In a continent whose name no one remembers had eight beings called gods. You know, the usual: immortality, cosmic powers, and zero interest in mortal affairs… until one of them had a temper tantrum and leveled a city.
War broke out. Humans, predictably powerless, died by the thousands. One by one, the gods lost their minds. It was as if madness was contagious among divine beings.
Then, just when humanity was on the brink of extinction, someone did the impossible—killed a god.
The White Sword, they called her. The First Demigod.
From then on, humans began receiving divine blessings. No one knew why, or how, but the tide turned. The gods fell. One after another.
Centuries passed. The power of the Demigods was passed down to the Chosen Ones—those deemed "worthy." Whatever that means. And as for the White Sword?
She vanished. Like smoke in the wind.
"Cool story, right?"
The raspy voice snapped me out of my thoughts.
An old man sat on a crate beside the alley, grinning through a thicket of gray beard. The usual storyteller of the street—homeless, but rich in legends.
"You've told me that, like, a dozen times," I said, smirking as I dropped a few coins into his wrinkled hand.
He chuckled. "Still a good story though."
He shuffled away, cane tapping against the cobblestones. I watched him go, then turned my eyes back to the towering walls of the capital.
Metal clanged in the distance—blacksmiths hard at work. Merchants shouted over each other in the square. Same old, same old.
And me? I had a mission.
I ran.
Slipping past the crowd with practiced ease, I reached the outer gates. The guards didn't even blink. They were used to me. I was the weird kid who went in and out of the city like a stray cat.
Why?
Because I wanted to see her.
My feet carried me through the fields, then into the woods, until I reached our hidden spot—a large tree hidden by overgrown bushes.
Damn it. I forgot my wooden sword again.
There she was. That woman. The one with the moonlight in her hair—long, silver-white strands that shimmered as she moved. Eyes like blood and ice, and a face so expressionless it might've been carved from marble.
She wore a flowing dress, black and navy with streaks of white—like a walking portrait of night and snow. And of course, she was practicing again. Alone. In perfect silence.
I watched. Like always.
And then—
Thud.
A wooden sword landed beside me.
What the—?!
Before I could react, she was already walking toward me.
"You've been watching me for months," she said. Cold voice, deadpan stare.
I stood up, face flushed with panic. "I—I just wanted to see your swordsmanship!"
"You've even tried copying my movements, haven't you?"She extended a hand. I hesitated, then took it. Her touch was colder than I expected. Almost ethereal.
Then, without warning—
"Would you like to become my student?"
I blinked. "…Are you serious?"
She nodded, almost bored. "Come tomorrow. Be prepared."
My heart raced. Did I just get recruited by a goddess?
"C-Can I call you… Master?"
She paused, staring at her sword. "Call me whatever you like."
She turned away and resumed her training, just like that. As if offering mentorship to a random 9-year-old was no big deal.
"…Guess I'll be going home, then! Master!"
No response.
Figures.
The next morning, I stood in front of the door, clutching my wooden sword.
"Alright, Mom, I'm heading out for training," I said, my voice eager.
She turned to me with a worried look, biting her lower lip.
"Are you sure this is safe? It's not... some kind of kidnapping scheme, right?"
I chuckled, stepping closer. "It's nothing like that, I promise."
She didn't seem convinced, but before she could say more, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed from the stairs. My father descended, yawning as he scratched the back of his head.
"Hoaaah... Morning," he muttered. Then, with a grin, "Good luck, son. Go and become a great swordsman."
"Thanks, Dad!" I smiled, tightening my grip on the sword. "I'll make you proud!"
Without waiting for another round of questions, I dashed toward the city gate, heart pounding with excitement.I ran through the woods, heart pounding like a drum. The chilly morning air bit at my face.
"Master!!"
She turned ever so slightly. Calm, elegant, and terrifying as always.
"It seems you need to work on your pacing."
I stopped, bent over, hands on my knees. "Y-Yes, Master…"
My lungs burned, but I forced myself to stand straight. She eyed me for a second longer, then gave a small nod.
"Good. Let's begin. Today, we'll start with stamina training."
I blinked. "Master, I think… I've already built up enough stamina."
A breeze passed between us. Her gaze didn't change, but I felt a chill crawl down my spine.
"Then prove it. We'll move straight to sword practice. Show me what you've learned."
"Yes, Master!"
I grabbed the wooden sword resting by the training post and jumped into position. Every stance, every movement—I mimicked what I'd seen from her. My grip was firm. My breathing steady. I had this.
Then—
"Stop."
That one word cut sharper than any blade.
I froze mid-swing.
"There's hesitation in your shoulders. Too much weight in your back leg."
"I…" My voice caught. "I'm sorry."
She didn't scold me. She didn't need to.
Her sword slid from its sheath with a sound like silk tearing.
She moved.
Fast. Clean. Effortless. Every strike was precise, every shift in weight a silent lesson. I forgot to breathe.
"Again," she said.
I tried. Again and again. Each time, she corrected me—adjusted my grip, changed my footing, pointed out the smallest flaws.
Time blurred.
By the time the sun dipped behind the trees, my shirt clung to my skin, soaked with sweat.
"I still can't get it right…" I muttered, barely able to lift the sword.
She looked at me. Not disappointed. Not angry.
Just calm.
"It's fine. Our training has only just begun."
I managed a tired smile. "Yes, Master."
As I turned to leave, I glanced back.
"See you tomorrow, Master!!"
She watched me go, her voice soft behind me.
"…A fast learner, that one. Still rough."
She sheathed her sword and sighed.
"I'll double the stamina training tomorrow."
.....
The next morning, I stepped out of the house, stretching with a groan. My arms still felt like jelly from yesterday's training.
Just as I tightened my boots, I heard the sound of something heavy being dragged.
"Ugh—this damned thing…"
I turned the corner and spotted my neighbor—old man Bram—struggling with a crate full of wine bottles.
"Old man! Need a hand?"
He looked up, face red from effort, sweat dripping from his temple. "Kid, you showed up just in time."
He pointed to a stack of ten crates.
"Mind helping me lift these?"
I walked over, cracked my knuckles, and put on my bravest face. "Leave it to me."
Big mistake.
The moment I tried lifting one, my arms shook like twigs in a storm. I barely managed to carry two crates before collapsing onto the third.
"Okay…" I wheezed. "Maybe not all of them."
Bram laughed, wiping his forehead. "You've got spirit, I'll give you that."
Then, without warning, he picked up a wine bottle and handed it to me.
"Payment."
"…Uh, sir? You do remember I'm not even ten yet, right?"
He grinned like a fox. "Yeah, and I also remember someone sneaking sips from his father's stash last week."
My face went pale. "W-What?! H-How did you know that?!"
"Please," he snorted. "Your 'stealth' is about as quiet as a drunk goat. So? You want the bottle or not?"
I glanced around like I was being watched, then carefully tucked the bottle into my bag. "…I'll pretend this never happened."
He gave me a wink. "Smart boy."
With a small wave, I left the alley and headed toward the training grounds again, muttering under my breath.
"…Master's gonna kill me if she smells wine on me."