Arion didn't know how long he sat there, staring at the rusted sword in his lap.
His breath was still shaky. His ribs ached with every inhale. His arms felt like they'd been hammered repeatedly.
It wasn't just the exhaustion of running anymore.
It was the dream.
The boy's strikes.
The cold voice.
The frustration of losing again and again.
He rubbed his eyes and forced himself to steady his breathing.
It was just a dream… right?
But the pain said otherwise.
His shoulder throbbed exactly where the boy's blade had hit him. His wrists still stung where he'd blocked too stiffly. The bruises were real.
The dream wasn't just a dream.
And the boy…
Arion clenched his jaw.
He would have to face him again.
He didn't know how.
He didn't know when.
But he knew one thing clearly:
He wouldn't win without changing something.
He slammed the sword's point into the dirt beside him and pushed himself to his feet, still weak but determined.
His ears suddenly sharpened.
Footsteps.
Real ones.
Coming from the upper ruins.
Arion froze.
The mercenaries were still searching.
A voice echoed faintly.
"Check behind the fallen pillars. The brat couldn't have gone far."
Arion swore under his breath.
He limped backward, slipping behind another cracked stone arch. His leg screamed, but he forced it silent.
The footsteps grew closer.
Then a shadow dropped down from the slope, landing heavily between two collapsed walls.
A mercenary.
Alone.
Armed.
Scanning.
Arion pressed his back flat against the stone, heart thundering.
If the man came two steps forward, he'd see him instantly.
Arion's breath tightened.
He wasn't ready for another fight.
He could barely stand.
But the mercenary's boots turned—
toward Arion's hiding spot.
He was checking the walls one by one.
Systematic.
Experienced.
No escape.
Arion tightened his grip on the sword's hilt.
His palms were sweaty.
His arms trembled.
Every instinct screamed at him to run again.
But there was nowhere to run.
The mercenary stepped around the corner.
His eyes widened.
"Well, there you are—"
Arion didn't let him finish.
He lunged, swinging out of pure instinct, not skill.
A wild, desperate slash.
The mercenary lifted his blade—
But Arion slipped on loose rubble.
His swing missed.
He stumbled forward.
The mercenary smirked, raising his sword to strike Arion down.
"Pathetic—"
Arion fell forward onto one knee—and the rusted blade, by sheer accident, stabbed straight into the mercenary's unprotected thigh.
The man screamed, collapsing.
Arion blinked, stunned—
But he didn't hesitate.
He attacked again.
Wild.
Animal-like.
Terrified.
Not trained.
Not clean.
But desperate.
The mercenary tried to block, but pain slowed him. Arion's blade caught him in the side. A burst of blood followed.
The man gasped, snarled, swung back—
Arion slipped under the attack and rammed the rusted sword forward.
The tip pierced the man's throat.
Silence.
The mercenary's body slumped, eyes still open in shock.
Arion staggered back, panting. His hands shook uncontrollably.
He had killed a man.
Not as a warrior.
Not with skill.
Not with composure.
By accident.
By fear.
By pure survival.
His stomach churned.
His breath hitched.
For a moment, he felt like he was going to collapse again.
"This… this can't be happening…"
But it was.
He forced himself to kneel beside the corpse.
His fingers trembled as he searched the man's belongings.
A small pouch.
A water skin.
Two short throwing knives.
A cloth-wrapped canister marked with a faint symbol.
Arion unraveled it.
A healing potion.
Deep green, thick, with a sharp herbal smell.
Something only mercenaries and adventurers could afford.
His throat tightened.
His parents could've used something like this a hundred times.
He swallowed the bitterness and uncorked it.
The taste burned on the way down, but warmth spread through his body almost instantly. His leg pain dulled. His ribs loosened. His breathing steadied.
Not fully healed.
But enough to stand and fight again.
Arion tightened the straps on the throwing knives and slipped them onto his belt. He tucked the remaining items into a small satchel he tore from the mercenary's body.
Then he looked at his sword again.
The rusted blade.
The cracks.
The faint, ghostly shimmer deep inside it.
And the dream.
The boy's voice echoed sharply in his mind:
"Your stance is wrong."
"Your grip is weak."
"You fear the weapon more than the enemy."
Arion clenched his teeth.
That boy—whoever he was—
had cut him down like an insect.
Arion hated him.
And wanted to be like him.
Not in personality.
Not in arrogance.
In skill.
Arion moved to the center of a clear patch among the ruins. He planted his feet shoulder-width apart—
wrong.
He shifted, remembering the boy's movements.
He exhaled slowly.
He raised the sword again.
The balance was terrible.
The weight uneven.
But he forced his arms to stay steady.
He remembered the boy's footwork.
Small steps.
Precise.
Not lunging wildly like he had done.
Arion stepped forward.
Then back.
Then sideways.
He practiced raising the sword from the ground.
Lowering it.
Blocking imaginary strikes.
Each motion burned.
Each motion stung.
But his anger drowned the pain.
His parents' last moment flashed through his mind.
His mother pushing him toward the door.
His father shouting for him to run.
The smoke.
The screams.
Arion's grip tightened until his knuckles went white.
Those mercenaries didn't slaughter his village for food or coin.
They enjoyed it.
The way they chased him—
the laughter—
the commands—
They weren't soldiers.
They were animals.
Arion wasn't strong enough to fight them yet.
He knew that.
One mercenary almost killed him even when injured.
But in the dream—
that boy was far better than any mercenary.
If Arion could beat him someday—
he could beat anyone.
He closed his eyes.
In his mind, he replayed the dream-duel.
The way the boy angled his blade.
The way he stepped lightly.
The way he never wasted motion.
Arion imitated the stance again.
It felt wrong.
His body wasn't trained for it.
His arms trembled.
But he forced himself to hold it.
For one second.
Three seconds.
Five.
He lowered the blade and inhaled, chest tight with determination.
"I'll face you again," he whispered to the empty ruins, as though the dream boy could hear him.
"And next time… I won't fall so easily."
A faint breeze moved through the ruins.
For a moment, the rusted sword's shimmer brightened.
Arion didn't notice.
He only felt the rising fire inside him—
the anger,
the fear,
and the memory of his burning home.
He raised the sword once more.
This time, it felt lighter.
Not because the blade had changed—
but because Arion had.
He wasn't running anymore.
He was training.
He was surviving.
He was preparing.
For the boy in the dream.
For the mercenaries hunting him.
For the village he'd lost.
For revenge.
Arion exhaled sharply.
"I'll become strong," he whispered.
"Stronger than all of you."
His voice didn't shake this time.
And somewhere deep within the rusted blade—
so faint it might've been imagination—
a pulse answered him.