Thea's face started to morph into a slimy melting green thing. She had been packing her things when he saw her this time, looking to his room to ensure he was still asleep.

  He imagined this was how they must have left. Like thieves in the night running from what he had assumed was their home. Now the scene was interspersed with about thirty others.

  In one, his mother and aunt sat and discussed his cousin. How she was doing at some sort of training camp?

  In another, his father and sister sat with a songwriter, planning her next single perhaps.

  In another vision he lay in the dungeon he had almost lost his life. He was dead in that version of reality, but the devils stood over him. He saw their grotesque faces shifting and swirling. They were arguing about killing him too fast. He would have scoffed if he was there with them. The one who was complaining probably wanted to torture him or some such stupid reason.

  He shuddered as the pain in his head reached unbearable proportions. With a heavy breath, he slammed his mental defense skill back up. No wonder most low-level people could not handle time dilation for long periods. For those few seconds his skill had been off, nothing made sense.

  “At least my pain tolerance received some much-needed work,” he said amid a bout of panting.

  His pain tolerance did not need any kind of work. At this rate, he could grit his teeth through losing an arm. He was going to turn into a masochist if things did not change.

  His body was not in the best state after he'd been forced into a dangerous dungeon alone. It was supposedly a rite of passage for the damn light masters' apprentices. He had to run the dungeon a hundred times until he got it to drop a high-rarity light aspect treasure.

  And the monsters he had to fight were incorporeal. Shadow wraiths and gleaming jade-colored ghosts. Light magic was a counter to them. The only way he could run the dungeon was by trying to sneak past the monsters.

  It wasn't easy sneaking past beings that could float through walls. Luckily he had bought talismans and a bunch of water in a jar they called holy water.

  By his fourteenth run though, his gold and goods were getting depleted. So then he just had to get creative. By protecting his chest and head, he let the spirit monsters try to possess him. Then he'd just stab his arm or leg or wherever the ghost had stuck itself and kill it. It was the best plan as it made use of all his strengths.

  He was sure anyone he told of this mission would call him a genius for making use of the best tools at his disposal. They would not think he was a deviant or anything.

  He had stabbed his left hand thirty times by the time he reached the boss's room, and it was flopping uselessly by his side.

  He saw the boss of this instance and all its minions, and he blanched. A looming thing of shadow and shimmering jade. It was a cross between both breeds of dungeon ghosts. It was like looking at a portrait to contrast. He couldn't tell where any of its parts were. And then there were the nine shimmering presences surrounding it.

  This was the ultimate hard level of the dungeon, and in this instance, he had the least resources. At least he was sure he'd get a precious drop from this dive.

  “Those light masters better have gold in their damn library. I didn't like what I saw of their fighting style so far…”

  But the ghosts were already attacking. He was going to have to commit suicide on this occasion, he realised.

  ****

  When Rafe reached the Southern tip of the dark and desolate world that was the demon continent, he couldn't help but look to where he thought the North was.

  He had been traveling for more than ten years by then. He had always planned to get back to Jonathan and the family but he honestly tried his best not to think about them. They were not real people. It was hard to wrap his mind around. When he left this trial, he'd never see them again.

  But they seemed so real. The girls…

  “Shit, they must be getting into their late teens by now. Are they married? Do they even remember me?”

  The soil of the demon continent was black. The beach he landed on was covered in black coarse sand, and the sea looked dark red. The clouds were sparse and had layers to them. The violet of the sky showed clearly through, and storms from space itself ravaged the sky. There was not a layer protecting the land from the heat of the stars.

  “Perfect…” Rafe said.

  With one last lingering look to the North, he took off in chase of more challenges. In times of doubt, just look for a good impossible fight and what else in the world could really matter?

  ****

  “The wanderer approaches,” one of Gaoshom’s attendants spoke.

  They had taken to calling the boy who'd appeared on their island almost two years past The Wanderer. Gaoshom had been anticipating the visit, if only because it was a rare occasion when one saw a practitioner of all four major sword schools at once, and one who was claimed to be pushing the bounds of the advanced tier in all of them at that. And he was young.

