The mountain air bit at his lungs, crisp, sharp, and wild with the scent of pine needles, wet bark, and mossy stone. Every step up the narrow trail crunched with gravel and dead leaves beneath his worn boots. A squirrel darted out from a nearby bush and paused, staring at him like he was intruding.

“I know, I know... weird place for cardio,” Elric muttered.

He clutched his coat tighter against the early spring chill. It was a simple tan jacket, a little too big for his lanky frame, stitched by his mother from leftover cloth. Underneath, he wore a sweat-drenched tunic, the hem stained with dirt and resin. His dark brown pants were tucked into shin length leather boots, scuffed and weather beaten. A plain iron sword hung in a cloth loop on his back, gifted, reluctantly, after weeks of pestering his father.

“You want to train? By yourself? With what?” his father had asked, arms crossed, one brow arching like it was trying to escape his forehead.

Elric stood at attention like a soldier reporting for duty, gripping a slightly splintered wooden stick in both hands.

“With this,” he declared, dramatically lifting the stick over his head like it was Excalibur. “And eventually... with steel.”

Garron stared.

Then blinked.

Then slowly turned to look at his wife, Lenna, as if to confirm that yes, this was their actual child.

“You’re twelve,” Garron deadpanned.

“I’m thirteen in…  I don’t know, three months maybe.” While counting his fingers.

“That’s still twelve.”

Elric squinted. “Emotionally? I’m like... seventeen.”

“Mentally, you’re five,” Garron muttered.

“Young mentality is good for growing up.”

But Elric didn’t give up. Not that day. Or the day after.

It began with polite requests.

“Father, I would like a sword.”

“No.”

Then, formal petitions.

“Dearest and most respected baronet, Lord of Waisz estate,” Elric intoned with theatrical reverence, “I humbly request a sword for the purpose of self training and future development.”

“No.”

Then came... the tears.

“Do you even love me?!” Elric is posing as a woman abandoned by his man.

“Oh gods, not the fake tears again. You did that already two days ago.”

“They’re not fake! My eyes are sweating from the emotional pressure!”

Garron facepalmed so hard it echoed.

“Don’t give me that look,” he muttered, peeking through his fingers.

“I’m not giving you a look,” Elric sniffed. “I’m giving you a narrative arc.”

Garron rubbed his temples like he was summoning a migraine demon. “I’m starting to think I should’ve taught you sword discipline earlier. ”

Undeterred, Elric walked to the corner of the room where a small, hand-drawn chart was taped to the wall. He squinted at it, tapping his chin thoughtfully.

“Let’s see… I already did the Polite Request, the Formal Petition, the Emotional Breakdown... did I do the Silent Stare of Disappointment yet?”

He turned around and gave his father an intense, wordless look, A look of guilt. A look like an orphan in a rainstorm. A dying puppy's last whimper.

Garron raised a brow.

“No.”

Elric blinked. “No to the sword, or no to the stare?”

“Both”

Lenna poked her head in from the kitchen. “Garron, just give him something before he floods the house again.”

“No! He’ll stab his foot and I’ll have to chop it off!”

“I won’t stab anything important!” Elric interjected. “And I did research.”

He unrolled a crinkled piece of paper with sketches of sword stances, very poorly drawn ones, with captions like “Killer Stab” and “Cool Hero Pose.”

Garron pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You annoying little brat...” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

And yet...

The next day, he handed Elric an old iron training sword.

It wasn’t too sharp, but it was heavy. Dense. Slightly chipped. The handle was wrapped in faded leather that smelled like must and pine tar. The balance was off. The blade had seen better centuries.

To Elric, it felt like a legendary relic.

He cradled it like it was made of starlight.

“Don’t swing it indoors,” Garron grumbled. “Don’t cut trees. Don’t point it at your mother. And do not practice near the barn. The goat are still traumatized from last time.”

“I won’t!” Elric chirped. “I promise! I’ll train safely, responsibly, and become a master of the blade in like, three months!”

Garron groaned.

As Elric turned to leave, bouncing on his heels, Garron let out a long, heartfelt sigh, the kind that carried the weight of all the world’s parental fatigue.

And then, under his breath:

“Who does he take after...?” he murmured, though he already knew.

He didn’t mean to say it aloud. But Lenna caught it anyway.

“Hmm... I don’t know,” she mused from across the room, not looking up from her stitching. “Maybe some guy I knew who used to sneak out at night with a wooden stick, yelling about ‘sword aura’ and falling into the river.”

“That was one time!”

She smiled. “Twice. You forgot about the winter incident.”

Garron turned red.

Behind the door, Elric’s ears twitched as he paused mid-step.

He grinned.

So he did take after someone.

He walked down the path to the forest, sword on his back, grin on his face, wind brushing through his hair like nature herself was cheering him on.

The iron blade clanged faintly with each step, a comforting rhythm.

He looked up at the sky.

