THE LEGACY OF THE SWORD MASTER

Chapter six

The first thing Kael noticed was the sound—thunderous and constant, like a waterfall crashing against stone. His eyes fluttered open, and the world came into focus. He was no longer at the top of the mountain.

He was beneath it.

He lay on a mat of thick furs inside a dim cave carved deep into the mountainside. Jagged shadows danced along the walls from a small fire flickering in the center. The air was cold but crisp, tinged with moss, smoke, and damp stone.

Across from him sat the scarred man—silent, unmoving, his one good eye fixed on Kael.

“You’re awake,” the man said, his voice like gravel scraping iron. “Good.”

Kael pushed himself up with a wince. His side throbbed where the blade had caught him, but the wound was clean and tightly wrapped. He hesitated, then swung his legs over the side and dropped to one knee.

“Please,” he said, bowing his head. “Train me. Make me strong. Make me... more.”

For a moment, there was only the sound of the waterfall outside and the fire’s quiet crackle. Then the man stood, grabbing a long wooden cane from beside him.

“Then go,” he said, turning toward the mouth of the cave. “Fight the fountain.”

Kael blinked. “What?”

The man didn’t repeat himself. He simply walked out into the cold mountain air.

Kael followed.

A short climb later, he stood before it—the fountain. Not a carved monument, but a natural torrent of water bursting from a jagged crevice in the rock, crashing violently against the stones below. It roared endlessly, wild and unyielding.

“Win,” the scarred man said—and then walked away.

Kael stared at the torrent. How the hell do you fight a fountain?

But he didn’t ask. He had learned not to. The scarred man never entertained questions. He only watched. Judged.

Kael stepped into the water and raised his fists.

It hit him like a beast.

Cold. Hard. Ruthless.

The current slammed into him, throwing him backward. He crashed against the rocks, skidded, groaned, and rose again.

Again and again.

Each time, he stepped back into the current—swinging, shouting, bracing himself against something that couldn’t be struck. Each time, he failed.

And yet... he returned.

Every day.

By morning, he fought the fountain. By evening, he returned to the academy—limping, soaked, and sore.

There, things were no better.

Rand’s torment reached new heights. Food stolen. Clothes shredded. Salt in his wounds. Instructors looked away as if he were invisible.

“Low-rank scum,” Rand sneered one afternoon during weapons class. “Try not to trip and fall into your own failure.”

Kael said nothing.

His name lingered at the bottom of every ranking chart. Unawakened. Hak-less. Useless.

Still, he endured.

Still, the fountain.

Every day.

He fought. He fell. He rose.

Sometimes he screamed at it. Sometimes he wept. Once, he laughed.

“Win,” the scarred man repeated each time Kael returned—his knuckles bloodied, his lip split, his shoulders bruised and heavy.

And still, nothing changed.

Until one night.

Kael returned later than usual, dragging behind him a heavy bundle of logs. The scarred man, as always, sat beside the fire.

Kael dropped the wood with a dull thud and collapsed next to it, panting. The scarred man had made a habit of asking him to gather firewood after each lesson, no matter how battered he was.

Tonight, Kael bore a fresh bruise—a swollen mark from Rand’s boot.

Still, he didn’t complain. No curse. No plea. Just silence.

The fire crackled.

The scarred man studied him for a long moment, then reached out and pulled Kael close by the collar.

“It’s time,” he muttered. “You’ve earned the beginning.”

Kael’s breath caught.

The man stared into his eyes. “You’ve been told that Hakana is fire. Power. Glory. That’s what the academy wants you to believe. They see it as a weapon. A title.”

He pressed two fingers against Kael’s chest—right over his heart.

“But Hakana... is pain. It’s truth. It’s born in the place where your spirit breaks—and still refuses to die.”

Kael trembled.

“I’ve watched you fall and rise a hundred times,” the man said. “Now... we dig.”

From the shadows, he pulled a bowl filled with a dark, steaming liquid. He placed it before Kael.

“Drink. It will burn. It will tear you apart.”

Kael took it without hesitation.

The moment the liquid touched his tongue, pain exploded behind his eyes. His chest caught fire. His veins boiled.

The world disappeared.

He fell—into a void. Endless black. But not empty.

Whispers circled him.

“Murderer.”

“Weak.”

“Nothing.”

His father’s voice echoed, cruel and bitter. Dareth’s snarl. Rand’s laughter.

He saw flames. Blood. A memory rising—

A boy. Ten years old. Holding a blade with trembling hands. Standing over a broken body.

“No!” Kael cried. “I didn’t—!”

But the memory surged forward.

Then—

Silence.

A light pulsed in his chest. Faint. Flickering.

Then stronger.

A symbol exploded across his skin—a jagged mark, chaotic and wild. Not gold, not silver, not red.

Black.

Alive.

The void cracked. Light surged through the cracks.

Kael gasped, collapsing to his hands and knees as the real world snapped back into place. The bowl shattered beside him. His entire body shook.

The scarred man stared.

“That... that’s not possible,” he whispered. “Your Hakana... it’s been corrupted.”

Kael looked up, breath ragged, eyes glowing faintly with that same dark light.

“What do you mean?”

The man stood abruptly, grim.

“They did something to you, boy. Your Hakana wasn’t just stolen—it was locked.”

Kael tried to rise, but the ground spun beneath him. His voice came hoarse, trembling. “Locked...? By who?”

The scarred man didn’t answer. He turned slowly, then removed his tattered cloak and shirt, revealing a body covered in dark, jagged scars that shimmered faintly in the firelight.

“You won’t find your Hakana like the rest of them,” he said, voice hollow. “You’ll become like me.”

Kael’s breath hitched.

“A killer.”

The fire crackled louder now, as if feeding on the truth in the air.

Kael stared—frozen.