"Why didn’t you come? Was it just because of that one thing, even though it wasn’t your fault?" Ulfr shouted, angry, as he grabbed a stick. "How many times did I tell you to leave that job?"

  "Father... I really loved that job," Riven said as he ran ahead.

  "But you didn’t make much money from it," Ulfr said, running after him with the stick.

  Riven ran through the old, creaky house, his breath short and his heart beating fast like a drum. The floor creaked under him as he weaved around furniture, trying hard to get away from his father. He knew Ulfr wasn’t just angry—he was worried. Years of hard work and struggle had shaped that worry. But knowing that didn’t make the yelling hurt any less.

  Riven didn’t really love working at the smithy, pounding hot steel in the thick smoke and heat. But he couldn’t bear the idea of fishing by the river. Just thinking about it made him feel sick and scared. He didn’t know how to explain it—the river frightened him. Something about its dark, quiet depths made him feel trapped. So he stuck with fire and solid ground, even if it didn’t pay much.

  He turned a corner fast and almost knocked over a stool. Behind him, Ulfr’s heavier footsteps echoed through the house. His father’s face was red with emotion, his eyes full of worry and frustration. He held a stick—not to hurt, but more to make a point. He’d never hit Riven with it, only used it as a warning, a way to get his son’s attention. Ulfr just wanted Riven to stop running and think about his choices.

  “Father, please try to understand,” Riven said, breathing hard, his voice shaking but his eyes steady and full of emotion. “That job… it made me feel alive. Like I mattered for something more than hauling nets or cleaning fish. I know it didn’t pay much, but the happiness it gave me—that meant more than money. I didn’t even know I needed that kind of joy until I had it. And I don’t want to give it up.”

  Ulfr slowed down, Riven’s words hitting him deep. All his life, he had pictured a future for his son that was safe—steady work, food on the table, a roof that held up in a storm. Fishing had kept their family going for generations. But now, looking at Riven—sweaty, tired, but speaking from the heart—he saw something he hadn’t noticed before: a fire. That spark of something real. Something Ulfr hadn’t felt in a long time.

  Maybe the forge wasn’t forever, but it had lit a fire in Riven’s heart. And maybe that mattered more right now than fish or coin.

  Riven’s legs started to shake, the rush of energy fading. He slowed down, turning to see Ulfr a few steps behind. The chase was over.

  They stood there, breathing hard, close enough to feel the heat of each other’s exhaustion. Ulfr’s grip on the stick loosened. With a tired groan, he dropped into a chair, sweat shining on his face. His breath caught, turning into a dry, rough cough that echoed through the quiet house.

  Riven’s face changed in an instant. He rushed to his father’s side, all the anger gone. He knelt quickly, grabbed a pitcher, and poured water into a chipped cup. He held it out with both hands, eyes full of worry and care.

  "Here, Father," Riven said, gently handing him the cup. "Drink some water. It’ll help you catch your breath."

  Ulfr took the cup with a grateful nod, the cool water easing the dryness in his throat. He looked at Riven with tired eyes, but behind them was a quiet pride. "You’ve gotten so fast, my son," he said with a faint smile. "I could hardly keep up."

  Riven smiled back, a warm feeling blooming in his chest. "Father, how much money did Mr. Bjorn ask for again?" he asked carefully.

  "One hundred gold coins," Ulfr answered, his breathing finally steady.

  "What? But I only borrowed fifty from him!" Riven said, eyes wide with shock.

  Ulfr let out a heavy sigh. "That’s how the loan worked," he said, his voice colder now. His eyes looked distant—full of bitterness, weariness, sadness, and something deeper: quiet despair. He had carried so much for so long—for his ill wife, his two sons, for a family that needed him to be strong even when his body had begun to fail him.

  "Riven," Ulfr said softly, his voice weighed down with emotion, "this isn’t easy for me to say. We couldn’t support you forever. Your mother was already sick. I was getting old. Your little brother still had years to grow. And one day, you'd have your own family—your own child. How would you take care of them if you couldn’t even take care of yourself?"

  Riven felt the heaviness of the moment settle deep in his chest. He looked at his father, no longer just as the man who chased him, but as someone who had been running his whole life, too.

  "I know, Father," he said quietly. "I knew things were hard. I saw it in your face every day. I felt it in the silence at the dinner table. But even then… I believed we couldn’t give up. We had to keep pushing forward. There had to be another way."

  Ulfr looked at his son with a heavy heart, torn between pride and sorrow. "My son," he said, his voice trembling with emotion, "life hasn’t been easy. It tested us, pushed us, and sometimes made us feel like giving up. But in those moments, we had to find the strength to keep moving."