Sunlight pierced through the trees in golden shards. The smell of damp earth and budding leaves filled the air. Birds flitted between branches, chirping like gossiping villagers. Somewhere, a woodpecker tapped in rhythm, almost like slow applause.

Elric couldn’t stop smiling.

He held the sword strap tighter.

“That’s right,” he whispered to himself. “I begged for this. I earned it.”

He spun on his heel once, letting the blade sway on his back.

“Time to make my ancestors proud.”

Then he took one heroic step forward,
And immediately caught his foot on an exposed root.

There was a brief moment of weightless, tragic silence.

“GAH... !”

He face-planted directly into a prickly bush, his arms flailing as leaves and twigs launched into the air like confetti from a failed magic trick.

For a few seconds, only the birds responded, chirping indignantly as if offended by his clumsy entrance.

Elric groaned, wiggling free from the greenery with twigs in his hair and what he hoped wasn’t an ant in his sleeve.

He sat up slowly, brushing dirt off his face with the defeated dignity of a man who had just tried to duel fate and lost to landscaping.

He looked around.

Nobody.

Not a single witness.

He exhaled in deep relief. “Good. My legend lives... untainted.”

The bush rustled behind him.

He whipped his head around.

“...You saw nothing,” he muttered at it, pointing a finger like a stern parent scolding a misbehaving shrub.

The bush, of course, said nothing.

But if it could talk, Elric was pretty sure it would be laughing.

For days now, he’d felt it, that presence. Like eyes in the trees. He couldn’t explain it. It wasn’t magic. More like... that primal tingle in your neck when someone stands too close in a quiet room.

So today, he’d changed his routine. 
”Let’s see, whoever you are. Try to follow me now”, he thought, wiping sweat from his brow. “If you’re going to stalk me, you better earn it.” While looking behind to see if someone was following him.

Different path. Higher elevation. Deeper into the forest than usual. If someone was following him, they’d have to hike through thorny brush, rocky paths, and two very grumpy squirrels.

He reached a familiar clearing and exhaled. The grass was damp but soft, and old pine trees loomed like sentinels. One of them bore the scars of repeated sword strikes, his personal practice dummy.

“Alright,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders. “No watchers. No excuses.”

He dropped his gear and fell to the ground.

Push-ups first.

“One... two... three...!”

His arms trembled.

“Four... five... Okay, okay, ow, ”

By the eighth, he collapsed face-first onto the grass.

“Urgh... okay. Slightly jacked,” he wheezed. “Tier Zero Muscles... achieved.”

He lay there for a moment, staring at the shifting clouds through pine branches. A bird called out somewhere, then flew off.

It had become a routine.

Jog up the mountain. Work out till failure. Fantasize about an awakened aura through sheer will. Rinse. Repeat.

Yet...

“No lightning bolts. No sparkly transformation. No aura. No narrator whispering, ‘And thus, his true power awakened!’” he sighed, kicking a pinecone. “I’ve been scammed.”

He sat up and reached for his iron sword, its surface dull and pitted with age.

“Hmph... swordsmanship doesn’t sound too bad,” he muttered. “Might as well get good at something.”

[Earth, Seoul]

A few years later, Kim Jiwon finally managed to rent a room of his own.

The dim glow of the laptop bathed the room in soft blue light, casting shadows across empty ramen cups and scattered notes. Pitter-patter. Rain tapped gently against the window as he leaned in, eyes glued to the screen.

One video showed a kung fu master gliding across the floor, hands blurring with speed. Another featured a kendo match, CLACK!, wooden swords striking with preternatural precision. Another still was an old wuxia film, warriors floating in midair, swords slicing through stone like tofu.

He squinted.

"There’s no way this is just muscle and training..." he muttered, flipping a pen between his fingers.

Beside him lay a notebook, boldly titled: Unveil the Trick

Pages overflowed with diagrams, theories, and wild guesses.

"What if this is all just... sleight of hand? Misdirection? What kind of trick is this?"

His research turned from casual curiosity to mild obsession. He devoured historical fencing manuals. Watched Japanese kenjutsu footage. Dug into old Italian rapier treatises. Frame-by-frame breakdowns of martial arts choreography.

Then he saw it: Zucken, a feint from the German longsword tradition. A fake strike, redirected mid-swing to provoke a parry and punish the opening. Deception written in motion.

"So it's not magic," he whispered. "It looks supernatural… but it’s just timing. Leverage. And dramatic cinematography."

He rewound. Studied the footwork. The angle. The tiny twitch before the feint.

No spells.

Just trickery.

He saw the same pattern everywhere. Faked stances, delayed strikes, broken rhythms, false cues. It wasn’t about overpowering your opponent, it was about outthinking them. Outsmarting their instincts.

Out of habit, he mimicked the movements in front of his mirror. At first, just for understanding. Then, a little more. Tweaking his grip. Adjusting posture. Refining how to hide his intention.

"It’s all a bluff," he wrote that night. "A beautiful bluff, written in motion."



TO BE CONTINUED ~