Long before the sword became an extension of his rage, before he bled beneath the cold moon with no one at his back, Tikshn had warmth. He had people. A life.
The village of **Rihn** was hidden in the embrace of the eastern hills, veiled by forests of crimson-leafed trees and soft rivers that never ran dry. It was a place of storytellers, craftsmen, and farmers—unmarked by the shifting powers of the martial world. The great sects paid them no attention. The blood feuds of Murim ignored their name entirely.
In that peace, Tikshn was born. And from the moment he could walk, he held sticks like swords.
He'd swing them through the air with wild, laughing cries, copying stances he saw in traveling theater shows or painted on temple scrolls. He'd chase goats, duel shadows, and name himself a hundred titles: "Sword Saint of the Silver Moon," "Bladelord of a Thousand Cuts," "Protector of Rihn."
His parents thought it was childish fantasy.
They were wrong.
His father, **Aram**, was a potter. Strong hands, kind heart, and a back bowed from years at the kiln. He believed in honest work. Clay, fire, and patience. Aram would often scold Tikshn for playing with sticks while chores were left undone.
"You can't feed a family with a sword," he'd say.
Tikshn would grin, balance a spoon on his nose, and reply, "But I'll protect one with it."
His mother, **Leeya**, was gentler. She mended clothes, grew herbs, and sang when she worked—soft melodies full of longing and river winds. She'd secretly keep his carved wooden swords under the bed, cleaned and tied with ribbons.
He had two siblings. His younger brother **Pell**, shy and quiet, liked animals more than people. He'd often trail Tikshn silently, holding a stray kitten or bird in his arms. And his sister, **Kirin**, was all fire and mischief, half his height and twice as loud.
Rihn had no soldiers. No cultivators. No warriors. The people feared power because they didn't possess it.
They feared the outside world, too. That's why they rarely left.
But Tikshn wanted to. Not because he hated Rihn—but because he wanted to protect it. As he grew, he trained alone in the woods, copying moves from traveling Murim performers, learning balance from logs, and speed from the river's pull.
And he wasn't alone in his dreams.
There was one who understood him—**Saren**.
She was the daughter of a weaver, known more for her silence than her smile. She had long dusk-black hair always tied loosely, and eyes that never missed anything. She would sit by the riverbank, drawing in a small book, watching Tikshn cut through imaginary foes.
"You're not holding it right," she'd say without looking up.
"I'm inventing a new form," he'd reply.
"You'll invent yourself a broken arm," she'd mutter—but she never looked away.
They grew up together. She wasn't like the others who laughed at his swordplay. She watched. She asked why. She listened when he spoke of his dreams.
And one day, when he'd beaten a traveling boy in a stick duel, she kissed his bruised cheek and whispered, "When you become a swordmaster… remember you were once just a fool playing in the dirt."
That night, Tikshn carved her name into the hilt of his wooden blade.
She never knew.
---
Those were the days of warmth. He would return home to the smell of stew and firewood. His mother humming. His father shaping pots by the glow of the kiln. Kirin drawing spirals in the dirt. Pell feeding a squirrel from his palm. Saren waiting by the old well, sketching mountains she had never seen.
Rihn was not powerful. It was not grand. But it was home.
Tikshn thought it would last forever.
But peace isn't permanent in a world ruled by power. It is a pause—before the sword descends.
And that day came.
It began with smoke in the sky. Not from their own hearths, but from the hills. Dark, heavy, rolling.
A trader arrived breathless, his cart abandoned on the road. His face pale, his words jagged.
"Bandits… not just thugs. A broken sect. They… they're coming. They want tribute."
"What tribute?" the elders asked. "We have nothing."
"That," the man whispered, "is the problem."
The sky darkened that evening—not from clouds, but from the realization that they had no weapons. No warriors. No protectors.
Only potters. Weavers. Children.
And one boy who thought he was a swordsman.
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