  It would be a good day for a spar, a good day to guide a promising swordsman. And maybe learn from him too.

  He didn't stop his work, though, even when the boy came, and he felt the boy’s interest, and he welcomed it. He continued to slash at the wood in his possession, waiting for the boy's question.

  “I have heard about Master Gaoshom's famous carvings of wood, they are more impressive than I was led to believe.”

  “Truly? You flatter me, young master. This is not but an old man's little hobby. To pass the time.”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “I find that hard to believe,” the boy commented.

  “Oh? Enlighten me.”

  “You are more famed for your raw bru…strength,” the boy restrained himself at the last minute. “If I had to guess, you're making a bid for grand mastery by trying to incorporate control into your technique.”

  He was about to say brutality, Gaoshom knew, but the boy had corrected himself at the last moment and that was all that mattered.

  “And what do you think of my attempt?”

  The boy sat down behind him, his attentiveness not feigned. It was refreshing to see.

  “It's an interesting way to seek enlightenment, and even if the design of my sword may make it harder to pursue such artistic expression, I would like to try it.”

  Gaoshom didn't answer for a time, instead focusing on the final stretch. Like an experienced painter, he moved his hands, working his wrists in small precise movements. It was hard to carve shapes with such unwieldy tools as swords, but after decades of practice, Gaoshom believed himself quite the artist. He could feel the boy's rapt attention, eyes wide as saucers, body tense in his seated position.

  Gaoshom allowed himself a private grin as he upped his speed. He could make it much more of a show.

  With a great sword, and with his latest carving already in the general shape of a sitting man. He moved his arms much faster, his sword blurring, his concentration ramping up to the max, and the curving coming to life. He curved the face, the wide eyes he could sense with his settled spirit, the little sword at the boy's hip, and his large, once white robes and sandals, his crossed legs. Only two minutes later Gaoshom stood panting over the boy he'd just carved.

  “A gift to commemorate our sharing of insights,” he said as he gave the boy the carving.

  The boy accepted it with an open mouth. He seemed to be lost for words.

  “This island is a lot more generous than most of the other lands I've visited over the last decades. The elves shot me out of their forest before I could challenge their masters, although I had good practice cutting down their arrows and spells, and the dwarves only like to compete with those physically strong. The temple of light masters wanted aspected treasures to show me their techniques. But here, everyone just accepts my challenges.”

  “Decades? I take it you made it to the demon continent, then?”

  “The haven of all wandering warriors. There I exchanged pointers with all manner of weapon masters. Even a grandmaster of the axe once. That did not go well.”

  “A grandmaster? And yet I've had not a tale of you winning a single fight of hundreds you've had on our island?”

  “I've come to realise that I learn more from my failures than my successes. When I finally find my truth and become a master, I'll have lost a million fights, and almost died a million times. The experience is more important than a simple win.”

  “You aim for grand mastery and beyond?”

  “I do,” the boy answered with a nod.

  “Grand ambitions, grand ambitions!” Gaoshom declared, quite pleased. “Has your sword journey been fruitful, then? Are you tired of tempering yourself yet? Are you weary?”

  The boy smiled a tired smile but answered nonetheless. “I do get tired, at times. But I can only move forward, run away from my ghosts.”

  Gaoshom sensed he'd come close to something with the boy's last statement. It was obvious the boy didn't want to talk about it though. And everyone had their secrets. Well, the boy had somehow taken decades in pursuit of the sword, traveling further than Gaoshom had back in the day. He deserved his respect, if anything. Gaoshom stood, and the boy stood with him, hands on hilts.

  Through unspoken agreement, they walked out of Gaoshom's little shed, his sanctuary, to the sparring compound dead center of Gaoshom's complex. The apprentices stopped their training, leaving the yard free.

  They stood equidistant from each other, eyes studying, bodies loose in a pantomime of cool relaxation. They were anything but relaxed. At least Gaoshom was. His heart drummed in his ears, his hands shook, but the firmness of his great sword supported him.

