Chapter 2:Seven Years in the Shadows

Afternoon – Break Time

Training had been brutal since morning. My shirt clung to my skin, soaked with sweat, and every breath burned like fire in my lungs.

"That's enough for now."

Her voice cut through the air like always—calm, composed, and ever so distant. Master lowered her sword with a fluid motion, the sunlight glinting off its edge.

"Let's rest."

I plopped down on a nearby stone, wiping my forehead with a tired sigh. She, of course, looked entirely unbothered. With a quiet grace, she leaned against the thick trunk of an old tree, her long white hair swaying gently in the breeze like strands of silk.

I reached into my bag and pulled out our modest lunch.

"Would you like something to eat, Master?"

She shook her head slightly, her gaze closed—until her crimson eyes caught sight of something tucked near the bottom of my bag.

Her brows narrowed just a bit. "What's that?"

I froze. "Eh? Th-this? It's, uh… just wine. A neighbor gave it to me yesterday. I-I didn't drink it, I swear!"

She reached out and took the bottle from my hands with an elegance only she could pull off. She inspected the label like a jeweler appraising a gem.

"Local wine," she murmured, almost to herself. "It's been a while."

Her tone was... softer. Almost nostalgic.

"…Have you had it before?" I asked, blinking.

"Just a little."

Then, with the casual confidence of someone far too composed, she uncorked the bottle and took a sip.

…Okay.

Five minutes later, I noticed something was off.

"Master… you're not drinking too much, right?" I asked carefully, eyes on the now half-empty bottle dangling from her fingers.

"I'm just… tasting," she muttered. Then took another sip. And another.

Her porcelain skin was turning a faint shade of pink. Her usual calm expression wavered—her gaze glassy, her cheeks warm.

Oh gods. She's drunk.

I stared at her, my lips twitching.

"Maybe you should lie down, Master."

She snorted. Actually snorted.

"Your stamina's weak… your technique's sloppy… but whatever…"

And then she chuckled. Like, genuinely chuckled.

I'd never heard her laugh before.

The world went quiet.

And then, slowly, she stood up. Her movements a bit unsteady, her eyes hazy, but the smile on her face…

It wasn't just rare.

It was dangerous.

"My name is… Lunareth," she said suddenly, her smile radiant—brighter than any sun I'd ever seen.

My heart stopped.

'W-what kind of smile is that?! Even royalty would kneel!!'

My whole face went red. No, purple.

"I-I-I'm heading back!!" I yelped, grabbing my bag and sprinting like my life depended on it.

Behind me, I could still feel her gaze. Warm. Gentle. Unbearably beautiful.

"…Was my smile really that bad…?"

Her voice drifted behind me as the afternoon sun dipped lower, painting the sky in hues of gold and crimson

I still remember the day I saw her smile for the first time.

Not a warm one, of course—more like the glint of a crack in ice And I ran.Not because I was afraid, but because my heart was pounding so loud, I didn't know where to hide it.

After that, our training resumed as usual.

She never brought it up.

And I never asked.

— Year Two and Three

My days were filled with pain.

Not the kind that fades after a night's rest, but the kind that settles deep into your bones and lingers.

I ran through the morning mist until my legs burned and my lungs screamed for air.

By noon, my body would already be drenched in sweat. But training didn't wait for comfort.

Swing. Step. Breathe.

Over and over again, I swung a wooden sword until my palms tore open—then again until the wounds bled through the bandages.

Some days, I collapsed before the sun set.

Other days, I forced myself back up, gritting my teeth, chasing a shadow that always felt just beyond reach.

But pain slowly turned into strength.

My body—once clumsy and weak—began to respond.

Each muscle, each movement started to align with the rhythm of her blade.

It was never perfect, not even close.

But I could feel it.

I was getting closer.

My reflexes sharpened.

I stopped thinking mid-swing and started moving on instinct.

Strike. Block. Parry. Counter.

They became more than just drills. They became my language.

Lunareth rarely spoke.

Sometimes, an entire day would pass with nothing but the sound of swords clashing and my own ragged breathing.

And yet, in that silence, she said more than words ever could.

When I stumbled, she didn't help me up.

When I cried, she didn't offer comfort.

But when I pushed through—when I stood back up without complaint—

She would give me a small nod.

Just a nod. That was it.

But gods… that single nod carried more weight than any praise I'd ever known.

It was acknowledgment.

Recognition.

It made every torn muscle, every sleepless night, every bruise worth it.

Because in that silent approval…

I felt seen.

And for someone like me, that was enough

— Year Four and Five

I began hunting real creatures.

The first was a two-eyed wild hound—

vicious, hungry, eyes glowing with a feral madness.

My legs refused to move at first. My body tensed.it snarled, saliva dripping from its jagged teeth.And when it lunged, time slowed.

I dodged on instinct. The first strike missed.

But the second—landed clean across its neck.

Blood spilled. My breath caught.

The hound whimpered once before falling limp.And for the first time, I felt afraid…

not of the beast—

but of myself.

