Chapter 2 - A Swordsman's Survival

  I sense someone approaching.

  Their presence ripples through my awareness, pulling me from the void of silence.

  I awaken once more, gathering my scattered senses.

  The cavern where I once rested is gone. Instead of cold, damp, and endless darkness, I now find myself surrounded by a forest of bamboo.

  Sunlight filters through the swaying stalks and rustling leaves. The breeze carries the fresh scent of soil and plants, a stark contrast to the stagnant air I knew before.

  I feel great, basking in the warm sunlight and taking in the fresh air.

  I sort of understand why my master always liked to lie on a grassy field whenever he was exhausted from training.

  It feels relaxing. I can feel the rust on my body shaking off.

  However, the presence that stirs me awake draws closer. From his paces, it is deliberate and steady, a sign of someone disciplined.

  I see him now. A warrior draped in robes.

  His robes are pristine and clean, adorned with a flowing pattern of black ink. His hair is bundled up neatly.

  During my master's journey, I’ve seen this kind of outfit before.

  He's a warrior from Murim.

  My master once clashed with several Murim warriors. One of them even had a grandiose title, the "Heavenly Demon," I believe.

  People of Murim hailed the Heavenly Demon as the strongest warrior, but my master was able to defeat him in battle.

  However, that's a tale for another time.

  Back to the Murim warrior before me. I can see he's a young man, perhaps in his early twenties.

  The white robe he wears and the black pattern flowing on it are an outfit I have never seen before. But judging from his demeanor, I will assume he's a man from an orthodox faction.

  His character oozes with chivalry and honor, an important trait among those of the orthodox faction.

  The man stops before me. His gaze falls upon my blade as if he is weighing my presence.

  After a moment of silence, he bows deeply.

  I know it is a sign of respect. I feel delighted. Someone is paying respect to my master.

  “I’ve heard old tales from my clan that a sword carrying the will of a swordmaster slumbers in this place,” he says, almost whispering.

  “I understand I may be unworthy of wielding such a weapon,” he continues. “But if fate has led me here, then I will honor this sword, this legacy, and the one who forged it.”

  He bows once more before carefully placing his hands on my hilt.

  Seeing this, I extend a small strand of my energy to him, indicating my existence.

  “Is this a Spirit Sword...?” he mumbles when he senses my energy.

  ‘I am indeed a Spirit Sword. However, I consider myself something else,’ my voice echoes in his mind.

  His eyes widen at my voice in his head, but I continue.

  ‘I am a storyteller,’ I say. 'A guide. A trial. If you wish to claim strength beyond your imagination, you must listen to my story. You must experience it.’

  'Do you accept?’

  His grip on my hilt tightens. He answers solemnly, “I accept. Please show me your path, senior.”

  ‘I see’ I nod inwardly. ‘But know this, my story will challenge your ideals.’

  The warrior nods at my warning.

  ‘Very well, this is a tale of a swordsman's survival.’

  ***

  The warrior blinks and finds himself inhabiting the body of a young boy, no older than twelve.

  His pristine robes are replaced by a tattered piece of cloak. His outfit is riddled with tears here and there.

  He frowns, flexing his hands and arms. Though the body is lean, there is strength in this wiry frame, a strength he dismisses almost immediately.

  “These arms,” he mutters, his voice now that of the boy. “Too thin. They cannot deliver a proper strike. And these legs…” He shifts his posture and stance. “Too weak for a decisive dash.”

  ‘They were enough,’ I say. ‘This boy fought and survived where others would have fallen.’

  But a frown and dissatisfaction are still carved on his face.

  Ahead lies a crude campsite. In it is a dying flame with a pot of boiling water over it and a silver sword leaning against a rock.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  This is my master's tale after the fall of his family. And that sword over there, it's me.

  After the fall of his family, my master was forced to wander in the wilderness every day with me, doing whatever he could to survive and grow stronger.

  Suddenly, the sound of hoofbeats breaks the stillness. The warrior stiffens at the noise.

  He turns and sees five bandits approaching on horseback. Their laughter and cackling grow louder as they spot a lone figure by the fire.

  ‘They're bandits’ I say 'Bandits rob everything, regardless of your pleas or cries. And if you fail, they will take your life.’

  The warrior frowns but picks me up. “Then I will fight them,” he declares.

  Seeing the warrior’s determined expression, I remain silent and watch.

  The bandits surround the campsite, dismounting one by one. Their leader, a scarred man with a cruel grin, steps forward.

  “Well, well, well. What do we have here?” he sneers. “A scrawny rat with nothing to his name.”

  The warrior steps forward, pointing me at the bandits. “Leave now, and I will spare you.”

  Hearing this, the bandits look at each other before bursting into laughter.

  “Spare us?!” the leader mocks. “Brothers, you hear this? I’m so scared! Please spare me, esteemed master!”

