Chapter 9 – The Blade Draws Blood
For the first time in a week, Ariz stepped outside his house—not as a boy struggling to survive, but as a weapon forged in solitude.
His steps were calm, his long hair drifting slightly in the breeze, and his lean frame no longer weak, but honed. His eyes, once filled with hesitation, now held a cold clarity. He had trained day and night in the system realm, mastering the "Flowing Shadow" technique until it became muscle memory. His stats had grown, but more importantly, so had his intent.
Today, he wasn't here to prove himself.
Today, he was here to end something.
—
In the village, uneasy whispers swirled like leaves before a storm. People spoke in hushed tones, casting glances toward the Suleiman home.
"I swear I saw him disappear into thin air," one said.
"No… it's not natural. A boy who should've died came back stronger?"
"It's a curse! That family is hiding something!"
Some even approached the old man who raised Ariz, their faces stiff with fear.
"He's not human," one villager insisted. "You must tell us the truth!"
The grandfather remained firm, his gaze proud and steady. "Ariz is alive and well. He is not cursed. He is not a ghost. He is my grandson."
But fear had taken root. And fear, once fed, always seeks a savior.
The Church was contacted.
—
Meanwhile, deep in the woods, Zayen lounged under a tree with his minions, as arrogant as ever.
"Don't you think it's strange?" one of them whispered nervously. "He should've died that day. We drowned him."
"Yeah," another muttered. "People are saying he's training… growing stronger…"
Zayen scoffed. "Are you scared of that cripple? It was just dumb luck. He probably found some toy to swing around."
A shadow fell across them.
"No, Zayen," came a cold voice. "The only dumb luck was that I spared you before."
Zayen leapt to his feet. The boy who stood before him didn't look the same. Taller. Stronger. And that sword on his back… it radiated intent.
"Ariz?" Zayen blinked, then forced a smirk. "So the losers come back for more?"
"I'm not here to talk," Ariz replied, unsheathing his training sword. "I'm here to end it."
Zayen snarled and drew his weapon. "Fine. Let's see if your mouth is sharper than your blade."
The fight erupted like lightning.
Zayen struck first, his blade flashing with practiced aggression. Ariz blocked, but the force pushed him back.
He staggered… but didn't fall.
"Still weak!" Zayen shouted, rushing again.
But this time, Ariz moved like a ghost. Flowing Shadow activated. His footwork flowed like water—silent, precise, untouchable.
Steel clashed. Sparks flew.
Zayen gritted his teeth. Ariz was faster—too fast. He couldn't land a proper hit.
"You… you monster!" Zayen screamed.
"No," Ariz said softly, dodging the final strike and stepping inside his guard. "Just the result of being broken."
His blade moved like the wind.
One clean cut.
Zayen's eyes widened in horror as his body split down the middle. His sword fell. His knees hit the earth.
Then silence.
Before Zayen's minions could even scream, Ariz split their heads apart.
Ariz stood there, chest heaving, blood splattered across his face. The system voice echoed in his head.
Moments later, his vision blurred.
He fell to the forest floor, unconscious.
—
While he lay resting, something far darker unfolded in the village.
The Church had arrived.
"They say he died and came back," a villager told them. "That his body moved without life. That he trains inside shadows."
The priest narrowed his eyes. "A demon, perhaps. A ghost at best. If this is true, the boy is a threat."
They marched to the Suleiman home, torches in hand.
The old man stood in front of the door. "He is no demon," he said firmly.
But faith, once twisted, is deaf to reason.
The torch was thrown.
Flames roared.
The house burned.
And within it, the old man who never abandoned his grandson perished—his last thought a silent prayer for Ariz.
—
Far away in the forest, Ariz stirred.
His heart felt heavy. His dream had turned dark. He saw flames, screams, and ashes.
He awoke with a gasp.
And something inside him—something human—cracked.
This was no longer about proving his worth.
This was war.