The forest was heavy with the scent of iron.
A thick fog curled between the ancient trees, carrying whispers of death. Blood soaked the roots, and crows circled overhead like reapers awaiting their due.
A young man walked through the gloom.
Long, snow-white hair clung to his blood-slicked shoulders. In his right hand, he carried a severed head by the hair—its lifeless eyes still wide in fear. In his left, a bamboo stick, smooth and scarred by countless battles, tapped the ground with each step like a war drum.
His clothes were torn, his body splattered in crimson. But his eyes… his eyes were calm. Too calm.
Moments earlier, the bandits had laughed.
They had surrounded him, mocking the "lost boy" in the woods. They hadn't seen it—the way the air trembled, the way the earth cracked beneath his feet when his Aether flared.
Lightning had flashed.
The sky, sensing blood, wept with a roar of thunder.
Now, none of the bandits remained. Only the forest bore witness to their screams, and the damp soil drank from their wounds.
The youth stopped beneath a dead tree.
He looked down at the head in his hand, then tossed it to the ground like waste.
His expression didn't change.
Not a flicker of regret. Not a spark of satisfaction.
This was simply his world. One shaped by blood, sharpened by silence, and ruled by strength.
And far beyond the eyes of the world, hidden beneath the ancient forest's shadows, he walked on—with several heads hanging from his left hand and a bamboo stick at his side, a trail of blood behind him.
The forest held its breath.
The ruthless sword walked again.
"So bad for you," the boy muttered, glancing down at the head he had just dropped.
With the road littered with corpses and flowing blood, the white-haired boy turned away and made his way home. His bamboo stick tapped softly with each step, no different than before—calm and controlled.
Back at his secluded home, he stripped off the blood-soaked shirt. Even though he was only fifteen, his frame was lean and powerful—muscles carved through countless battles, his body etched with old and fresh scars. He looked far older than his years.
"Ha...I haveno clothes to wear nowbecause of that banditearlier," he muttered, scratching the back of his head.
He moved toward a large bathing pool he had prepared himself. As he stepped in, the clear water turned crimson within moments, tainted by the blood still clinging to him. He closed his eyes, letting the heat seep into his skin, washing away the scent of death.
Minutes later, he stepped out, wrapping a towel around his waist. Steam curled off his skin. The blood had been washed away—but not the memory.
He dressed in a clean, plain outfit. No armor. No flash. Just fabric and breath.
Then, without another word, he disappeared into the trees once more.
Deeper into the forest, beyond the reach of man, a vast waterfall roared. The cliff it fell from was carved by time, the basin below glowing faintly under the moonlight.
He sat beneath the crashing water, legs crossed, bamboo stick laid beside him.
The roar of the fall swallowed the world. His breath slowed. His eyes shut.
The chaos faded—locked away beneath the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the quiet hum of his Aether core.
The forest listened. It remembered the screams.
But now, it was silent.
And it waited.
Because the ruthless sword would walk again.