The Sword That Refuses to Open
Thwang! Clang! Not enough to shatter it—not quite. Fragments of the training dummy rolled across the black stone floor. Kaion listened to the sound without sheathing his sword. Metal clashing against metal, ricocheting, then coming to a stop. The sharp metallic ring from moments ago splintered faintly against the wall, leaving only a brief silence in its wake. In that silence, what he was doing stood out in stark clarity.
"This isn't it."
No one in the Training Hall to answer him. The barrier stones embedded in the walls gave off only a faint glow, and the old sword scars etched into the stone floor offered no clues about who had left them or when. Kaion stood in the center of it all, still gripping his unopened sword.
The dummy lay broken. Its neck was deeply caved in, the metal layer at the shoulder peeled away like shed skin. A thick crack ran through the center of its chest, faint light from the regeneration spell leaking through the gap. It was built to withstand captains' training—something even skilled swordsmen would struggle to scratch. And Kaion had shattered it. Not just once. He'd done it several times already.
The dummy regenerated, he struck again, and it shattered anew. Metal split, barrier stones hummed low, fresh scars marred the black stone floor. The results were impressive. This was a sword that could hold its own on any battlefield. A living enemy would have died several times over. And yet.
Nothing connected. Not where it needed to.
His sword remained just a sword. The familiar weight he'd held for so long. The texture of the leather grip around his fingers, the balance transmitted through his wrist—unchanged. The blade was sharp, his hands weren't slow, his body still moved. Everything was the same.
It might have been better if it had collapsed. If his foot lagged, he could plant it again. If his wrist shook, he could regrip a thousand times. If the angle was off, he could trace lines on the wall and relearn it. If strength fell short, he could carve away more of his body. Those were problems Kaion could endure. Wrecking his body for answers was nothing new. Torn palms, stiff shoulders, trembling legs—they weren't real pain. For anyone who gripped a sword, agony was a constant companion.
But his sword hadn't failed now. It had landed properly. Shattered accurately. Could have killed plenty. And yet it was wrong.
Kaion couldn't bear the contradiction. He slowly lowered his sword. The tip of the one in his right hand pointed at the floor. A familiar stance. One he'd repeated endlessly. His sword. The way he'd always trusted.
That sword had never betrayed him until now. When the enemy blocked, another angle opened. When the enemy retreated, his foot was already advancing. Kaion Belkrad's sword had always pushed forward.
But in the valley battlefield, that forward drive had nearly gotten people killed. The thought pressed against the inside of his throat. He didn't need to close his eyes—the valley rose unbidden. The escape route the Demon King's army had deliberately left open. Every path looked like the answer. But every path was wrong.
Kaion had felt his body surge ahead then. He wanted to charge the front line. To tear through the most obvious threat first. When screams rose from the rear, he wanted to wheel back. When the flank opened, he wanted to throw himself there. That's how he'd lived. Reaching danger first. Breaking stalemates. Cleaving enemy clusters. He'd believed that was a captain's duty.
He still didn't think that belief entirely wrong. Battlefields needed such swords. A hesitating sword was late. A late sword couldn't save anyone. But a fast sword could only go one place.
So where should it have gone?
Kaion halted before that question, again and again. He stared at the dummy. The training target was reverting to its original form. The regeneration spell pushed up the split metal, the gaping cracks slowly meshed together. The deep chest cavity filled in gradually. The dummy said nothing. It just stood there again. Strike me. Stab me. Shatter me. That's what it seemed to say.
Kaion knew that temptation. The target was clear. An enemy's neck was clear. Chest clear. Sever the arms, the weapon drops. Cut the legs, movement dies. Vital points visible. Killing spots obvious. He had a good eye for them. The reflexes captains praised, the judgment honed in real combat—all served that purpose.
But Sword's Opening hadn't come. Precisely shattering what's in front of you was worlds apart from opening your own sword.
Before that gap, his hand grew heavy. Sword's Opening. Ena's words had been brief. Master Sword's Opening first. We'll talk next steps after. It felt not like a path laid before him, but an endless cliff. He'd been told to climb. But he saw no handholds, no stones that would bear weight, not even a direction to reach.
Kaion stood at the base of that cliff now. Clinging only to the fact of his own strength—and the fact that it helped not at all. He gritted his teeth. Blood tinged his mouth. He'd bitten down at some point. The pain was minor. Barely more than noise. No need to mind it. The real ache was elsewhere.
Not knowing. Being strong and still not knowing. The sword that had upheld him until now, silent before this door.
Kaion raised his sword again. This time, he tried slowing down. If brute force wasn't the answer, he needed to look more. If too fast, slow it. Too strong, ease off. Too high, lower it. He'd done that in battle before. He eyed the target. Neck. Shoulder. Chest. Waist. Knee. The lines to sever stood out vividly. That was the problem. Everything visible was familiar.
Kaion moved his sword slowly. He kept the right-hand blade low, pulled the left back. Widened his stance a bit, halved his entry speed. Trying to see the target's motion more. Its center before collapse.
