"A sword is not born on the battlefield... it is forged long before the first battle is ever fought." The years passed quietly. While other children laughed, played, and chased dreams beneath the open sky... Rama spent his days holding a wooden sword. Every sunrise marked the beginning of another lesson. Every sunset marked another day survived. For Roza... There were no shortcuts. Only discipline. "Again." A wooden sword struck the ground. Rama, now seven years old, struggled to lift it. His arms trembled with exhaustion. "...Mother... I can't." Roza's voice remained calm. "You can." "My hands hurt." "They will become stronger." "My legs won't move." "Then stand." Rama slowly pushed himself back onto his feet. Roza nodded. "Again." Day after day... The same routine repeated. Before sunrise— Meditation. Morning— Footwork. Afternoon— Sword training. Night— Balance, breathing, and control. No matter the weather... The training never stopped. One freezing winter morning, Rama opened one eye during meditation. "Mother..." "Hm?" "Why do we meditate more than we fight?" Roza smiled faintly. She picked up two swords and placed them on the ground. One blade was polished until it reflected the morning light. The other was covered in rust. "Which sword is stronger?" "The shiny one." Roza shook her head. "Wrong." She lifted the rusted blade. "This sword belonged to a hero." Then she lifted the polished one. "This sword has never seen battle." Rama blinked. "A sword's strength doesn't come from its appearance." "It comes from the one who controls it." She gently tapped his forehead. "And before you control a sword..." "You must control this." Those words stayed with Rama. Years passed. His body grew stronger. His movements became sharper. His mind became quieter. One afternoon... Rama watched birds flying across the sky. Children from a nearby village were playing together. One of them shouted, "Rama! Come play with us!" He smiled. "I'll come tomorrow!" Roza heard him. That night, she sat beside him. "You wanted to play." "...Yes." "Then why didn't you?" "I didn't want to disappoint you." Roza looked into the fire. "You know why I train you?" "So I can become the strongest." "No." Rama frowned. "So I can become a hero?" "No." "Then why?" Roza looked toward the old sword hanging on the wall. "Because talent fades." "Strength fades." "Youth fades." "But discipline..." "...never abandons the one who protects it." As the years passed, Rama began asking fewer questions. Instead... He started searching for answers himself. He spent hours sitting beneath an ancient tree, meditating without being told. Sometimes... He remained there from sunrise until sunset. His breathing became slow. His heartbeat became calm. His thoughts disappeared. One evening, after finishing training, Rama picked up two swords. He began swinging both at the same time. Left. Right. Left. Right. The movements were awkward. He dropped one sword. Again. Again. Again. Until... Both blades began moving like flowing water. Roza watched silently from a distance. A small smile appeared on her face. "He's creating his own path..." When Rama turned fifteen... He defeated every swordsman in his village. Not because he was stronger. Because he never wasted a single movement. Every strike had purpose. Every step had meaning. That night... Roza invited him to sit beside the fire. For a long time... Neither of them spoke. Finally, Rama broke the silence. "Mother..." "Yes?" "What makes a sword truly fast?" Roza looked at him carefully. She realized... The boy had finally begun asking the questions of a true warrior. Instead of answering... She asked one herself. "When you swing your sword..." "What do you think about?" Rama remained silent. "My opponent." "My next attack." "My next defense." Roza shook her head. "Too many thoughts." She handed him his sword. "Swing it." He obeyed. The blade sliced through the air. "Again." He swung faster. "Again." Faster. "Again." Faster. Sweat dripped from his forehead. Finally... Roza asked, "What are you thinking now?" Rama closed his eyes. "...Nothing." A smile appeared on Roza's face. "Exactly." She stood up. "A sword reaches its greatest speed..." "...when the swordsman disappears." That night... Rama couldn't sleep. He repeated those words over and over. "When the swordsman disappears..." "Only the sword remains..." For the first time... He understood. He wasn't training to become famous. He wasn't training to become feared. He wasn't even training to become a hero. He wanted to become... A sword itself. A weapon with no hesitation. No pride. No fear. No attachment. Only purpose. The next morning... Roza found Rama meditating before sunrise. She quietly smiled. "What are you thinking about?" Without opening his eyes... Rama answered, "I've made my decision." "What decision?" He slowly opened his eyes. Their calmness startled even Roza. "From today onward..." "I will no longer live as a man." "I will live as a sword." The morning wind carried his words into the mountains. Roza looked at her son for a long moment. Then she whispered to herself, "Joro... Our son has begun walking the path that you never could." Far away... Hidden beyond clouds and forgotten ruins... The legendary Supernatural Sword remained silent. But for the first time in centuries... It was as if it had begun waiting for someone. End of Chapter 2 ⚔️

Chapter 2: The Boy Raised by the Sword