One month passed in silence, sweat, and bruises.

  Kang Won's young body had been beaten into shape like folded steel—slowly, relentlessly, with no allowance for mercy. At only ten years old, his physique had become honed to the utmost limit possible without the aid of advanced cultivation.

  Every morning he trained under the open sky, sometimes in full view of other disciples—most of whom whispered or smirked, dismissing his obsession as the overcompensation of a fallen prodigy. But most days, he vanished to the lonely peak northeast of the sect grounds, a jagged ledge of rock and wind where no one came anymore.

  Here, under the pale morning light, Kang Won practiced until his bones trembled and his vision blurred.

  He moved with discipline, his stances executed with surgical precision. Sweat soaked through his uniform as he completed his hundredth cycle of the Lightning Shadow Sword's physical form drills—without a sword. The blade would come later. For now, his body was the blade.

  He had long since abjured (renounced or rejected) comfort. He had abstained (held himself back) from rest, indulgence, and pointless conversation. Food was simple. Sleep was brief. His was an abstemious (moderate and self-restrained) life, sharpened by regret and vengeance.

  At night, while others dreamed of glory, Kang Won sat cross-legged on a bamboo mat in his childhood room, practicing the world's most common Qi breathing technique—Heavenly Root Foundation Method. It was considered a basic art, available for everyone across the central plains. But it was stable. Reliable. And it was slowly working.

  Qi did not rush into him like a storm—it crept in like dew. With every breath, with every pulse of focused will, it accrued (built up over time) inside him. Like the accretion (gradual buildup) of snow on a blade's edge, it gathered.

  The cold wind whispered across the mountain ridge, carrying with it the scent of pine and morning mist.

  Kang Won stood alone, barefoot on a smooth stone slab, moving through the final steps of a rigorous stance cycle. His robe stuck to his back with sweat, his breaths deep and measured, his eyes calm. His limbs trembled faintly—not from weakness, but from pushing his young body beyond its natural threshold.

  A voice broke the silence.

  "You train here often."

  Kang Won didn't turn. He finished the motion, lowered his stance, and finally rose to his feet.

  Behind him stood a boy of similar age. His black hair was tied loosely, his uniform a bit wrinkled, sleeves rolled up. He leaned slightly on a wooden staff, as if unsure whether to stand tall or stay ready to run.

  "I've seen you before," the boy continued. "In the morning drills. You don't speak to anyone. Then you disappear after class, and no one sees you until the next day."

  Kang Won said nothing. He picked up his gourd and took a long drink.

  "I'm Baek Kwon. A disciple… like you," the boy added quickly. "Without a master."

  Kang Won glanced at him. "Then you should be in the main courtyard. Morning formation has begun."

  Baek Kwon shifted uncomfortably. "I often… arrive late."

  Kang Won gave a slight nod. That alone told him what he needed to know.

  Baek Kwon stepped closer, eyes scanning the stone floor where faint grooves had formed from countless repeated steps. "You train harder than anyone I've seen. Even the instructors don't train like this."

  Kang Won returned to his stance.

  Baek Kwon's tone changed—soft, curious. "Why?"

  There was no reply for several breaths. Then Kang Won spoke.

  "Because I must."

  Baek Kwon tilted his head. "To be strong?"

  Kang Won's gaze sharpened. "To never be weak again."

  Baek Kwon gave a small laugh—more of a breath than a sound. "You sound like one of the old swordsmen from the scroll tales."

  Then he stepped forward again, mockingly took a stance—crooked knees, hunched shoulders.

  "How is this? Will I become a peerless expert by tomorrow?"

  Kang Won moved.

  A blur.

  Baek Kwon gasped as Kang Won's fingers struck his abdomen—not enough to wound, but precise. His knees buckled and he dropped to the stone floor, coughing.

  He looked up, face pale, more surprised than hurt.

  "W-What… was that for?"

  Kang Won stared down at him. "Do not mock the path. The sword may be quiet—but it remembers."

  Baek Kwon coughed again, then gave a sheepish smile. "It seems you're already a half-master."

