Nineteen-year-old Johan stood alone on the frozen training ground, the winter wind gnawing at his bones. His boots were half-buried in ice; his fingers, stiff and pale, clung to the hilt of a sword far too heavy for someone in his condition. Yet they refused to let go. As if the blade itself was the only thing anchoring him to this world.
Blood trickled from his left eye, warm against the cold that numbed the rest of him. It blurred his vision, but not his resolve. He pushed his brown hair aside with a trembling hand, smearing the blood further across his cheek. His eyes—sharp, cold, unwavering—locked onto the figure standing across from him.
Leon.
The wind was harsh, but Leon's stare was harsher. "Johan," he said, his voice low and cutting through the frozen air, "you may be skilled… but without a Kashya core, you can't even dream of defeating a swordsman in the modern era."
Leon was the same age but looked as though he had been carved out of steel—short black hair, lean muscular build, a presence that didn't need armor. His sword pulsed with swirling trails of ice, coating the blade until it gleamed like frozen lightning. He looked less like a student and more like an elemental warrior.
"Just give up," Leon continued. "Your arrogance is only making your wounds worse. You can barely feel your hands, yet you still cling to that ridiculous giant sword. Even I wouldn't carry something that heavy."
Johan's hand tightened around the blade. The sword was massive—too large even by normal standards—but he lifted it as though defying the world itself.
Leon smirked. "Enough talk. Bear-swing it. Let's see what that stubborn pride of yours is worth."
Johan stepped forward and brought the sword down on the nearest ice-formed rock. The impact shattered it into glittering shards that rained across the ground like broken glass. More blood streamed from his face, but he didn't flinch.
"You asked for this," Leon growled, raising his own blade. Frost spiraled around it, forming razor-edged fragments of ice.
A drop of Johan's blood hit the snow as he surged forward, sword aimed straight at Leon's chest. Leon parried effortlessly, though he gritted his teeth. Without the layer of ice protecting his blade, Johan's raw physical strength might have cracked it.
How does he have this much power without Kashya?
Even Leon didn't know.
Leon's expression hardened. "You're done. Icey Rain!"
He swept his blade upward, and a storm of needle-sharp ice shards formed in the air, descending toward Johan like a frozen downpour—
"Stop. Both of you."
The command rang across the training ground, instantly freezing the chaos.
A tall man with long gray hair stood on the stone steps overlooking the arena, his white jacket barely disturbed by the wind. Dozens of students around him lowered their swords, whispering among themselves.
"How is he still standing against Leon?"
"Johan doesn't even have a sword core…"
"He's insane. Or a monster."
Leon clicked his tongue and lowered his weapon. "Looks like Teacher Yanyo saved you again." He walked past Johan with a cold glance. "Learn from this."
The crowd dispersed, murmurs fading into the icy air until only Johan and Yanyo remained.
Johan retrieved his blue jacket, shrugged it on with difficulty, and sat heavily on the nearest stone step. His breath fogged faintly as memories flickered in the back of his mind.
This world was dangerous—filled with Kashya beasts, monstrous creatures, and threats no ordinary weapon could pierce. Long ago, sword clans discovered a power drawn from the human soul itself. When that soul merged with a sword core, it awakened unique elemental or conceptual abilities: ice, shadow, mirror, blood, space, and countless others.
This power came to be known as Kashya.
Those who wielded it became swordsmen—ranked, trained, and governed by the massive organization that ruled modern combat: the MSO, the Modern Sword Organization.
In this world, Kashya was everything.
But Johan had none. His soul refused to merge with any sword core. No matter how skilled he became, he remained powerless in the eyes of the world.
He remembered his very first fight with Leon. He remembered the laughter.
"Your fate is already decided, Johan. You'll never awaken Kashya. Why not become a policeman instead?"
His grip tightened on his sword until his knuckles whitened.
"Fate," he whispered, "is a word invented by weaklings. I'm not one of them."
A hand rested on his shoulder. Johan looked up.
Yanyo's voice was quiet. "You fought well. With power, you might even win."
Johan's jaw clenched. "Your words don't comfort me. They make me feel pathetic. If this fight continues… either I win, or I freeze to death. That's all there is."
He stood up and walked away, boots crunching against the frost.
Yanyo stared at the unmelted ice Johan had shattered with brute force alone.
"You're a monster, Johan," he murmured to himself. "No one should be able to stand against a cold-type swordsman without Kashya… and yet you do."