Cyan let out a slow breath as he hauled Randell up and half-dragged him back into the house. Thankfully, they hadn't gone far—Randell had gone down right at the doorstep. Cyan laid him on the bed, adjusted the blanket, and stood there for a second longer than necessary, making sure his brother was still breathing normally.
Only then did he step back outside.
The dropped firewood was still scattered near the wall. Cyan gathered the pieces one by one, stacking them neatly where Randell had intended. The logs knocked softly against each other as they settled into place. Chore done.
"Idiot," Cyan muttered—not sure whether he meant Randell, Aris, or himself.
With that, he headed out. Training didn't wait, and in their world, excuses didn't keep you alive.
The village was already awake.
As Cyan walked through the main street, voices greeted him from every direction.
"Morning, Cyan!" "Good morning!" "Heading out early again?"
He returned every greeting with an easy smile. Ranon wasn't just where he lived—it was home. These people had watched him grow up. Some had scolded him. Others had fed him. All of them mattered.
His boots thudded lightly against the packed road.
Without warning, a thick wooden beam swung toward his head.
Cyan dipped forward instinctively, his body folding as if in a bow. The beam cut through the air above him, missing by inches.
He straightened, already reaching down. A rope lay coiled nearby. One knot, one throw—clean and precise. The loop caught the beam mid-swing.
"Thanks, lad!" a man shouted from the half-built house to his left, hammer still in hand.
Cyan tossed the rope back. "Anytime!"
He continued toward the village gate—until someone crossed his path from the right.
Ryan.
Two buckets of water hung from his hands.
Cyan jogged over and grabbed one handle without warning.
"Damn it!" Ryan barked, nearly losing his grip. "Cyan! Don't do that! You're trying to kill me early?"
Cyan grinned. "Relax. You're too young to die from shock."
Ryan shot him a look. "Kids can have heart attacks."
Cyan blinked. "…Okay, that got dark."
They walked together, buckets swinging between them.
Ryan broke the silence. "So? How'd the report go? Sorry I didn't come. Granny got back early, and Mira's sick again. Bad cold."
"Yeah, I figured," Cyan said. "You did the right thing."
Ryan smirked. "Good. Then next time, don't scare me. I'm fragile."
Cyan snorted. "Says the guy who slaughtered half a wolf pack yesterday."
Ryan laughed, eyes forward as carts rolled past and horses snorted along the road.
The village grew louder by the second—metal striking metal, bread ovens opening, people shouting prices and greetings.
As they walked, Cyan told him everything.
The elders.
The report.
The tension.
And finally—
"—and then Aris knocked me out."
Ryan stopped walking.
"…She what?"
Cyan sighed. "Long story."
Ryan stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. "You're alive. That means she was in a good mood."
Cyan wasn't sure whether to laugh or worry.
Ryan listened without interrupting, his pace slowing as Cyan spoke. By the time Cyan finished,
Ryan let out a quiet breath.
"Yeah," he said. "Sounds like you're juggling knives."
Cyan grimaced. "That's putting it lightly. I need to get them both something. A real apology. Not just words." He glanced sideways. "Got any ideas?"
Ryan squinted, thinking. Then shrugged. "Honestly? Anything works."
Cyan stopped walking. "That's it? That's your wisdom?"
Ryan smirked. "As long as it's from the heart, it sticks. That kind of thing lasts."
Cyan stared at him for a second, then sighed. "Congratulations. You somehow made this worse."
Ryan laughed. "Hey, you asked. Just face it head-on and don't overthink it."
"That's literally my weakness."
They walked a few steps in silence.
"So," Cyan said, "you training today?"
Ryan shook his head. "Can't. Mira's still down bad. Fever's stubborn."
Cyan nodded immediately. "Right. Yeah. You should stay."
Ryan blinked. "You didn't even hesitate."
"Why would I?" Cyan said. "I'll swing by after training. Dawn, maybe."
Ryan smiled faintly. "She'll like that."
"More than seeing you?"
Ryan clicked his tongue. "Don't remind me."
Cyan glanced at him. "What?"
"She calls you big bro," Ryan muttered. "You know what she calls me?"
Cyan waited.
"Ryan. Just Ryan." He scowled. "I'm her actual brother."
Cyan laughed. "Ouch."
"Don't laugh," Ryan snapped. "That stuff hurts."
Cyan raised his hands. "Hey, my bad. I didn't steal the title on purpose."
"Mr. Perfect," Ryan muttered.
Cyan stopped walking and put a hand on his shoulder. "You're doing fine. She looks up to you. Don't compare yourself to me."
Ryan sighed. "…Yeah. I know. Still annoying."
They reached the crossroads.
Cyan adjusted the strap on his shoulder. "Guess this is where we—"
Ryan's eyes snapped up. "Don't."
Cyan blinked. "Don't what?"
"Don't say that line," Ryan said flatly.
"What line?"
"That parting ways nonsense. That's how people talk before they disappear forever."