  He sat there for a long moment, catching his breath, then slowly stood.

  From the look in his eyes, something had changed.

  He bowed—awkwardly, but sincere.

  "From today… I will watch your training. If that is acceptable."

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  Kang Won hesitated. "You will grow tired of it."

  "Maybe," Baek Kwon said. "But I will still come."

  And from that day, Baek Kwon followed.

  Not as a friend. Not yet.

  But as a shadow watching the storm.

  Three mornings passed.

  Baek Kwon returned each day.

  He never spoke first. He simply arrived at the training peak before the sun rose, sat near the edge with his makeshift staff across his lap, and waited. Sometimes Kang Won ignored him. Other times, he acknowledged him with a glance.

  By the fourth day, Baek Kwon stood and mimicked Kang Won's basic stances—badly.

  His balance was wrong, his hips too loose, his strikes unrooted.

  Kang Won didn't comment. But after the tenth mistake in the first form cycle, he stopped.

  "Your left foot," Kang Won said, his tone flat. "Root it. Otherwise, your strike collapses from the base."

  Baek Kwon blinked. "That's the first thing you've said all morning."

  "It will also be the last," Kang Won said, resuming his drills.

  Baek Kwon grinned.

  He couldn't keep up. His body was average. His discipline—scattered at best. He rested often, took longer to recover, and sometimes collapsed after drills. But he came back each time. His bruises deepened. His palms split open. Still, he tried.

  One morning, after their shared silence, Baek Kwon spoke.

  "Do you ever wander the sect grounds?"

  Kang Won shook his head.

  "You should," Baek said. "There's a part no one uses anymore. It's quiet. I go there sometimes… when I skip drills."

  Kang Won studied him for a moment, then nodded.

  That evening, after the final bells, they went.

  The sect's main courtyard had begun to feel hollow over the years—its banners faded, its walls chipped. But beyond the outer halls, past the weathered pavilions and the dried koi pond, was a half-buried stone corridor. Few even looked at it anymore.

  Baek Kwon led them down broken steps into the forgotten passage.

  "This was once a martial archive," he said, voice hushed. "I overheard an instructor say it was sealed after the fire. No one goes here now."

  They emerged into a wide chamber where scroll racks sat in abeyance (suspended use)—empty, dusty, and warped with time. Pieces of shattered wood and crumbled brick littered the floor. A statue of the sect's founder stood at the center, split down the middle—his sword broken, his eyes darkened by smoke.

  Kang Won stepped forward slowly, heart heavy.

  "This place was once a temple of something," he murmured. "Now… it is stillness itself."

  The silence was heavy—not peaceful, but mournful. The decay was not just physical, but spiritual. The once-noble traditions of the Lightning Shadow Sword Sect had fallen into abject (miserable and degraded) neglect.

  On the walls, ancient murals still clung to life—cracked, dulled, their aesthetic (concerning beauty or form) brilliance adulterated (corrupted or ruined) by mold and soot. In the past, they would have inspired awe. Now, they barely whispered their stories.

  Kang Won paused before a broken training dummy in the corner.

  "This," he said, "was the adjunct training hall. For forms not officially part of our core style."

  Baek Kwon knelt beside a pile of broken practice swords. "There's a strange comfort here. Like it remembers being alive."

  Kang Won said nothing.

  The silence in the forgotten training hall weighed heavily on them both, a quiet that was not peaceful, but suffocating. Kang Won stood near the broken statue of the sect's founder, the weight of its shattered sword and the darkness in its hollowed eyes reflecting the decay of the sect itself. The space around them felt frozen in time, abandoned by all except the ghosts of the past.

  Baek Kwon, his eyes drawn to the crumbling walls and scattered debris, seemed unsure of how to approach the moment. His voice broke the silence, soft but pointed.

  "What do you think of this place?" Baek Kwon asked, his gaze sweeping over the forgotten training hall. "What does it mean to you?"

  Kang Won's gaze remained fixed on the statue, his expression unreadable. He could feel the weight of Baek Kwon's question, but he wasn't about to open up. Not yet. Not to someone who didn't understand what it truly meant to walk this path.

