A small cottage stood atop the hills—one of many scattered across the jagged mountains, far north of the nearest city in Solmira.What's left of it, at least.
Virelith—once the place where Lior and Fenric used to scavenge—was now a battlefield. It spanned almost forty kilometers in width. The largest city on the continent. The boys never actually made it past the outskirts. Still, those outer reaches stretched nearly ten kilometers beyond the main ruins.
Being in the dead center of Solmira, it had become the heart of the war.
Xiaran's main forces came from the Eastern Cities. According to Fenric, they were Empire-like—organized, efficient.It's said they brought over sixty thousand soldiers from their continent, including reserves. Disciplined, strategic, well-supplied.
Velgrynd, by contrast, hailed from the scattered cities of the south, rooted in harsh terrain.They brought far fewer warriors—maybe thirty thousand—divided into roaming legions. Pragmatic. Survival-oriented.
The war, with all its shifting pieces, felt like another world entirely.For Lior and Fenric, survival didn't hinge on armies or strategy—it came down to a single cottage hidden deep in the northern wilds.
The sun barely peeked over the horizon. Early morning light bled into the snow.
Fenric stirred awake, tired and groggy. He blinked, the wooden ceiling looming overhead. The freezing air bit at his skin. He shivered. Pulling on a ragged military uniform, he rose.
He glanced across the room.The other bed was empty.
It was made with military precision—tucked sheets, flattened pillow. As if no one had slept there.
He's up early again, huh? Fenric thought, eyes still puffy with sleep.
He wrapped a worn scarf around his neck and sighed before stepping outside.
The blinding snow and pale sun stung his eyes. He wiped the water from them, blinking into the glare.
Where is the Young Ma—
He spotted a silhouette running up the hill.
"Lior!" Fenric shouted, waving his arms wildly.
Lior crested the hill, breath ragged. He hunched over, hands on knees, sweat pouring down his face. Every strand of hair soaked.
"Hey… hah, Fenric," he panted, his chest rising and falling.
"Why are you running around barefoot and shirtless again?" Fenric asked, frowning. "Your feet are bleeding."
But Lior wasn't really listening. His mind was elsewhere—locked into routines forged from desperation.
He looked down at the red trail his feet had left in the snow.
He remembered the first day. It had been just over two months since he started training.
It hurts a lot less now, at least.
Back then, he could barely feel his toes. Frozen blood clung to his skin, cracking as it dried. Breathing had been a struggle. But still—he ran. Vision narrowed. Lungs burning. Odachi in hand.
He carried that sword everywhere. Strapped to his back. Clutched in hand. The blade stretched about 150 centimeters—its weight no joke. In the early days, carrying it nearly dislocated his shoulder. It felt like dragging a boulder.Now… it was almost an extension of his spine. Almost.
Well, I can manage it now… somewhat.
He stepped past Fenric, his feet still aching.
"It's alright. I'm used to it now," he said, smiling warmly.
Fenric's worried gaze followed him. "But, Lior…"
"Don't worry," Lior reassured him. "I know what I'm doing."
Before Fenric could respond, Lior took the Odachi in both hands.
Alright, now…
He inhaled deeply, eyes closed. When he opened them, he began to move.
Horizontal. Vertical. Diagonal. Hundreds of slashes cut through the freezing air. Muscles learned what the mind had long stopped controlling. Each swing—precise, measured. Each strike—clean, whistling through the wind.
Lior didn't notice when Fenric left. The boy stepped away quietly and slipped back inside the cottage.
In a flash, an hour passed. Then three.
Lior's arms trembled. The cold gnawed at him. His muscles tore and ached, his body screaming. Still, he continued.He wanted to scream, but didn't. He gritted his teeth. Endured. Until finally, his arms failed him.
He dropped to the snow, panting.
"Ah, shit…"
The snow burned his skin, but he sat anyway.
I've got to ignore it. This much is nothing.
He closed his eyes and tried to meditate—sitting in the cold to train mental resilience.
His breath steadied. The pain dulled.
When it turned sharp again, when the cold sank too deep, he imagined the man from Virelith. The one who moved like thunder. Struck like lightning.
Lior would mimic his stance. Twist it. Break it. Reinvent it. Repeat.That was Shadow Sparring—not against an enemy, but against memory.
He rose again, eyes still shut. When he opened them, they were unfocused—distant. Trance-like.
A moment passed.
Something hovered just beyond reach. A sensation. A feeling. He couldn't name it, but it was there. Fleeting.
He'd felt it when the ghostly man brought down his sword.He could see the blow before it landed—trace its path.
As if it were following a thread.
Before he could hold onto it, a voice broke the silence.
"Lior!" Fenric shouted, full of childlike excitement.
Lior turned. The boy ran toward him, one hand raised, holding something.
"Hey, is everything alr—"
"Look, Lior!" Fenric cut him off, unable to contain himself.
He stood before him, hands smeared with dirt, holding something small and delicate.
"It's a flower!" the boy exclaimed, eyes glistening, face streaked with mud.
Lior blinked. Still dazed. "Uhm… I see. But why's that such a big deal?"
Fenric frowned.
"Because nothing grows here," he said quietly. "On this continent, something this delicate… it's a miracle."
"Oh. Right…" Lior scratched the back of his head, smiling. "My bad. When you put it like that… yeah, it is kind of incredible."
Fenric looked away, his expression suddenly solemn.
"You know… I'm sorry," he murmured.
"Hm? Sorry for what?" Lior tilted his head.
"That I can't help. With the training, I mean. You're suffering alone. I just… I don't know how to help. I know you might not even want me to, but—"
Lior stepped forward and ruffled his hair.
"That's enough. Don't say you're useless. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't know anything about this world. Thanks to you, I'm still growing."
He paused, as if remembering something.
"Besides… I'd be lonely. And being stuck here alone sounds awful."
Fenric smiled shyly. "Really?"
Lior nodded.
Then the boy grinned wide, stretching out his muddy hands.
"Here, Lior. You take it."
Lior raised a brow. "Me? Why me? It'll just wither if I carry it around."
"That's exactly why I want you to have it," Fenric said, shaking his head. "If it's with you, I feel like it won't wither. You just seem… competent. Like nothing disappears by your side."
Lior stared at him, stunned.
"Thanks, Fenric. I'll take it."
He gently took the flower. He smiled.
"Just remember—next time, give the flower to a girl. If you give it to a guy, people might get the wrong idea."
They both burst into soft, childish laughter.
"Alright, I'll try to remember that."
With that, Fenric dashed back inside.
Lior stayed, eyes locked on the flower.He didn't know what kind it was. Simple. White. Fragile.
But it was the most beautiful thing he'd seen since arriving in Solmira.
Nothing will disappear by my side…