Ravan stopped near a spring, kneeling to cup water in his hands.
The moment his guard lowered—even for a breath—
a heavy thud echoed from behind.
A huge man stood there, carrying a massive sword on his back.
Beside him, a little girl clutching a blade far too big for her small hands.
Bandits.
Hungry ones.
The man looked at Termo—not Ravan—and grinned.
"Well now… what're you doing out here, little one?"
Termo lifted his eyes slowly.
No fear.
Just a sharp, cold stare.
Then a smile—dangerous, thin.
He knew, after fighting the giant demon…
after feeling that twisted energy inside him…
that he was no longer the same boy who left his village.
He knew exactly what he was capable of.
The bandit took a step forward—