White snow fell softly over the village a quiet, constant hush that never lifted.
The buildings here were small, sloped, and low to the ground.
Not out of tradition, but remembrance.
Long ago, when wyverns still darkened the skies, it was the tall structures they burned first.
So the people built low.
Low walls. Low roofs. Low hopes.
Every home was stitched from bark, soot-stone, and layers of medicinal paste laced with herbs that did more to ward off curses than to heal wounds.
Beyond the fences, the white jungle stirred.
Pale trees rose like bone, their bark threaded with glowing veins of soft blue.
The leaves didn't rustle in the wind. They pulsed like breathing things. And deeper in the mist, shadows moved too large to be deer, too slow to be safe.
"No one entered the jungle, except those who, of course, don't mind being uncomfortable."
At the farthest edge of the village, where even the brave no longer walked after dusk,
stood a crooked, weather-worn hut.
Inside, a boy sat with his back against the wooden frame of a frostbitten window,
his gaze drifting up toward the pale sky.
His hair was black, but the dye was fading.
Ash-white strands peeking from beneath the lie.
His skin was pale, kissed by hunger and frost.
One eye shimmered a quiet, sea-glass blue.
The other… a muted crimson, glowing softly in the light.
In his hand, he tossed a silver pendant.
Up.
Catch.
Up again.
The chain glinted each time it rose, catching the gray light leaking through cracked glass.
He sat there, bored, humming softly to himself.
A tune no one else remembered.
A smile tugged at the edge of his mouth as he sang in a gentle rhythm, his voice low, laced with melody and obsession.
"Blue eyes lie, and silver burns,
Hide your name when the omen turns"
Another toss. A smooth catch. A heartbeat skipped in the stillness.
"Red-red rubies, sky that bled,
Touch not the crown with the traitor's thread…"
The words slipped out with ease, as if he'd been singing them his entire life. He opened his palm, eyes falling to the pendant.
It was shaped like a tiny sword slender, silver, cross-shape pendent and from the hilt, a small red gem flickered faintly in the cold light.
He studied it, curious.
What even is this thing…?
Sometimes, he could see his own face in the polished surface
a reflection he didn't quite recognize.
Still, he sang, softer now:
"Shimmering hair and voice of flame,
Call the stars, but not by name…"
Suddenly
A creak came from the wooden floor.
Then a voice sharp, tired, and far too familiar.
"Maxy! Don't tell me you're singing that ugly folk song again!"
He didn't turn his head. Just rolled his eyes.
The voice belonged to a woman loud, tired, and entirely done with his nonsense.
"I swear on the head of the Nature Fairy Mother, if I have to hear that cursed rhyme one more time, my ears will bleed! Can't you do something useful for once? Go cut firewood! Winter winds are coming hard next week, the guards said so!"
The floor creaked open as she stomped in, placing a basket of strange purple apples on the table with a thud.
She shot him a look the kind only overworked guardians could deliver.
He sighed without words, raising two fingers as if to say, "Just two more lines."
Her eyes narrowed.
"You little"
She grabbed one of the apples and hurled it at his head.
He grinned, fast as ever, catching it mid-air while rushing to finish:
"Run, child, run don't ever stay,
When moonlight walks in cursed midday!"
Maxy rushed the last lines out with a grin, his voice bubbling with rhythm.
He caught the apple mid-air with practiced speed, balancing it like a prize.
But in his excitement, he shifted too far to the side.
"Ah Mother, I was just—!"
The words barely left his mouth before his elbow slipped from the window frame.
His body tipped gravity tugged, unkind as ever.
"Ahh! No—NO ! It's gonna be cold, it's gonna be!"
Thud.
Snow exploded where he landed, somewhere behind the hut.
"Damn gravity of Eldarado!" he shouted from the snowdrift, arms flailing, voice muffled.
Inside, the woman didn't even blink.
She glared at the open window, jaw tight, grabbing the worn-out broom leaning against the wall like a soldier taking up arms.
"All the boys your age already work to feed their homes some even got married!" she bellowed toward the open air.
"But you? Hah! No wife, no work, no sense! Just sit there all day singing that cursed rhyme day to night to stars again!"
