Arin stood still.The forest seemed to hold its breath. The King Snake slithered in place, waiting for a mistake, a twitch, an opening. Its tongue flicked through the air, tasting Arin's calm. Something felt wrong. The boy wasn't panicking.
He was preparing.
Arin slowly slung off the leather pouch tied to his belt. It jingled slightly, and from it, he pulled out a small glass vial. The liquid inside shimmered—not silver, not blue, not gold—but a strange, translucent color that seemed to change under the light. A liquid artifact.
The old man's eyes narrowed from his perch. "He's going to use that now?"
Arin uncorked the vial.
He held his rusty, battle-worn sword forward. It looked like it had seen a hundred battles and barely survived any of them. Nicks and chips lined the edge, the hilt wrapped in faded cloth. This wasn't the weapon of a hero.
But that didn't matter.
He slowly poured the liquid over the blade.
The moment it touched the metal, the sword hissed—as if waking from the dead. Faint steam rose from the edge as the artifact absorbed into the iron. Faint etchings lit up along the blade, almost like veins pulsing with barely contained power.
It wasn't a masterpiece. It wasn't even a high-grade enchantment.
It was unstable. Weak. Barely enough for one strike.
But one strike was all Arin needed.
"This sword… it's like me," Arin thought, eyes locked on the King Snake. "It's dented, worn, and far from ideal. But it still fights. So will I."
He gripped the sword with both hands, holding it low by his hip.
The King Snake hissed loudly and lunged.
Time slowed.
Arin didn't dodge.
He stood his ground.
"Breathe in. Feel the heartbeat of the forest. Hear the shift of its scales. Sense the wind."
The old man rose to his feet.
"He's not attacking…"
Arin's eyes closed.
"Now."
He stepped forward.
One step.
Then another.
The sword began to glow faintly—unstable arcs of mana crackling from the edges.
The King Snake loomed over him, fangs exposed, eyes glowing with fury.
"Push everything into this strike. Every second of pain. Every ounce of hunger. Every drop of blood I've spilled. Forge it into a blade."
The air cracked.
His foot slammed down—BOOM!
With a war cry that shook the leaves off the trees, Arin exploded forward.
He twisted his waist, pulled his shoulders, and slashed upward with everything he had.
The sword sang.
A sound like thunder—shhhhnk!—echoed through the trees as metal met flesh.
Then—silence.
The snake's body arced in midair, frozen. The forest went mute.
Arin stood still, his chest rising and falling. The sword was no longer in his hand. Its hilt had snapped off mid-swing, fragments of the blade scattered on the ground behind him.
But he didn't open his eyes.
He just whispered:
"Fall."