The Night the Phantom Sword Awakened
Rain drummed on the wooden bridge that night, the night the broken sword floated. The bridge was already half-collapsed. Rotten railings had been swept away by the rushing current, and soaked ropes dangled like severed snakes across the mud.
Young Ronan lay beneath it. On the slope of the Hunting Forest, tumbled far from the Supply Road. His ankle was sunk in mud. His palms torn. In both hands clutched a single broken practice sword. It was hardly worthy of the name. The blade snapped halfway, the hilt's leather swollen with rainwater. It had always been a cheap self-defense practice sword, sized for a child's grip. Now even that was gone. But Ronan wouldn't let go.
A low growl echoed from deep in the forest. Kururur. Like a beast's throat rumble—but not a beast. Amid the scent of rain came the tang of iron. Black steam rose from every footprint stamped into the wet earth. Its eyes gleamed low like a wolf's, forepaws tipped with sickle-curved claws. A magic beast.
Ronan swallowed hard.
“Ronan!”
His father's voice carried from afar. Water roared and thunder tore it apart.
“Ronan, answer me!”
His mother's voice too. From beyond the bridge. Close, surely. But a collapsed span and swollen creek waters stood between them. His parents hadn't abandoned him. They simply couldn't reach. Ronan knew that. And that made it all the more terrifying. If he shouted, they might come down. Might try crossing that ruined bridge. Then it wouldn't be him falling—but them.
Ronan bit his lip.
“Here...”
His voice was smothered by rain. As he drew breath to try again, the magic beast took a step closer. Mud splattered. Ronan raised the sword. It was heavy. No—not the sword. His arms trembled. His body was small. Narrower shoulders than his peers, thinner wrists. The hands his father had teased as “perfect for a scribe,” laughing. The hands his mother had gloved, saying, “You'll write such pretty letters.” Now those hands couldn't even hold a broken sword steady. Ronan gritted his teeth.
Just three days prior, the road had been ordinary. His father, Lowen, was a low-ranking supply clerk at the palace. No famed knight, no noble with a grand house sigil. He was the man who balanced ledgers perfectly, checked seals meticulously, quietly finished what others put off. To such a man came the order to audit a frontier lord's warehouse logs. Grain counts didn't match, they said. A word from the palace ended it there—but for a low clerk, it was a path he couldn't refuse.
His mother had insisted on going as far as the Relay Station. “Ronan should see the open road once. Not just swing that sword under the desk all day.” His father laughed and handed Ronan the practice sword. “For self-defense. Learn to swing it right.”
“I'll protect you, Father.”
“A clerk who can't protect his ledgers?”
“I don't know ledgers, so I'll just protect you.”
They'd all laughed then. The laughter didn't last.
On the return, rain poured. The Supply Road had rotted long ago. Relay folk muttered low: the overseeing noble had skimped on repairs. Wagons bogged, hooves sunk, bridges groaning in every storm—and no one fixed a thing. Lowen heard and hardened his face.
“It's not just the ledgers, then.”
Before the words finished, the bridge gave way. The lead wagon slipped first. The rear braked hard. Cargo tilted. Ronan reached for a handhold. Too short. His small body tumbled too easily. His mother screamed. His father lunged. Fingertips grazed. Missed.
And now, Ronan lay below the ruined Supply Road. Parents beyond the bridge. Magic beast before him.
Ronan gripped the broken sword with both hands. The beast growled again. Closer now. Rotten blood stung his nose. He tried to back away. Foot stuck fast. Mud clutched his ankle. The beast raised a forepaw. Claws longer than Ronan's chest. One swipe, and it was over.
Ronan didn't close his eyes. Closing them felt like dying. He wanted to run. To cry. To tell Father he was okay. To beg Mother not to get hurt. But no voice came. Instead, strength flooded his fingers. The broken hilt pressed his torn palm. Blood mixed with rain.
“Move...”
Ronan whispered. The sword didn't stir. Of course not. It was just a sword. Broken, short, cheap. Still he said it.
“Please.”
The claws fell. Ronan stepped forward. Not from inability to flee. Backing away would make his parents' voices grow fainter.
“I still... have to go back.”
In that instant, the rain seemed to halt. No—the rain fell on. But water's roar faded from his ears. Only his heartbeat thrummed. Thump. Once. Thump. Twice. He drew breath; cold air filled his lungs. Something rode that air. Not fire. Not ice. No lightning flash. Just clear power scattered amid rain, earth, and trees. Power belonging to no one. Shapeless, pure mana.
It gathered at Ronan's fingertips. The broken sword's tip quivered faintly. At first, he thought raindrops flicked. Then moonlight gleamed. But no moon shone. From the tip stretched a slender line of light. Ronan's wrist bent back.
