The sky was clear, and the forest lay silent. Amid the chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves, even in the early morning, Zayn's mind remained sharp. As always, he had risen early to accelerate the flow of mana within his body through short meditation. Yet today felt different. A strange unease tugged at his core, pulling him eastward—toward a misty region outside the village, a place rarely visited.
His pace quickened, feet brushing through thick undergrowth. His sharp eyes scanned every detail as he moved. Though his age would still label him a child, the depth in his gaze carried the weight of another life. A life filled with battles and bloodshed. But this new body, still fragile and undeveloped, kept him shackled.
Zayn suddenly stopped. Before him loomed a moss-covered boulder, ancient and cracked. Looking closer, he noticed a shadowed gap behind the rocks. A cave.
He took a deep breath. His instincts screamed there was something inside.
Quietly, he stepped into the cave. It was cool and damp, with a slight downward slope. Each footstep echoed softly, crunching the pebbles beneath. As he descended, a stench wafted to his nose—rusted iron, rotting flesh… and blood.
Then came the sound. A breath—deep and guttural. Not human.
Zayn squinted into the darkness, heart pounding. That's when it moved.
A massive silhouette shifted within the shadows. Emerging slowly, the figure revealed itself: a towering beast, nearly three meters tall, clad in mismatched armor. Its eyes glowed red, and dark veins pulsed across its body. This was no ordinary monster. This was an Orc Lord.
Zayn took a step back involuntarily.
"It's... coming after me?"
The creature had already spotted him. With a guttural roar, it pounded the cave wall, causing loose stones to tumble. Zayn's hand instinctively grasped a rock, but he knew—this was useless. This body was still too weak. The only choice was to run.
The Orc lunged forward. Zayn rolled out of the way just in time, the creature's massive fist smashing into stone where he had just stood. Debris rained down as he scrambled out of the cave, lungs burning.
He collapsed beneath the trees, panting. But he was alive.
As he caught his breath, he clenched his fists.
"This can't go on… This weakness, this helplessness… Mana alone won't be enough. I need a weapon. My own weapon."
He was silent when he returned to the village. As he brushed off the dust from his clothes, his eyes stared into the void. The defeat in the cave was lodged deep in his mind—heavy like blood, solid like stone. Without meeting anyone's gaze, he headed straight home. Everyone assumed he had simply gone for a short walk.
As he sat inside, he rubbed his fingers together. Deep within his chest, there was an emptiness—but not one to be filled with mana. This void demanded steel. Shapes began to form in his mind. Light in weight, sharp in edge, fast to draw... Not a sword, not yet—but something to begin with. A blade.
He didn't sleep that night. He started gathering pieces from old, broken items. A cracked sickle, rusty nails, wood hardened like bone... As each item passed through his hands, he imagined what it could become. He followed the silhouette that was taking shape in his mind.
Behind the barn, where no one could see, he stacked stones into a small forge. Heating the rusted metal wasn't easy. The skin on his hands blistered, smoke stung his eyes—but he didn't stop. Each strike of the hammer etched that defeat deeper into his memory.
As morning light crept over the horizon, Zayn made the final adjustment to the metal in his hands. It wasn't balanced yet, but it could be held. Its sharpness was lacking, but its purpose was clear. This was his first weapon. The world hadn't acknowledged his presence yet, but he had taken his first step. He wasn't a warrior yet, but he had carved out a path.
The other children had already begun their day. Some were playing in the streets, others helping in the fields. Zayn stood behind the barn, alone with his newly born weapon. His hands were still blackened, his nails lined with soot—but his eyes gleamed brighter than ever. The silence that followed his first defeat had now become a vow. He would never run again.
Zayn traced the groove on the hilt of his newly crafted knife with his fingertips. His calloused skin felt each line like a memory of battles he hadn't yet fought. He was still a child, but his hands no longer looked like those of one.
He quietly slipped out through the back of the house and made his way to the village path. The sky was still bright, though shadows had begun to stretch across the ground. His steps were silent. As he moved through the wooden fences, his eyes scanned his surroundings with focused intent.
From a nearby alley, faint voices could be heard. Nothing out of the ordinary, perhaps, but something made Zayn pause. Turning the corner, he saw a group of older boys talking to his sister. Her basket had fallen to the ground. One of them reached out to grab her wrist. She didn't respond, but her expression said enough.
Zayn didn't move. He didn't say a word. He just watched. Something within him cracked. But he made no sound. Instead, he turned around and walked away.
When he entered through the front door of their home, it was warm and bustling. His mother was setting the table, his father arranging the chairs. Tarin stepped in, arms full of fresh herbs. His sister quietly washed her hands and joined them at the table.
Zayn sat silently in his place, giving away nothing. But his eyes were sharp, catching details no one else noticed. His sister's smile was strained. Not false, but not real either.
His mother turned to him.
"I didn't see you all day. Where were you, little one?"
"I went to the forest," Zayn replied plainly.
"What did you do there this time?" Tarin chimed in.
"You'll get lost one day, I'm telling you."
Zayn looked down briefly.
"I tested my new knife."
His father chuckled.
"This boy's going to be the village's youngest weaponsmith!"
Laughter filled the table. Even Zayn cracked a small smile. His sister joined in too, though that familiar weight still lingered behind her expression.
His sister quietly spoke.
"The market was a bit crowded today."
His mother nodded.
"That's why I told you not to go alone."
Zayn raised his head slightly.
"I can go with her next time," he said, calmly but firmly.
Everyone paused. Tarin looked at him.
"You? Market errands aren't easy, little guy."
"I can help," Zayn said. "Really."
His father's smile widened.
"Well then. If you're confident, why not?"
His mother hesitated, then smiled too.
"Alright. But you'll stay together. I don't want to worry."
Zayn nodded. His sister looked at him, visibly surprised. Then came that tired, yet unmistakably grateful smile.
That evening, the table filled with warm chatter. Tarin talked about traders who'd brought rare items to the village. Their father showed them an old letter from a friend. Their mother mentioned that cousins might visit this summer.
Zayn didn't say much, but he absorbed everything. From the way his sister held her spoon to the way his mother blinked—every detail etched itself into his memory. His eyes showed nothing. But
inside, something had begun counting down.
End of Chapter Note
Sometimes, silence speaks the loudest truths.
Zayn didn't raise his voice. He didn't strike. But he saw.
And once Zayn sees… he never forgets.
Next: A spark in the forge. A decision is made. And from the quiet—vengeance will begin to breathe.