  He paused, letting the silence settle between them like a shared memory. "Life is like the river," he continued, eyes distant. "Sometimes it’s calm, peaceful. Other times, it crashes and pulls everything with it. But no matter what, we had to keep swimming. We had to learn to move with it, not against it."

  Riven listened, each word sinking deep. His chest tightened with emotion. "But how, Father?" he asked, voice strained. "How did we survive when everything around us felt like it was falling apart?"

  Ulfr gently placed a rough, calloused hand on Riven’s shoulder. It was a small touch, but it carried years of love, of sacrifice. "Because we had something more powerful than money or luck. We had each other. That was our strength—never giving up, never turning away from one another. No matter how little we had, we had family. That was enough to face anything."

  Tears welled up in Riven’s eyes. He looked at his father—not just as the tired, aging man before him, but as the quiet force that had carried their family through storms. And now, standing in the middle of their old home, he realized: that strength was in him too.

  "We didn’t have all the answers," Riven said, voice firm and full of resolve, "but we had heart. And we’ll find a way. Together. We’ll build something better, no matter how long it takes."

  Ulfr’s expression softened, but his concern remained. "I knew you had a passion for palmistry," he said, brows furrowed. "But palm reading won’t earn you enough to survive—let alone repay our debts."

  Riven’s face hardened, stung by doubt. "But Father, I was good at it! People came from far away just to see me. I had something—something real."

  Ulfr let out a long, weary breath. "Maybe you did. But talent doesn’t always fill the table with food. Do you remember the day Mr. Bjorn came storming into this house? Arguing, yelling, threatening? That wasn’t just a scene—it was a warning. How do we pay back what we owe with a job that depends on luck and passing strangers?"

  Riven’s jaw clenched, a mix of frustration and sadness in his eyes. "I never wanted to put you through that. But I also didn’t want to live a life that made me feel like a ghost. I needed something that made me feel alive."

  Ulfr looked away, the weight of years etched into his face. "And I only ever wanted to keep you safe."

  Riven’s expression darkened, his shoulders slumping as the weight of his father’s words pressed down on him. He stood there, silent for a moment, staring at the floor as a mix of frustration and sadness swirled within him. His dreams, his hopes, felt so far away now—crushed under the reality of their struggles.

  Ulfr rose from his chair and began preparing the medicine for his wife, Liv, who had fallen ill. His hands moved carefully, measuring each ingredient as his mind drifted to a painful memory.

  "Even though I'm old now, I could still fight for you, Riven," he said, his voice tight with the past. "But what really hurt was when they called you a demon. When they threatened you... I couldn't stand that." His hands paused for a moment as he thought back to that time—a group of villagers, driven by fear and ignorance, had mocked Riven and called him a demon. They had threatened to harm him, and Ulfr had felt helpless, too old to protect his son the way he wanted to.

  Riven stood up, breaking the silence. "Father, give me the soup and medicine," he said, stepping forward and gently taking the tray from his father’s hands. "I’ll feed Mother."

  Ulfr smiled faintly, feeling a bit of relief. "Well, then, let’s all eat together," he replied, walking alongside Riven as they headed toward the room where Odin and Liv sat. Odin was telling one of the same stories he’d heard from Thorik, and Liv, despite her sickness, smiled weakly at her son.

  After a while, Riven left the house, his thoughts clouded. Mr. Bjorn's anger still lingered, and Riven knew it wouldn’t fade until he confronted it. He had to face it, or it would follow him all day.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  As he walked through the village, he called out Mr. Bjorn’s name. The people nearby turned and stared at him, their eyes filled with curiosity and fear. They probably thought he was a demon, just like the others who had never seen him act this way—so bold, so loud, so different from the quiet figure they were used to.

  Riven didn’t care. He knocked on Mr. Bjorn's door with determination. This time, it was Kára, Mr. Bjorn's wife, who answered. She looked surprised to see him.

  "He’s not home right now," she said, her voice cautious. "You can find him at his shop."

  Riven nodded, his gaze sweeping the village. The villagers’ eyes followed him with suspicion, their whispers hanging in the air. But Riven ignored them, the tension thick around him. With steady steps, he turned toward Mr. Bjorn’s shop, his heart set on confronting the man who still had so much anger toward him.

  As soon as Riven left, everything seemed to settle back into place. The villagers began talking again, but it didn’t bother him as much anymore. He had become a part of their lives, for better or worse.

  "Kára, Kára!" Freya's voice rang out, breathless and frantic as she came running toward the door.

  "What's wrong? Freya, why are you running so fast?" Kára asked, reaching out to steady her before she could stumble.

  "Mr. Bjorn," Freya gasped, barely able to catch her breath. "Riven killed Mr. Bjorn."

  Kára’s heart skipped a beat. "Are you sure, Freya?" she asked, her voice shaking with fear and disbelief.

