Under the Ancient Tree
On the peak of the hill stood a single towering tree.
It rose far above the others — ancient, unyielding, as if it had witnessed centuries pass like falling leaves. No one truly knew how old it was. Its bark was thick as stone, its roots deep as the earth's memory.
Beneath its vast shadow stood two figures.
One was an old man with silver hair and a long scar carved beside his eye. Though aged, the pressure he emitted felt like a mountain looming over the land — silent, immovable, overwhelming.
Opposite him stood a boy of fourteen or fifteen. Golden hair. Blue eyes that shimmered with youthful fire. There was light in his gaze — reckless, bright, alive.
He smiled.
In the blink of an eye—
He vanished.
The next instant, he appeared behind the old man, driving his blade toward his back without hesitation.
Clang.
The old man blocked it effortlessly.
As if he had eyes behind him.
The boy did not falter. He pressed forward, striking again and again, his blade flashing like lightning. Yet the old man evaded each strike with the smallest movements, calm and precise.
Steel collided more than ten times within mere breaths.
Finally—
With a single swing, the old man forced the boy back several steps.
Dust scattered.
The old man lowered his blade and smiled faintly.
"That will be enough, Aren."
Aren exhaled, sliding his sword back into its sheath.
"You've improved."
Aren sighed.
"…Still not enough"
Jett's single visible eye lingered on the boy for a long moment.
The wind shifted.
Leaves whispered above them like distant applause.
"Strength," Jett said quietly, "is not measured by how fast you strike… but by what you protect when you do."
Aren frowned slightly.
"I don't want to protect," he replied. "I want to win."
A faint smirk touched the old man's lips.
"That," Jett said, "is why you would lose."
Without warning—
Jett disappeared.
Aren's eyes widened.
A sudden pressure crushed down on his shoulders.
Too late.
The flat of Jett's blade stopped a breath away from Aren's throat.
"You rely too much on instinct," Jett continued calmly. "Your body moves well. Your speed is exceptional. But your awareness—"
He tapped Aren's forehead lightly with two fingers.
"—lags behind."
Aren clenched his jaw.
"I sensed you move."
"You sensed the wind."
Silence fell between them.
Aren stepped back, frustration flickering in his blue eyes.
"I'll surpass you."
Jett sheathed his sword slowly.
"You must."
That answer caught Aren off guard.
"For years," Jett continued, gazing at the horizon, "I have taught you everything I know. Swordsmanship. Tracking. Hunting. Reading the terrain. Reading people."
His tone shifted—subtle, almost distant.
"But there are things I cannot teach you."
Aren tilted his head slightly.
"Like what?"
Jett did not answer immediately.
His gaze drifted toward the far mountains—dark shapes resting beneath the sky.
"Monsters," he finally said.
Aren scoffed lightly. "I've hunted wolves since I was ten."
"I am not speaking of wolves."
The air felt heavier.
Aren noticed it.
A strange stillness.
Even the birds had gone quiet.
Jett turned fully toward him now.
"Tell me, Aren. In three days… what happens?"
Aren blinked.
"…The Selection."
"Yes."
Every child in the kingdom knew of it.
On their fifteenth year, beneath the gaze of the Seven Gods, those chosen would receive power.
Some gained minor blessings.
Some received nothing.
And a rare few—
Formed contracts.
Aren looked down at his hand unconsciously.
"You think I'll be chosen?"
Jett studied him carefully.
"I think," the old man said slowly, "that whether you are chosen… or not… will change the course of your life."
"That's obvious."
"No," Jett's voice sharpened slightly. "You misunderstand."
The wind returned—colder this time.
"Power," he continued, "is not a gift. It is a weight. And some weights are not meant to be carried by children."
Aren laughed softly.
"I'm not a child."
Jett's scar twitched as his expression hardened.
"You are."
A long pause followed.
Then—
From somewhere deep within the forest—
A distant howl echoed.
Not a wolf.
Not any beast Aren recognized.
Low.
Distorted.
Hungry.
Aren's hand instinctively moved to his sword.
Jett noticed.
"Stay."
The single word carried command.
But Aren had already felt it.
That pressure.
Unlike Jett's.
This one felt… wrong.
Twisted.
As if something unseen was breathing beneath the soil itself.
The ancient tree above them creaked.
Jett's gaze sharpened.
"…So soon."
"What is it?" Aren asked.
Jett did not draw his sword.
Instead, he placed a firm hand on Aren's shoulder.
"Go back to the village."
"I'm not running."
"You are obeying."
For a split second—
Something flashed in Jett's eye.
Not fear.
But recognition.
As if he had seen this moment once before.
"Aren," he said quietly, "no matter what happens in the coming days… remember this."
His grip tightened slightly.
"Strength alone will not save you."
The howl came again.
Closer.
This time—
Multiple voices.
And beneath them—
A whisper.
Too faint to understand.
But heavy.
Watching.
Waiting.
Aren felt his heartbeat quicken.
Three days until the Selection.
Yet something had already begun moving.