"A warrior who cannot control his heart will eventually lose his sword."
Three years passed.
Rama had become a man.
At eighteen, he stood over six feet tall, with a lean, battle-trained body. His long black hair was tied behind his back, and his calm silver-gray eyes rarely revealed emotion.
He spoke little.
Observed everything.
And wasted nothing.
Every movement he made carried purpose.
His training had only become harsher.
Before dawn—
Meditation.
After sunrise—
Dual-sword training.
Afternoon—
Speed and footwork.
Evening—
Strength training.
Night—
Meditation once again.
Most people slept eight hours.
Rama slept four.
The rest belonged to the sword.
One afternoon, Roza watched him train.
Rama was swinging two swords so quickly that the sound of the blades echoed like a storm.
One...
Hundred...
Five hundred...
One thousand strikes.
Without stopping.
Without slowing down.
Finally, Roza raised her hand.
"Enough."
Rama stopped instantly.
Not because he was tired...
Because his mother had spoken.
Roza walked toward him.
His hands were bleeding.
His palms were covered with fresh cuts.
She gently reached for a cloth.
Rama stepped back.
"They'll heal."
Roza frowned.
"You don't have to endure everything alone."
Rama answered quietly,
"Pain teaches faster than comfort."
Roza looked at him for a long moment.
Sometimes...
Her son reminded her of someone she had never met.
A sword.
That evening, while eating dinner, Roza suddenly asked,
"Do you have any friends?"
Rama looked up.
"...No."
"Do you want any?"
He thought for a moment.
"...I don't know."
Roza smiled.
"When you were little, you used to chase butterflies."
"I remember."
"You laughed."
"I remember."
"You smiled more."
"I remember."
"Do you miss those days?"
Rama remained silent.
After a long pause, he finally spoke.
"I don't reject happiness."
"I simply don't chase it anymore."
The next morning...
Roza led Rama to the top of a mountain.
The wind blew fiercely.
Clouds drifted beneath their feet.
She placed two objects before him.
One...
A sword.
The other...
A flower.
"What do you see?"
Rama answered,
"A sword."
"A flower."
Roza nodded.
"If the wind blows..."
"...which one bends first?"
"The flower."
"And why?"
"Because it's soft."
Roza picked up the sword.
"And why doesn't this bend?"
"Because it's made of steel."
She smiled.
"Exactly."
Then her expression became serious.
"Never forget this."
"The world will try to make you bend."
"It will offer friendship."
"It will offer fame."
"It will offer love."
"It will offer power."
"None of them are evil."
"But every path has a price."
She looked directly into his eyes.
"If you truly choose the path of the sword..."
"You cannot carry everything."
Those words echoed inside Rama's mind for days.
One evening...
He sat alone beneath the ancient tree where he always meditated.
He closed his eyes.
His breathing slowed.
The sounds of birds disappeared.
The wind disappeared.
Even time itself felt distant.
Then...
A single thought appeared.
"Why does a sword become dull?"
Hours passed.
The moon replaced the sun.
Finally...
Rama opened his eyes.
"I understand."
The next morning, he approached Roza.
"I've found my answer."
Roza smiled.
"Tell me."
Rama picked up his sword.
He held it before him.
"A sword becomes slower..."
"...the more attachments it carries."
Roza stayed silent.
Rama continued,
"Hatred."
"Fear."
"Greed."
"Pride."
"They all weigh down the blade."
He looked at his own reflection in the steel.
"So do unnecessary attachments."
"If I want to become the greatest swordsman..."
"I must become free."
Roza asked softly,
"So you'll throw away your emotions?"
Rama immediately shook his head.
"No."
"I will never disrespect emotions."
"They are part of being human."
"But..."
"I will never allow them to decide my path."
"I will respect them."
"But I will reject them."
For the first time...
Roza had no answer.
She realized...
Her son was no longer repeating her teachings.
He had created his own philosophy.
Years later, warriors from nearby kingdoms began visiting just to challenge him.
One after another...
Every duel ended the same way.
Their swords fell.
Rama's remained raised.
Yet after every victory...
He bowed first.
One defeated warrior asked,
"You beat me..."
"So why are you bowing?"
Rama answered calmly,
"A warrior deserves respect..."
"Whether he wins or loses."
Word of his strength spread across the kingdoms.
People began whispering his name.
"There's a young man who fights with two swords."
"They say he's never angry."
"They say he ends every duel with respect."
"Some even say... he fights like a machine."
Rama ignored every rumor.
Praise meant nothing.
Criticism meant nothing.
Only the next sunrise mattered.
Because another day meant...
Another chance to sharpen his blade.
That night...
Roza stood outside their home, watching the stars.
Rama walked beside her.
She smiled gently.
"You've become stronger than I ever imagined."
Rama looked toward the horizon.
"I still have a long way to go."
Roza nodded.
"Good."
He looked at her.
"...Good?"
"The day you believe you've reached the end..."
"...is the day you stop growing."
For a few moments, neither of them spoke.
Then Roza took a deep breath.
"Rama."
"Yes, Mother?"
"When you turn twenty-two..."
"I'll send you into the world."
"You'll fight real wars."
"You'll meet people stronger than you."
"You'll lose things."
"You'll gain things."
She placed her only hand on his shoulder.
"But never forget..."
"You are not fighting to become famous."
"You are fighting to fulfill a promise."
Rama slowly closed his eyes.
"I remember."
"What was that promise?"
He answered without hesitation.
"To become the greatest swordsman in history..."
"...and claim the Supernatural Sword."
Far away...
Beyond mountains and forgotten kingdoms...
The legendary blade remained hidden.
Waiting.
As if destiny itself had begun counting down the days until Rama's arrival.
End of Chapter 3 ⚔️