  Freya nodded, her eyes wide with terror. "I saw it with my own eyes, Kára. Riven was standing over Mr. Bjorn’s body... he was lifeless, and Riven's eyes—he looked like he was... crazy. He didn’t even seem like himself."

  A chill ran down Kára’s spine. She felt a wave of unease sweep over her as the words sank in. Riven had been acting strange earlier, yes, but to think that he could actually kill someone... it didn’t make sense. She never imagined things would come to this.

  ━???━???━

  To the east of Umbralyn Village, there was a thick, dense woodland where the sunlight struggled to break through the heavy cover of leaves. In the midst of it stood a striking man with silver short hair, dressed in a blue and white outfit. He held a sword in his hand, and his eyes gleamed with the wisdom and experience earned from countless battles. His silver hair was a clear sign of his age and his years spent mastering the martial arts. He had become a legend, a name that sent shivers down the spines of those who heard it. He was known for both his courage and his ruthless nature.

  His face was mostly hidden beneath a large hood, which concealed everything except for his piercing dark eyes. A black scepter hung from a silver belt at his waist, completing his imposing appearance. Slowly, he lowered his hood, revealing a white mask that covered his face—a symbol of his stoic persona.

  His gaze remained locked on the woman standing before him. She was a black-haired figure, dressed in a soft pastel pink gown, a color that seemed to shimmer with the grace of a flamingo. She was his most talented student, but in this moment, she was no longer that. She was his opponent, someone he had to fight. She stood with a sword in hand, her eyes unwavering as she met his gaze, determined not to blink. The air between them was tense, charged with the weight of the coming battle.

  She held deep respect for her Master, yet a burning desire to surpass him in the martial arts world fueled her every move. Her Master, in turn, appreciated her courage and ambition. Without a word, they raised their swords, and in an instant, they charged toward each other. The clash of their swords rang out loudly, the sound slicing through the quiet forest and stirring the winds around them.

  Each strike was met with a swift dodge, as if they were dancing—two bodies moving in perfect harmony, each anticipating the other’s moves.

  She weaved through the air with grace, a smile of confidence touching her lips. "Impressive, Master," she called out. "I picked up a few tricks since our last practice." Her movements were fluid, elegant, and fast, like a dancer twirling between the strikes.

  Her Master's response was a stark contrast. His movements were graceful too, but they carried a raw, ferocious power. His skill as a martial artist was unmatched—no one would expect such speed from a Master of his caliber. His every strike was calculated, precise, and lethal. This was why he had always focused on perfecting his technique.

  As he blocked her blow and stepped back, he looked at her with admiration. "That's what I like to hear," he said with a grin. "Show me what you’ve learned."

  Suddenly, the entire jungle seemed to awaken. The rustling of leaves, the chirping of birds, and the shifting of the trees added to the chaotic beauty of their battle. It was as though the very forest was breathing with them. The air was thick with the scent of something sweet—almost like the smell of fresh fruit—but it lingered just enough to tease the senses without ever quite satisfying them. Leaves and grasses seemed to dance in rhythm with the movements of their blades.

  Despite the beauty around them, neither the Master nor the pupil broke their focus. As she lunged and attacked, her eyes narrowed with determination, convinced that this time, she would land the blow that would bring him down. But every time, when her blade met his, it was his strength and skill that held her back. He blocked, dodged, and countered with the precision only years of experience could grant.

  A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips as she taunted him. "You're slowing down, Master. Maybe it’s time for me to take charge."

  The Master’s grin was just as playful. "Don't get too confident," he replied. "I still have some surprises up my sleeve."

  In an instant, they both switched to blades, the metallic ring of their weapons clashing as they moved faster than before. Each slash and strike reverberated through the dense foliage. The very air seemed to vibrate with the intensity of their fight, the ground beneath their feet trembling as their power escalated.

  And then, without warning, the forest seemed to shift. The trees stopped swaying and suddenly, in a surreal, synchronized movement, they began to grow—taller and stronger. The battle between master and student was no longer the only thing that mattered. The jungle itself had become part of their fight.

  The trees closed in around them, forming a massive circle. Leaves thickened, and the air grew heavier. The two fighters found themselves surrounded by a ring of towering trees, their trunks now thick and strong, rising far above their heads. The Master and his pupil stood in the center of the ring, eyeing each other, but now they were also aware of the strange, growing power around them. No one could say for sure how long this circle would last, but the forest itself had become a living force, pressing in on them, as though it was a part of their struggle.

  She slowed her breathing and, between breaths, asked, “You’re not holding back at all, are you?”

  The Master smiled, his eyes gleaming with pride. “Of course not! How else will you improve? Keep pushing yourself, Eira Hakon.”