She stormed toward the door, broom raised like a divine weapon of justice.
"Just you wait! This old lady swears if I don't break your skinny legs today, I won't sleep tonight!"
Five minutes later...
Max sat slouched on a creaky wooden chair, chewing into an apple like it owed him money.
His face was a colorful mess of bruises red, blotched, with one patch starting to bloom into a nice shade of violet.
He took another angry bite, mumbling through clenched teeth.
"You old woman… Be gentle with me, will you? My handsome face is starting to look like a blue goblin's butt"
He winced, rubbing his swollen cheek with both pride and pity.
From the other room, her voice rang out like a divine curse.
"Shut up and eat! And wait here I'm going to pray for prosperity. If I hear even a whisper of that ugly folk song again—even a single note or your stupid humming you'll regret being born with vocal cords!"
Thud.
The door slammed. A sharp click followed as she locked it from outside.
Max exhaled the kind of sigh that felt heavier than winter.
"Not like I've got anything to do…" He looked around the small, cluttered room. "All I ever do is sit in this house and… spy on villagers from that tree."
He tossed the half-eaten apple onto the table with a careless flick and slid his hands into his pockets. A moment later, he pulled out the one thing he never got bored of.
The cross-shaped pendant.
Snow dust clung to it faintly. He wiped it clean with his sleeve, then held it up to the light.
His eyes sparkled with quiet wonder.
No matter how many times he looked at it, the pendant never lost its beauty. It had been with him for as long as he could remember.
And though he had no idea where it came from… it always gave him a strange warmth.
A comfort he couldn't explain.
The crimson-red gem at the top of the cross-hilt glowed faintly in the dim light.
He leaned back, arm lifted, staring up at it.
"What even is this thing?" His brows furrowed. "It looks expensive. Definitely not something the old woman could've bought... and absolutely not her taste."
He pictured her proudly wearing a necklace made of wolf bone, or a serpent scale she found near a trash bin.
This pendant?
Too elegant. Too refined.
"Maybe it was my father's…" he muttered, scratching his head.
He'd never been told who his father was.
The old lady always changed the subject or threw something at him when he asked.
His thoughts spiraled.
"Was he a handsome mage? A wandering prince? Some powerful wizard with perfect jawline and tragic backstory?"
He narrowed his eyes.
"Well, looking at this perfect face of mine, I doubt I got it from her… so maybe she did seduce some high-class sorcerer with that rice she makes."
He paused.
"Guess everyone's beautiful in their prime."
Max's head filled with dramatic fantasies. Not his fault, reallyhe blamed the village girls for poisoning his brain.
They read all kinds of insane romance books, titles like:
My Mage is a Slutty Warlock
How to Trick a Duke into Bed
Forbidden Spells and Even More Forbidden
Nights
He snorted at the memory.
Especially the time he overheard a group of them giggling while bathing in Allura Lake, just beyond the village edge.
Not that he was spying.
Nope. Absolutely not.
He was just… doing research. For folk song lore.
Yes. Educational purposes.
He cleared his throat and looked away.
"They always say I'm a pervert," he muttered, trying to justify himself. "But I swear I go there to listen to those crazy stories. That's all."
He paused.
Coughed.
"I don't even care about their white skin or anything."
Cough.
"Not that much."
Of course, he'd be happy to hear more of their stories in detail, preferably. But no one let him into the village.
Was that really his fault?
His voice trailed off into silence as he stared once more at the pendant in his palm.
Suddenly, something caught his eye.
"Huh? What's that…? No way."
Max blinked and leaned forward, eyebrows furrowing.
His gaze narrowed on the pendant in his hand something was… off. He couldn't say what, but the feeling hit sharp and sudden.
He nearly slipped off the edge of his wooden chair, catching himself just in time with a sharp grunt.
Now fully alert, he sat up straight, clutching the pendant with both hands.
His expression tightened as he stared harder.
"Are my eyes messed up today, or…" He paused, slowly tilting the pendant.
"…Is this thing longer than usual?"
He'd stared at this pendant a thousand times before studied it in boredom, in curiosity, in quiet obsession.