  The boy moved one foot forward, bending his body in a crouched stance. He'd be making the first move. Gaoshom tensed his lower body muscles in readiness. The boy took one step with his trailing leg, and then he was charging, a streak of white running towards him. Gaoshom launched himself skyward, the boy's blade thrust forward and found nothing but air.

  Gaoshom charged his opening move, holding his great sword over his head with both hands. The boy, fast as was advertised crouched even lower than before, the tip of his sword touching the earth. Gaoshom would have avoided this with any other opponent, but he decided to start with a standard earth-shattering technique, augmented with his aura of hardness and strength.

  He wanted to test the boy before he started to show him his more finessed techniques. How would the boy respond to brute strength? The correct answer should have been with quality, but then again, Gaoshom had more quality than the boy. A simple attack from a master had more quality than the most polished strike of a peak advanced warrior.

  The boy had a response though. Quantity. With his legendary speed, a barrage of tiny blade after images met Gaoshom's attack. They were all crushed, but they bought the boy the seconds he needed to get out of the attack radius. And he was on Gaoshom in a heartbeat, a swing Gaoshom had to use all his warrior's spirit to block. And then his spirit met the boy's, and they were…equal? Huh? The boy had not been kidding about traversing three continents. Maybe he'd even faced a real war once or twice, come close to dying. How else would his battle intent have grown this much at such a young age?

  Gaoshom projected his sword, pushing the boy's attack back. He couldn't get his guard up in time, but he didn't need to. His defenses could not be penetrated that easily. With his growing insights into control, he'd learned to control his sword projections like they were autonomous.

  The boy flipped and fell back a few steps. He wore a frown like he was thinking of doing something, but then he sighed and changed his leading hand. Gaoshom frowned a moment. Had the boy been using his non-dominant hand as the leading hand in the beginning?

  He didn't have time to think. The boy was on him in a minute. Gaoshom's old bones were warming up, his muscles loosening. He managed to intercept one of the boy's swings with his blade, their swords clanging together in a beautiful sound of steel on steel. The boy's blade bent around his own, and Gaoshom had to imbue his own body with his sword aura. His battle intent becoming sharp enough it drew blood from the boy's leading arm. The boy flipped in retreat, not wasting time to get into a stance.

  Gaoshom laughed. The boy's sword had slithered past his guard like a snake. Well, Gaoshom defending was a bit of an anomaly, and it was time to show this boy why. He had finished warming up.

  He could tell that his charge was faster than the boy's, faster even than the boy could follow given how his eyes widened at Gaoshom's sudden appearance. The boy probably thought polishing his earth-shattering technique into a movement technique was a new thing, but Gaoshom was a master of earth-shattering. Of course, he'd done it all, and more. The boy did manage to get his sword up in time to block, but he was still sent skidding on the smooth sandy ground like a ragdoll. He was light, small, built for speed.

  Gaoshom would show him why strength was the better build. He was there in an instant, standing over the boy with his blade raised. Only the boy wasn't just lying like he was supposed to be. He'd corrected, getting to his feet in an already crouched stance.

  Gaoshom's blade descended, and the boy's blade ascended together with his body. When they met Gaoshom pushed the boy downward, crushing him. He realised moments later, that the boy had angled his blade in such a way that as Gaoshom pushed him downwards, he pushed him inwards too, into his guard. Gaoshom stepped back out of instinct, the upswing passing a few inches in front of his nose.

  He jumped back, crouched in his stance, and stared unblinkingly at his opponent. The boy, breathing hard now, stared him down too. The rest of the courtyard stood silent, watching, awed. The world stilled, waited, held its breath.

  Gaoshom didn't know who moved first, but then they were both at the center, blades soaring. Steel met steel, ringing, sparks flying.

  Gaoshom pushed his opponent back, but the boy was back before he knew it.

  They fought for nine hours. Gaoshom had not had such a glorious battle in years.