But in that instant, his sword felt dull. His body sensed the awkwardness first. This wasn't his sword. A waiting sword. A watching sword. One that waited for the opponent to move. It didn't fit his body. Like wearing someone else's armor—his movements floated awkwardly. Blade tip lagged, feet grew heavy, breaths stretched long.
Kaion knew before striking. This wasn't it either. He tried snapping back to his original speed, but...
"No."
It was perfect. Perfectly wrong.
Kaion couldn't lower his sword. He stood frozen like that for a while. In a victorious stance. Like a defeated man.
"Pathetic."
His voice was barely audible. He was angry at himself. Not a slow sword. Not a weak one. Not clumsy. Yet it didn't connect.
He was a captain. Of the 10th Squad. The one who commanded subordinates, led the front, severed enemy necks. And he didn't even know where his sword's door lay. Shame rose late. Different from the humiliation of dropping his sword in the valley. That had been shock first. This was quieter, deeper. No one watching, yet he felt exposed. No rebuke from outside, yet something inside kept rising. You don't know. You still don't know.
He hated that voice. Hated it enough to raise his sword again. He didn't wait for the target to regenerate—swung at the remaining fragments. Clang! A shard flew. Again. Thwang! The half-reformed dummy tore anew. Again. Clang! Again. Crunch! Sounds piled up. Sword on metal. Barrier's low hum. Fragments rolling. His own breaths growing ragged.
Through all the noise, one phrase echoed. This isn't it. First as words. Then mixed in his breaths. Finally, not even thought—just a weight pressing inside. This isn't it.
But he didn't know what was.
He stopped. Drew breath. Lungs burned. Sweat trickled to his eyes. He didn't wipe it. Blood seeped into his palm. The leather grip pressed raw flesh. Each flex of fingers brought small pain. Minor. Too minor. If a door opened to this much hurt, everyone would have it unlocked.
Kaion looked at the floor. Old sword scars. For the first time, they looked different. He'd thought them traces of power. Captains' marks. Strong strikes tearing stone, barriers straining, someone's opening slamming down. Now they seemed like traces of wandering. Time spent striking blindly. Marks from those who hadn't let go despite no answers.
They probably hadn't known either. No one walked in knowing their sword's name from the start. They'd shattered, erred, tried again. But that wasn't comfort. Others' struggles didn't lighten his pain.
Kaion raised his head. The target was reforming again. Slowly, stubbornly, as if nothing had happened. He hated that. Only he was unraveling, bleeding, left ignorant.
Kaion gripped his sword tight. Sword's Opening was too distant for talent alone. Talent could bring you here. Make you a Captain. Let you fell foes. Forge a praised blade. But it wouldn't open the door. Raising your hand at the threshold—that was something else.
Kaion didn't know what. That ignorance gnawed at him.
He thought of Ena again. More precisely, her words to him. "You're not a sword that stands behind."
Right. He knew himself. A sword only for holding the rear wasn't his. Kaion's sword advanced toward danger. No lie there.
But the next words were the issue. How to advance without collapsing.
Kaion didn't understand. Advance and you'd break. That's what he'd seen in the valley. One body. Sword reaches only as far as the grip allows. Obvious fact. Yet advance. Without collapsing. How?
He stalled before that question again. Until now, his body had supplied answers. Feet faster than doubts, sword ahead of fear. Enemy sighted—slash. Path blocked—break through. Danger ahead—dive in.
That way wasn't everything. He'd learned that today. But if not that way, what remained?
Kaion didn't know. Didn't know, yet raised his sword again.
"Again."
The word was short. No command to anyone. A label for himself. He walked toward the target. Didn't run this time. Walked. One step. Two. Three. The closer he got, the clearer its weaknesses. All visible. His body already chose the answer. This angle. This distance. This rhythm.
Kaion followed it. Thwang! Target shook. Second sword followed. Clang! Third swept low. Crunch! Success again. Wrong again.
He gritted his teeth. "...Again."
He lowered his sword. This time, he knew it was wrong before the target fully crumbled. From the moment the blade connected. This way wouldn't reach. But he didn't know another.
That cruel truth slowly scraped inside him. The training hall stayed silent. No advice. No mockery. No praise. He was alone. No one had ever told him the answer. Not even what sensation to seek.
To him, a sword was still something gripped and advanced with. So he kept knocking with the sword in his hand. On a wall, not a door.
Kaion dimly sensed it. Couldn't articulate it. Just the feeling of striking the same spot. That sensation exhausted him.
Then.
The air in the training hall shifted, ever so slightly. The barrier stones' light didn't flicker. No door swung wide. No footsteps first.
But Kaion suddenly felt eyes on his back. The instant he thought it, a voice sounded.
"No."
A single short word. Kaion's hand froze. Sword tip halted before the target. His breath lagged a beat.
A voice he couldn't mistake. Quiet, low, uncannily clear.
Kaion slowly turned. He hadn't heard her enter. No door creak. No footsteps.
She stood in the shadows at the training hall entrance. Her clothes faintly lit by the barrier stones' glow.
Ena watched Kaion.
Kaion stiffened, sword still raised. Ena glanced at the shattered dummy. At the floor scars. At the blood on his hands.
Then back at Kaion.
"It's not 'again', Kaion."
The arrival of his teacher. For him.