My hands trembled, not from exhaustion, but from the sheer weight of what I'd just done.

A life, taken by my own hand.

I looked to Lunareth.

She stared at the corpse with calm eyes, then met mine.

"You survived," she said. "That's enough."

No praise. No scolding.

Just quiet acceptance.

But that single sentence lifted something heavy from my chest.

From then on, the trials escalated.

A horned bear that tore trees apart with a single swipe.

A serpent that slithered through riverbanks, coated in mud and venom.

Creatures with shells harder than steel, eyes that glowed in the dark,

and screams that could tear through a man's sanity.

Each fight was a trial of death.

And I bled in nearly all of them.

But I learned.

To read the wind.

To sense killing intent.

To strike not with emotion, but precision.

Lunareth watched in silence.

Sometimes she stepped in when I was seconds from death.

Other times, she simply observed from afar, testing how far I'd go.

And through it all, something in me changed.

My sword arm grew steadier.

My fear dulled.

My resolve sharpened.

I was no longer just mimicking her movements.

I was fighting—

to survive.

To protect.

To become someone who could stand beside her… not behind.

— Year Six and Seven

We began to move.

Left the cabin, the forest clearing, the comfort of routine.

Stepped into the world beyond—with only our weapons and silence.

We didn't head for towns.

But we didn't avoid being seen either.

Sometimes, travelers caught a glimpse of us from a mountain ridge.

Sometimes, merchants whispered of a pair walking through the frost-covered trees.

A woman cloaked in darkness and snow, and a boy with a dull blade and burning eyes.

Stories grew like weeds.

They gave us names—because names made fear easier to pass around.

"The Ice Woman of the North."

"The Shadow Swordsman."

Ridiculous.

But somehow, those words clung to us like mist that never left our clothes.

I still remember the night I mentioned it to her.

"People call you the Ice Woman of the North," I said, grinning through the firelight.

She didn't look up from sharpening her blade.

"Ridiculous," she replied—flat and cold.

But I saw it.

The smallest twitch at the corner of her lips.

A crack in her perfect stillness And somehow, that made the cold wind feel warm.

We hunted—not for fame, not for gold—but because something had to.

Old monsters stirred in forgotten places.

An ancient wyvern with wings full of poison that melted trees.A sludge beast, once human, now feeding on livestock from the riverbeds.A pack of shadow wolves that moved without sound, their fur darker than moonless nights.

We faced them.

Together.

Not always side by side—

but never apart.

Each fight was longer.

Each enemy, more cunning.

And sometimes, I saw her bleed.

Not much.

Just a scratch.

A cut.

But it was enough to remind me:

She wasn't immortal.

Just far, far stronger than I was.

So I trained harder.

Even when my ribs ached.

Even when my sword arm gave out.

Even when I couldn't lift my body after a fight.

I pushed forward.

Chasing her back.

Trying to reach that distant figure I followed since the day she first said,

"Pick up the sword."

And though she never said it—

I knew.

She noticed.

Because some nights, when she thought I was asleep,

I caught her watching me through the firelight.

Just watching.

Quiet.

Almost… proud.

The world called us monsters.

But I wasn't sure if we were.

Not yet.

That doubt vanished at the end of year seven.Because that was the year she gave me a name—

not mine.

But his.

A bandit.

A murderer.

A man who sold lives for coin.

— End of Year Seven – My First Human Blood

That day, Lunareth handed me a scroll.

Her handwriting was clear:

"Find him. Kill him. No hesitation."

He wasn't just a thief.

He kidnapped children.

Burned villages.

Laughed when others begged.

Someone like that didn't deserve a second chance—or so I thought.

I found him near a cliffside, seated between tall stones.

Roasting something over a fire.

He looked ordinary. Human.

And maybe that made him even more terrifying.

I drew my sword and approached in silence.

When he noticed me, his eyes widened.

"Who are you? Wait—wait—"

I froze.

Not out of doubt… but because of his face.It looked like any man's.

He had eyes. Breath. Fear.

And suddenly, my hands—so steady until now—felt unbearably heavy.

But then I remembered the children who never made it home.

I remembered Lunareth's voice:

"If you can't kill a human, you won't be able to save anyone."

I closed my eyes.

And struck.

The sound of the blade slicing the air.

Then—silence.

His body collapsed.

And I stood there alone—surrounded by blood, iron, and a coldness that didn't come from the wind.

I didn't vomit. I didn't cry.

But it felt like something inside me was buried with that body.

That night, we sat by the fire.

Lunareth didn't speak right away.

When I finally broke the silence, my voice was barely a whisper.

"Is this… something you used to do often?"

She looked at me, then answered calmly:

"There's no such thing as 'often' in killing people.

The only thing that changes is how well you hide the scar it leaves."

I stared into the flames.

And in them, I saw his face—etched into my memory like a wound that would never close.

That night, I fell asleep with my eyes wide open.

Because for the first time…

I knew what it meant to be a killer