  He paused, giving her a moment to catch her breath. As he watched her, he couldn’t help but remember that she was still new to the world of martial arts. She had only recently begun her journey, and the road ahead would be a hard one.

  Sooner or later, she would realize how difficult it was to become a truly great fighter. There would be moments when doubt would creep in, when she would question herself. And she wouldn’t like what she found at the end of that journey—because of something more personal.

  The Phoenix System, the very thing that made her strong, was also the thing that burdened her. Every ten years, it crashed, and every time it did, it brought with it dire consequences. Her strength, her abilities—everything—faded, and she was left weaker than before. The emotional toll was just as heavy as the physical one.

  He could see the anxiety building inside her. “The system’s nature is cyclical, Eira,” her mother had warned her. “Prepare yourself for the crash. It is inevitable.”

  But Eira, ever the determined student, refused to give in to fear. She sought out the truth about the Phoenix System, hoping that the more she understood, the better she could prepare for what was coming. But the deeper she dug, the less she found. Most of the knowledge was buried in ancient texts, and even those didn’t offer much. The only thing she could uncover was the cycle—the rise and fall, the death and rebirth—and the constant need for resilience.

  Despite the uncertainty, Eira pressed on, refusing to let her fate control her. She was determined to learn as much as she could about the system, even if it meant facing the truth that might not be easy to accept.

  She smiled gratefully, her voice filled with sincerity as she said, “Thank you for guiding me on this path, Master.”

  He nodded, his gaze softening with appreciation before they returned to their duel.

  Each clash of their swords wasn’t just a battle of strength; it was an opportunity for the Master to impart wisdom, a chance to shape his student’s understanding of combat. As they danced around each other, he pushed her to think critically, to adjust her movements, and to discover her own approach. He knew that beyond the physical skill, she needed a strong sense of purpose—a reason to keep going, even when obstacles seemed insurmountable. The most important thing for her, he realized, was to believe in herself. With the right mindset, she could overcome anything.

  Despite the approaching end of her ten-year cycle, Eira started to feel the stirrings of confidence. She wasn’t sure how much time she had left, but she knew she had grown stronger, both in body and spirit.

  “Keep in mind,” the Master said as they fought, “success isn’t always about triumphing over your adversary.”

  Eira paused mid-swing, her brow furrowing slightly in curiosity. “Then?” she asked, her voice still steady even as they continued their movements. She didn’t stop, but the question hung in the air, a challenge she needed to understand.

  “Our victory is in the journey and the bond we share,” the Master explained, his voice calm and steady as their swords met again. “And this journey is what makes our cultivation even better.”

  As he spoke, he struck a blow with such force that the surrounding leaves detached from the trees and gently floated to the ground. The leaves, once firmly held by their branches, now drifted in the air, swirling in the breeze. The sound of the wind through them created a soothing melody, as if nature itself was harmonizing with their battle. The leaves spun gracefully, their delicate movements shifting between moments of calm and fierce chaos. For a split second, they looked soft and peaceful, like cotton candy, before suddenly twisting and turning, becoming a violent, unpredictable force.

  Eira watched the leaves, her mind racing with doubt. She tightened her grip on her sword, her voice filled with concern. “If our victory is only in this journey, we will never defeat our enemies. And what if we keep failing?”

  At her question, the Master paused, his hands lowering as he turned to face her. His eyes were steady and full of understanding. “Make mistakes,” he said softly. “We learn by making mistakes. We should not fear failure, because the more we fail, the closer we get to success.”

  Eira’s brow furrowed as she thought about his words. He continued, his voice filled with the weight of wisdom. “Do you remember the story of our Master Ragnar Leif and his eight-headed dragon system? Victory isn’t always instant. It comes after many failures. We just have to keep trying and persevere.”

  Understanding his words, Eira nodded thoughtfully. “So the meaning of victory is not only about winning on the battlefield, but also about making yourself a better and stronger person?”

  “Absolutely,” the Master confirmed, his voice steady. “Every challenge and every setback we face brings us closer to growth. It shows us how much potential we have. And the second most important thing is, we learn new things from new people.”

  Eira took a deep breath, her resolve strengthening. She now had a clearer aim, a deeper understanding of what she needed to focus on. With newfound determination, she resumed her fight. “I am ready to accept this journey; now I will learn from both victory and defeat.”

  The Master smiled, pride shining in his eyes as he watched his student. “This is the spirit. Victory is not just a destination, but a continuous evolution.”

  Before Eira could respond, the sound of footsteps interrupted their training. Two boys from the Wolfstone School of Combat approached briskly, each bowing respectfully with both hands in front of them.

  “Master Kjell Rolf,” the first boy, Thrain Frostwarden, said with urgency in his voice. “We found him, Master.”