He would've noticed even the tiniest change.
And this
This felt different.
It was subtle so subtle it almost slipped past him.
But there it was.
Just the faintest flicker.
A flash of light across a thread-thin line.
Like moonlight brushing a strand of silver hair.
He froze.
Heart skipped.
A thin gap ran along the edge of the pendant so slight it could be mistaken for a trick of the light.
But it wasn't.
Something inside had shifted.
The pendant, once seamless and solid, now bore a sliver of space like something within had begun to move.
A shimmer peeked through.
Not dull, not old.
It gleamed clean, metallic, polished like glass.
Maximus holded his breath.
His heart, just moments ago lazy with boredom, now pounded like a drum.
He leaned in closer, eyes wide, mouth sealed seriousness in his gaze.
The sliver of metal reflected faintly in his pupils.
"What… is this?"
His fingers trembled.
Hands suddenly felt too warm.
He hesitated then frowned and pinched the edge.
A careful tug. A soft click.
Click.
Something slid.
The pendant shifted in his hands, and in that moment, he felt it.
Weight.
Shape.
Intent.
He looked down.
It was no longer a pendant.
It was a blade.
Tiny no longer than his finger but undeniably, unmistakably… a sword.
His lips parted, breath shallow.
The same familiar T-shaped hilt now sat at the base, cool against his skin.
The blade itself was narrow, impossibly thin, almost transparent at the edge.
It shimmered with a quiet glow like it was holding its breath.
Max stared at it in disbelief.
"This… this is a sword?"
His voice cracked with awe and disbelief.
He turned it gently in his palm.
It didn't just look expensive. It looked sacred.
Too delicate to be forged. Too perfect to be common.
There was a stillness around it, like the air was listening.
"What in the holy Seraphin is this thing…?"
His heart thudded against his ribs.
Something ancient stirred inside his chest, like recognition without memory.
He didn't know why.
But suddenly… he felt like he was holding something he was never supposed to touch.
He tilted the tiny sword in his fingers, the blade catching a faint gleam in the cold light.
"Tsk tsk… this thing's beautiful." He grinned, eyes shining.
"Who would've guessed something like this could look so cool?"
He turned it over in his palm again, inspecting every inch like a kid with a stolen toy.
"Is this thing… sharp?"
His gaze shifted to the half-eaten apple lying on the table nearby its purple skin still glistening with bite marks.
Like a kid testing a needle on a fruit, Maximus pinched the sword by its hilt and slowly brought it forward, curious.
"I swear… if this thing can even leave a scratch…" His smile widened.
"I'm framing it. Rarest treasure in the whole village no, in the whole continent!"
He leaned in dramatically, holding the sword like it was the final piece of a sacred ritual.
Of course, he wasn't going to swing it. The blade looked thinner than paper fragile, like it might shatter if he sneezed on it.
So, gently carefully he just tapped the edge of the sword against the apple.
Nothing.
No pressure.
No resistance.
Just a light touch.
He didn't even feel it cut.
And then
Flash.
A soundless shimmer of light burst from the blade's tip.
Thin. Instant. Gone.
Maximus blinked.
Nothing happened.
He raised an eyebrow.
"…Huh?"
Then
BOOOOOOM.
The table exploded in two.
Not shattered.
Sliced.
Right down the middle, as if reality itself had been cut by a divine scalpel.
The apple fell in perfect halves cleaner than any knife could ever dream.
The cut ran through the table, the floor, the chair, the wall
and out of the hut.
Max turned his head.
There was now a straight, glowing line carved through his house.
The snow outside had been sliced clean as well, a perfect line in the earth trailing into the jungle like someone had drawn a sword stroke through the landscape itself.
Silence.
His mouth opened, but no words came.
His hand trembled.
The sword still rested between his fingers quiet, small, and deceptively harmless.
"No way…" he whispered.
"…It… no… what? No—why?!"
His lips twitched. His face was pale.
He stared at the blade like it might explode again at any moment.
Then
"MAXIMUSSSSSSSSS!!"
The voice ripped through the air like a thunderclap.
"I TOLD YOU TO KEEP YOUR VOICE DOWN!"
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