  "It's just a place," Kang Won said, his voice flat, dismissive. "A relic of something that's gone. Nothing more."

  Baek Kwon frowned, sensing that there was more to Kang Won's words than he was letting on. But he didn't press. Instead, he glanced around the room, clearly troubled by the sight of the ruined training dummies and shattered scrolls.

  "Doesn't it bother you?" Baek Kwon asked, his voice quieter now. "To see something so important left to rot? To know this was once a place where the strongest were made?"

  Kang Won finally turned, his eyes narrowing as he regarded Baek Kwon, still kneeling by a pile of ruined practice swords. His expression was unreadable, but the air around him seemed to thicken, as if the atmosphere itself had become more charged.

  "No," Kang Won said slowly, his tone sharp. "Things die. Things fall apart. The only thing that matters is what comes after. What's left standing when the dust settles. You're either strong enough to rebuild or you're not."

  Baek Kwon blinked, clearly taken aback by the bluntness of the answer. He had expected something else—a spark of longing, perhaps, or a hint of emotion. Instead, Kang Won's words had the same cold finality as a sword's edge.

  "You speak like you've already given up on it," Baek Kwon murmured, a trace of uncertainty in his voice.

  Kang Won didn't respond at first. His gaze moved to the broken statue of the sect's founder once more. It had been years since the fire, but it still felt like the sect's flame had died that day. In some ways, the ember was still burning inside him, but it was a different fire now—a fire of necessity, not hope.

  "I don't waste time on things I can't change," Kang Won finally said, his voice low and firm. "The sect is what it is. I'm here to make myself something more. That's all."

  Baek Kwon fell silent, processing Kang Won's words.

  "Then why do you train like this?" Baek Kwon asked, after a long pause. "Why push yourself so far? You don't even need to train that hard. You're already better than anyone here."

  Kang Won's expression darkened, his jaw tightening. "You think I push myself for no reason?" he said, his voice low and sharp. "I don't do this for anyone else. I don't do this for the sect. I do it for myself."

  Baek Kwon wasn't deterred. "But you must want something more than just strength. You don't train like this for nothing."

  Kang Won's gaze flicked to him, his eyes narrowing. He said nothing at first, but his thoughts flickered briefly, flashes of memories that he buried deep. A betrayal. The faces of those he lost. He wasn't about to share that with Baek Kwon—not now, not ever.

  "Mind your own path," Kang Won finally said, his voice curt. "I'll walk mine. And if you want to follow me, you'll have to earn the right. You don't get to ask questions until you prove you can keep up."

  Baek Kwon wasn't deterred by the rebuff. Instead, he stood up, brushing the dust from his knees, and grinned.

  "I'll keep up," Baek Kwon said with quiet confidence. "Maybe not today, but soon. You won't be able to get rid of me that easily."

  Kang Won stared at him for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face. There was something in Baek Kwon's determination that sparked a flicker of something deep within him—something he didn't want to acknowledge. He didn't need anyone, didn't want anyone, yet this boy kept coming back.

  "You think you can follow me?" Kang Won asked, voice tinged with a challenge. "Then show me. But don't come back to me when you've broken yourself."

  Baek Kwon grinned even wider. "I'll take my chances."

  Kang Won sighed softly, the corners of his lips twitching with something like the beginnings of a smile, but he quickly masked it. "Fine. But don't think I'll make it easy for you. I don't train people for free."

  Baek Kwon nodded enthusiastically, a sense of newfound purpose in his eyes. "I wouldn't want it any other way."

  And so, from that moment on, Baek Kwon became a fixture in Kang Won's training—following him silently, observing, and slowly starting to mimic his movements, though still far behind. The younger boy didn't speak much, but he was there every day, unwavering in his presence. And Kang Won, for all his reluctance, found himself noticing it. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was more to this boy than he had first thought.

  The road ahead would be long and grueling, but for the first time, Kang Won felt the slightest stir of something other than the cold, relentless drive for vengeance. Maybe there was room in his life for something more—for someone else to walk beside him.