  Another bandit slaps his forehead in laughter. “Oh my god, this skinny brat will kill us!”

  The warrior grits his teeth at their mockery. He mutters under his breath, “If it wasn’t for this body. Or at the very least, if this body were stronger, just a little bit.”

  “What? Cat got your tongue? Why are you whispering to yourself?” a bandit mocks.

  “Boss! Isn’t this boy from that barony?” one of them suddenly points out.

  Everyone stops mocking and takes a closer look at the warrior.

  “It is! Ha!” the boss laughs. “We’re making big bucks today!”

  All of a sudden, the bandits leer at him like a pack of hungry hyenas. The warrior involuntarily tightens his grip on my hilt, angered by the insults.

  “Okay, kid! I can let you go if you leave your head behind!” the leader cackles.

  The leader lunges, stabbing his sword at the warrior’s throat. The warrior parries, but the impact sends a jolt through his arms.

  He grits his teeth. “This body… it’s too weak!”

  A second bandit charges, swinging an axe. The warrior blocks clumsily, the force driving him back.

  Another bandit snickers at the warrior's weak attempts. “This brat is too weak. We'll be drowning in booze and women tonight!”

  “How did this boy fight at all?! His body is so sloppy!” the warrior growls as his frustration mounts.

  The warrior’s conventional fighting methods fail him. Every sword art and footwork technique he knows falters. His strikes lack power, and his movements are unsteady.

  Even his parries are weak against the bandits’ strength.

  “This is impossible!” he snaps, retreating under the bandits’ assault. “With all due respect, senior. This body cannot fight properly!”

  I shake my imaginary head and say, ‘It can. But not like you would. A good swordsman remains calm in any situation and improvises, regardless of the circumstances.’

  ‘Your swings and steps are too excessive for this body. Refrain from wasting strength you don’t have. Minimize your efforts, maximize your chances,’ I say.

  The warrior hesitates, his pride as an orthodox warrior clashing with his growing desperation.

  My voice echoes in his mind, ‘Look at your surroundings. There are opportunities everywhere. Let his instinct guide you, and you'll see.’

  The leader swings his sword again. Instead of meeting the sword head-on, the warrior sidesteps slightly, completely evading the attack.

  The warrior’s free hand grabs a handful of sand and throws it into the leader’s eyes. The man recoils with a scream.

  Seeing this, I smirk inwardly. Ah, my master’s infamous sand toss. He even created an entire sword skill revolving around tossing sand. If I recall correctly, he developed this skill just to spite some hypocritical paladins.

  “This is dishonorable, senior!” the warrior protests.

  'Effective,’ I counter. 'Survival matters more than honor.’

  The warrior adjusts reluctantly, letting the boy’s instincts guide him.

  Facing another bandit’s attack, he ducks low, grabbing the pot of boiling water from the fire.

  He hurls the scalding liquid at the bandit. The man howls in agony as his face sizzles. But his howl stops midway, as the warrior drives me into his heart.

  The remaining bandits falter and hesitate, seeing their comrade fall to such a wicked move.

  Without wasting another moment, the boy’s body kicks a burning ember into another bandit’s face while my blade flashes, slashing at his throat.

  The last two bandits flee, leaving only the leader behind.

  The leader, his face plastered with sand and dirt, charges with a roar. The warrior raises me to block the strike but stumbles under the force.

  Sensing the warrior’s weakening grip, the leader presses his sword down, forcing the warrior to his knees.

  ‘You should end this,’ I say.

  The warrior hesitates, his grip faltering. “There must be another way!”

  'Sure, have it a go,’ I reply.

  But the mere falter in his grip nearly causes the warrior to collapse.

  In a final, desperate act, the boy’s body flicks a small dagger hidden in his sleeve. He stabs the dagger into the leader’s neck.

  The man gasps, clutching his neck before collapsing with a pair of wide eyes.

  The warrior stares at the bloodied dagger. His hands tremble.

  ***

  The scene fades, and the warrior finds himself back in the bamboo forest, still clutching me.

  'You fought well,’ I say.

  “No,” he whispers. “That wasn’t fighting. It was savagery. There’s no honor in it.”

  ‘That was survival,’ I reply. ‘Without survival, honor is meaningless.’

  He releases his grip on me with a troubled gaze. “Your path is not mine. I cannot forsake my principles, even for survival.”

  ‘Very well, I understand,’ I nod.

  The warrior bows one final time before walking away, leaving me all alone once more.

  He is a good man. A pure and honorable man. However, it is difficult for such a man to survive.

  For a man like him, some may call him admirable, praiseworthy, and respectable. Yet others may call him gullible, narrow-minded, and na?ve.

  Perhaps he will return one day after reflecting on what happened today. Or perhaps he won’t. At the very least, he carries a fragment of my master’s tale.

  Maybe he will share this experience and attract others here. Or maybe he will not.

  One day, the world will know my master's legacy.

  Until then, I will wait.