Chapter 6: Wayfarer
The room was silent.
Not sterile, but quiet in a way only hospitals mastered — a sort of uneasy calm, made of white walls, hushed voices, and the subtle scent of disinfectant clinging to every breath.
Ashen sat upright on the edge of the bed, one leg resting over the other, arms folded.
The black vertical box stood on the small table in front of him, untouched since Ryven had left.
His heterochromatic eyes — one dusk-grey, the other pale Gold like ash — stared at it for a long moment, unblinking.
There was no inscription. No symbol. No keyhole or marking to speak of.
Just matte black metal, like a monolith cut from the void and given shape.
Still, it hummed with a strange kind of weight. Not of power — but of meaning.
He reached out and ran a hand along the box's surface.
It was cold. Smooth. The material was neither wood nor steel. Something in-between.
With a quiet breath, Ashen unfastened the latches.
Click.
Click.
The box let out a soft hiss as it opened.
A gentle release of pressure, as though the blade inside had been waiting.
Nestled within folds of obsidian velvet, a sword rested in still dignity.
It wasn't ornate — it didn't need to be. It was a weapon crafted not for display, but for movement.
The sheath was wrapped in soft black leather, aged slightly around the edges. The hilt itself bore a silver-gray leather grip, faded in places.
The guard was modest — shaped like gently outstretched wings.
Subtle patterns ran along it like trails on a map, or paths traveled and forgotten.
Ashen reached inside and carefully lifted it.
It was surprisingly light. Balanced.
There was a note beneath the hilt. Folded. Unsealed.
He opened it.
"This sword is named Wayfarer.
It is not made to follow a master, but to accompany a traveler.
Forged from Wyrm-Wandered Steel — tempered by dragonfire, cooled in the blood of beasts who roam without borders.
It bears no oath, no soul-link. Only the will to walk forward.
— S."
Ashen stared at the words for a long while.
"Wayfarer," he murmured, testing the name on his tongue.
He drew the sword halfway.
The blade caught the light — but didn't gleam.
Instead, it shimmered with a dull depth, like the shimmer of a road after rain.
It wasn't a sword that demanded attention.
It was one that understood the silence between steps.
And then he blinked open his status panel.
Ashen - Status Panel
[Realm]: Qi Initiate (Late)
[Body State]: Stable - Regeneration in Progress
[Sword Intent]: Budding (8.2%)
[Qi Control]: Moderate
[Affinity]: Fire (Low), Wind (Intermediate)
[Weapon]: Wayfarer — Tempered Tier
[Stats]
Strength: 6.8
Agility: 7.9
Endurance: 7.1
Vitality: 7.0
Perception: 7.3
Intelligence: 5.3
Willpower: 7.0
Stat Points Available: 18
He exhaled through his nose.
"Still improving…"
He closed the panel with a thought, and quietly stood from the bed.
Wayfarer remained in his hand, sheathed but present. Not a weight — a companion.
He stepped into the hallway and walked past the nurse station.
None stopped him. None needed to.
His gait was calm, deliberate — the walk of someone who belonged in motion.
Outside, the sky was overcast.
Gray clouds rolled slowly over the distant hills like drifting sails.
As Ashen walked, the streets began to shift — not in structure, but in atmosphere.
The outer edge of the town bore damage. Splintered wood. Cracked stone. Burnt patches of grass.
Signs of beasts.
His eyes narrowed as he passed a shattered market stall.
Claw marks tore across one of the merchant carts. A trail of blood had dried along the cobblestone.
He knelt beside it, pressing two fingers to the stain.
"Three days old. Maybe four," he murmured. "Feral, not organized. Wild instinct."
He stood up.
For a moment — just a brief flicker — déjà vu settled on his shoulders like a familiar breeze.
These streets… this moment… this path...
He'd walked it before. Hadn't he?
The feeling vanished as quickly as it came.
Ashen kept moving. Past the broken lampposts. Past the closed homes.
Through the worn stone archway that led to the training grounds.
They were mostly empty.
Only a few cracked dummies, some wooden targets, a single worn field of dirt and grass.
He unsheathed Wayfarer fully.
The sword cut cleanly through the air, almost without sound — as though it parted not just wind, but presence.
He gave it a few swings, calm and measured. The edge was keen — dangerously so.
The grip molded to his fingers, its balance perfectly aligned with his posture.
He changed angle — horizontal cuts, diagonal shifts, thrusts, then a smooth spiral slash. It glided.
It was a sword meant to follow movement, not dictate it.
He nodded slightly.
Then, grounding himself in the center of the field, Ashen sheathed Wayfarer and crossed his legs.
He closed his eyes.
The world dimmed.
Breath slowed.
Qi began to stir.
It rose from within like vapor from a spring — coiling around his core, tracing the pathways of his meridians.
He guided it gently, not with force, but with awareness.
It began to circulate faster. Denser. Sharper.
Pressure built.
The late stage of Qi Initiate was thinning — cracking at the edges like old glass.
And then—
Breakthrough.
His body pulsed once with invisible light.
The earth beneath him trembled for a fraction of a second.
[Realm Breakthrough Achieved]
→ Qi Initiate (Peak)
+2 to all stats
+Increased Qi absorption efficiency
+Inner circulation refinement
He opened his eyes.
The wind had grown still.
Ashen rose to his feet, dusted off his robe, and looked toward the horizon.
No fanfare. No dramatic roar of power.
Just a silent, steady step forward.
Wayfarer at his side.
He was a traveler.
Not chasing glory.
Not running from past.
But walking, onward — toward whatever lay on the road ahead.