“Ugh...!”
Too heavy. No—not weight. The sword demanded a breath larger than his own. Ronan clenched teeth, held his breath. The light-line sought blade-form, cracked. Rejoined, trembled. Not a perfect sword. Like a shadow forced onto the broken end. A semi-transparent blade. One cracked sword. But a sword nonetheless.
The claws crashed down. Boom! Ronan's feet sank deeper into mud. Shoulders screamed as if tearing. The broken practice sword didn't shatter. Before it, the cracked blade deflected the claws. Not head-on. Not slashed away. Just a hair's deviation in path.
The beast's paw grazed Ronan's side. Cloak tore wet. Skin stung. But chest stayed whole. Ronan lived.
The magic beast hesitated first time. So did Ronan. He didn't grasp what he'd done. But it lingered at his fingertips. Clear power from air. Each breath drew more, pulsing with heartbeat to sword-tip.
Ronan raised trembling hands again. No radiant blade. No gleaming sword from heroic tales whirled on training grounds. Just a cracked phantom sword, barely clinging to a rain-soaked child's fingers. Yet the beast didn't charge anew.
Ronan saw the opening. Eyes like his father's, never missing a ledger's errant digit. The beast's right forepaw. The deflected claw-tip shook.
He couldn't kill. Couldn't win. But push once more? Possible.
Ronan didn't swing. Arms lacked strength. Instead, fingers curled. Just a fraction. The twisted phantom sword stirred in air. Slow, rough, trembling as if to scatter. The beast crouched low. Next instant, sword grazed first. Not claw. Mud between claws split. Brief gap. Paw slipped. Massive body tilted on rainwater. Thud! Mud sprayed.
Ronan staggered, fell. Phantom sword shook. Cracked blade thinned to vanishing. Far off, a horn blared. Relay Station's rescue call.
“Over here! Child's below!”
Adult voices. Torchlight flickered through rain. The beast bared teeth from ground. Not dead. Eyes still vicious. But pinned between approaching clamor and strange blade before Ronan, it retreated. Vanished into forest depths.
Only then did Ronan exhale. Inner power fled with breath. Phantom sword scattered like raindrops. Only broken practice sword remained in hand. As if nothing happened.
Father waded mud down. Clothes torn, blood on brow. Yet he didn't stop. Mother called Ronan's name behind. Ronan tried to answer.
“I...”
Throat choked. Father embraced him. Not crushing. Arms shook, careful not to press wounds.
“Alive.”
Father's voice cracked. “My son... alive.”
Then Ronan's tears burst. Restraint crumbled. Mother knelt, cradled his wet head.
“It's okay. Okay, Ronan. We're here.”
Ronan shook head.
“I...”
“Don't speak.”
“The sword...”
Mother's hand paused. Father eyed Ronan's hand. Broken practice sword. No light at tip. Just faint golden scratch near snapped blade. A line rain couldn't wash away. Father stared long. Then covered Ronan's hand.
“Today, just think on surviving.”
Ronan nodded. Good words. What power? Why him? What changes ahead? He knew nothing. That day's Ronan was no hero. Didn't slay beast. Didn't fix road. Didn't drag corrupt noble to light. Just didn't yield to death, didn't drop sword, nudged claws a fraction aside. That was all.
But that once was enough. For Ronan, it lingered. Rainy forest path. Fallen wooden bridge. Parents' voices. Small feet mired in mud. And at broken sword's tip, briefly floated—a single cracked phantom sword.
After that day, Ronan feared swords. Yet couldn't release them. Grip stiffened at times. Wooden swords summoned claw-scrapes. Heavy blades first shook small frame. Some laughed at sight. Some called coward. Some sneered low clerk's son aping knights. Ronan remembered every word.
But sharper still: Move. Please. I still have to go back. When spoken, sword moved—just a little. A little sufficed. At first.
Years later. Spring rain-cleared morning. Before Royal Knight Academy's Main Gate, new cadets gathered. High stone walls bore royal crest; far inside, training grounds' flags pierced damp sky on breeze.
Ronan stood amid crowd. Taller now. Still narrower shoulders than peers. At waist, worn scabbard. Not honed blade within—but cloth-wrapped hilt of old broken practice sword.
Someone passed, glanced. Low chuckle. Ronan ignored. Unrolled parchment in hand. Royal Knight Academy admission writ. Creased, edges worn. Below, inked name: Ronan.
Clerk flipping roster by gate spotted, looked up.
“Ronan?”
Ronan folded writ. Spring breeze passed. Unseen, faint light beaded at fingertips, vanished.
Ronan gazed inside gate.
“Yes.”
He stepped forward. As in rainy Hunting Forest years ago.
“I'm Ronan.”