One thing that always impressed me on the battlefield was the eastern tribe known as the Arkhon. They were fierce warriors — even demonic armies feared crossing swords with them.
Tall. Strong. Born and forged by war.
But what truly made them monsters... was the longsword.
Lisala, the chief of the Arkhon tribe, was a living legend. An absolute master of the fencing style they themselves had created — a brutal and elegant fusion of imperial technique and martial arts. They danced with their swords. They confused their enemies with spins, swings, and rhythmic movements that looked like art — but killed with surgical precision.
It was a bold style. Risky. And yet... effective.
And then, watching Samo, I realized.
Wrong.
I had been training him the wrong way.
He wasn't made for the sword I gave him.
My son was resting outside the cabin. Sitting, panting, breathing out white clouds into the freezing air. That had become his routine — training after training. A strong young man, dedicated, and yet... out of sync with that blade.
I approached silently.
"Hey..." I broke the silence.
He slowly lifted his head.
"Yes, father? Is it time to train again?"
I stayed quiet for a moment. Then I simply extended my hand.
"Give me your sword. The sheath too. Training's over for today."
He furrowed his brow, confused by my sudden seriousness.
"R...right," he said, hesitant, handing me the sword.
I turned my back and went into the house. He followed quietly, watching as I put on my coat.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"To the city," I replied. "To return the sword."
Samo's eyes widened in surprise.
"But... why? Just now that we're making progress!" his voice rose with frustration.
"Silence." I cut him off. "I don't want to teach you with that sword anymore."
And I left, heading down the trail toward the village of Kazan. Behind me, I could feel Samo's eyes heavy on my back.
He didn't understand. Not yet.
But I wanted to surprise him again.
The road to Kazan was long and cold. Tall trees lined the path, wide enough for a cart, but quiet as a grave in winter. Only the sound of my boots in the snow and the sharp whistle of the wind.
Then something caught my eye. Tracks.
Wolves, it seemed... but not only that.
There, imprinted in the snowy ground, were also goat tracks?
I frowned.
"Hmm..." I murmured.
Something was off. It looked like a quadruped — but there was only a single pair of tracks. Two feet. As if... the goat had walked upright?
Where was the other set of prints?
The question echoed in my mind. Maybe the snow had covered the rest. Maybe not.
I pressed on... but kept my hand closer to the sword sheathed at my waist. Caution is never too much. Especially when something walks on two legs... and has hooves.
"Finally." A breath escaped me as the wooden gates of Kazan came into view. The road had been long, and the sense of relief was nearly as strong as the cold biting at my face.
Two guards stood beside the gate. Both looked far too young to be guarding a village — and one held a rusty spear nearly as tall as he was. More symbolic than threatening, but I knew it could still kill.
"Identification, please," one of them said, voice firm.
Identification... That was new.
"Right..." I muttered, reaching into my coat and pulling out my old copper tag.
The old guards never asked me for that. They knew my face. My footsteps. They knew I was the old lumberjack who only came to town out of necessity.
But I remembered what they said the last time — that they were retiring.
New blood. Probably still trying to follow protocol to the letter.
The guard read my ID with narrowed eyes, as if trying to solve a riddle. Then, he looked up and handed the tag back.
"Mr. Ivan, what brings you to the city?"
"Ah. I came to return this sword to the blacksmith." I tapped the hilt at my waist. "It didn't suit me."
The boy raised his eyebrows for a second — then burst out laughing.
"Haha! Returning a sword because it didn't fit?!" he said, nearly doubling over. "The blacksmith's gonna go mad over that!"
I chuckled softly, more out of embarrassment than humor.
"Alright, you may enter," he said, still laughing, as he pushed the heavy gate open with a dry creak.