Richard pulled out an object from his side and extended his hand toward me.
For a brief moment, his movement slowed, as if he was hesitating.
The room felt strangely quiet, the faint sounds of the house settling around us filling the silence. The fire crackled softly in the corner, and the smell of food still lingered in the air, but none of that mattered when my eyes fell on what he was holding.
He passed it to me.
A sword.
The moment it touched my hands, I knew it.
It was the same sword Richard had used during his days as a knight.
I had seen it countless times growing up—leaning carefully against the wall, resting beside the doorway after long days, or laid across the table whenever he cleaned it. The blade was simple, not decorated or extravagant, yet it carried a quiet dignity. Faint marks ran along the steel, scars from battles long past. The grip was worn smooth, shaped perfectly to the hands that had wielded it for years.
I stared at it, my fingers tightening slightly around the hilt.
"Dad," I asked, lifting my head to look at him, "why are you giving me your sword? You love your sword."
Richard met my gaze calmly.
For a second, he didn't answer. His eyes softened as he looked at me, then at the sword, before returning to my face. A small smile formed, one filled with warmth and certainty.
"Not as much as I love you, son."
His voice was steady, without hesitation.
"It's yours now," he continued. "I am sure it will be more useful in your hands than it has ever been in mine."
As he spoke, Richard kept looking at Aden, his expression filled with pride.
I lowered my gaze back to the sword.
Aden gripped the sword tightly.
The weight felt familiar—almost too familiar. It rested naturally in my hands, as if it belonged there. For a brief moment, my body reacted on instinct, memories stirring deep within me. Training halls, endless practice, the sound of steel cutting through air—all of it surfaced quietly, without overwhelming me.
I lifted my head again.
"And I promise you," I said firmly, "with this sword I'll become the greatest swordsman to ever exist. Even greater than the Sword God in the legends."
The words left my mouth with absolute confidence.
For a moment, the room was silent.
Then both couples laughed.
It wasn't mocking or dismissive. It was warm, filled with affection. Elena stepped forward, smiling, and gently patted her son on the head.
"I'm sure you will," she said softly.
Her touch was light, comforting.
"Let's eat," Elena added, turning back toward the table. "We have a busy day ahead of us tomorrow."
The moment passed naturally, as if it had always been meant to.
They all dug in, laughing and talking.
The table filled with easy conversation and shared smiles. Richard spoke casually, Elena responded with playful remarks, and the warmth of the family wrapped around me. I ate quietly, listening to their voices blend together. The scene felt peaceful—something I hadn't experienced in a very long time.
Later that night—
"Phew… what a day."
Aden let out a long breath as he stepped into his room, dropped the sword beside his bed and closed the door behind him. The soft click echoed faintly as silence settled in. He walked to his bed and dropped onto it, staring up at the ceiling as the events of the day replayed in his mind.
The sword.
The laughter.
The warmth.
"They are both amazing people," Aden thought.
The room was small, simple, and familiar. The bed occupied most of the space, and a small desk sat near the window, faint moonlight spilling across its surface. Everything felt calm, steady—far removed from the chaos of his past life.
After a while, Aden sat up.
He straightened himself and walked over to his desk, pulling out a book he had bought a few days ago. The cover was worn, its edges slightly frayed.
Kingdom of Rivale.
He stared at the title briefly before opening it.
The question that had been bothering him resurfaced.
Why were there no longer powerful swordsmen?
During his time, Aden had attained the highest realm of swordsmanship. But he hadn't been alone. There were others—those who walked the same path, those who lived by the blade and died by it. Swordsmanship had been more than combat. It had been a discipline, a way of life.
And now—
"And now you're telling me it's all just legends," Aden thought.
He opened the book and began to read.
The Kingdom of Rivale stretched far and wide, its lands vast and diverse. Long ago, after devastating conflict, the dragons took a pact not to attack humans again. As part of that pact, they took control of the northern territory.
The pact was simple.
No human was ever to approach or move to the North.
No dragon would cross into human lands.
Anyone who broke the pact would be executed on the spot.
"So it's just a temporary peace," Aden thought as he read.
"I'm surprised no one has broken it so far."
He continued reading, turning the page slowly.
To keep the balance and guide the kingdom, eight mages took up responsibility. This decision eventually led to the creation of the Eight Noble Houses of Mages. Each generation produced an Archmage, individuals who stood at the peak of magical power.
Their duty was clear.
Guiding the kingdom.
Maintaining order.
Keeping the peace between dragons and humans.
Aden closed the book slowly and rested it on the desk.
A world ruled by mages.
A world where powerful swordsmen existed only in stories.
His gaze drifted toward the sword resting nearby, silent and patient.
Legends, huh…