Cyan stared. "…You've been watching horror plays again."
"I'm serious," Ryan said. "Say 'see you later' or 'until next time.' Anything but that."
Cyan chuckled, uneasy despite himself. "Alright. Duly noted."
Ryan pointed at him. "Good."
Cyan turned, already walking off. "So—until next time."
Ryan relaxed. "That's better."
"Good luck surviving training," Ryan called.
Cyan waved without looking back.
As Cyan walked through the village streets, his expression hardened, irritation flickering in his narrowed eyes.
"Tch… Randell's still sleeping, Ryan's off doing his own thing," he thought. "And that leaves me alone for brutal training. Figures."
Luck was never on his side.
Before leaving the village walls, Cyan turned toward a familiar structure—the blacksmith's shop nestled between stone houses, smoke curling from its chimney. The scent of hot metal and burning coal greeted him long before he reached the door, mingling with the rhythmic clang of hammer against steel and the sharp hiss of quenched metal.
He pushed the door open.
The bell overhead rang.
"Morning, old man," Cyan said cheerfully.
Behind the counter, Alaric paused mid-motion, wiping sweat from his brow with a leather apron. His brows knit together instantly.
No respect at all, he thought, shooting Cyan an annoyed look. This generation…
"Yes, yes. Morning," Alaric grunted. "You're here for your order, I assume?"
"Assuming you actually finished it," Cyan replied, glancing around the shop.
Alaric snorted. Pride gleamed briefly in his eyes.
"Three hundred arrows. Perfect balance. Perfect heads. Finished before sunset yesterday."
Cyan nodded, impressed despite himself.
As he turned to collect them, Alaric suddenly spoke again.
"Before you leave," the blacksmith said, voice slower now, more deliberate, "do me a favor."
Cyan stopped and glanced back. "If it's something I can do."
Alaric pointed toward a large wine barrel pressed against the wall.
"Pick a sword."
Cyan froze.
"…A sword?"
Alaric nodded. "Any one inside that barrel."
Cyan stared, disbelief flashing across his face.
"That's a little generous, don't you think? What are you trying to butter me up for?"
A rare smile creased the old man's face.
"Nothing special. Just repayment for a long-time favor. Pick one and be on your way."
Cyan hesitated, then shrugged. "Free is free."
He walked over, boots echoing softly against the stone floor. The barrel was filled to the brim with swords—short blades, longswords, chipped hilts, rusted guards. Steel glinted faintly beneath layers of dust and age.
"Wow," Cyan muttered. "Quite the selection."
He glanced over his shoulder. "You sure this isn't a prank?"
"Just pick already," Alaric growled. "Before I change my mind."
Cyan laughed and turned back, plunging his hands into the barrel. Metal clattered softly as he shifted blade after blade.
But none of them felt right.
I won't refuse a free weapon… but this is disappointing.
The swords were old. Worn. Filthy. Most felt dull—dead, even.
"I want something durable," he thought. "Something with decent aura concentration. But all I'm seeing is scrap."
Then an idea struck him.
What if I search with aura instead?
It would drain him, sure—but this wasn't something he did every day.
Worth it.
Cyan lifted his hand above the barrel and closed his eyes.
His breathing slowed.
Aura flowed.
A faint blue glow blossomed from his palm, washing over the swords like moonlight. The shop dimmed in comparison.
Alaric stiffened.
That technique…
"Soul Manicle," he thought, eyes widening. Used by healers to read life force. And this brat's using it to hunt weapons? Ridiculous… and impressive.
Cyan remained still, fully focused.
Aris said this skill's been around for over a thousand years, he thought. Used by doctors to monitor life force. Kind of like—
His thoughts stumbled.
"…A life monitor?"
The word echoed strangely.
For a split second, memories surged—white walls, a rhythmic beeping, a device strapped to his wrist. A bed beneath him. Cold air. A spinning object overhead.
Jaden.
The images blurred, fragmented, black and white.
"Focus!" Alaric snapped.
Cyan's eyes flew open.
The glow remained steady.
"Right," Cyan muttered. "Whatever that was… later."
He smirked faintly. Not every day a greedy old man offers free swords.
Alaric scowled. I don't like that look.
Cyan inhaled slowly and pushed more aura outward.
The swords responded.
In his mind, the barrel transformed into a monochrome sea—until faint golden lights flickered into existence. Each sword pulsed weakly, like distant stars.
"Too faint," Cyan thought. "Not good enough."
He poured in more aura.
Then—
One light flared. Brilliant. Focused. Unmistakable.
Deep within the barrel.
Cyan reached in and grasped the source, pulling free a short, mid-length sword buried beneath grime and dust. Metal scraped loudly as it emerged.
His heartbeat spiked.
Found you.
"I choose this one," Cyan said aloud, turning toward Alaric.
The blacksmith stared at the blade, something unreadable flashing through his eyes.
END OF CHAPTER 9