The Illusion of Dawn

Zephyr now stood before Arlund, near the campfire. A silent staring contest ignited between the two.

"So, Captain," Zephyr finally asked, "what are we going to do?"

Arlund replied without hesitation, "I'm going to teach you how to fight, of course. Draw your sword—and attack me."

Zephyr unsheathed his blade, gripping it tightly with both hands. He stepped forward, ready to strike—but then suddenly stopped, uncertainty washing over his face.

"What about you? Aren't you going to use a weapon?"

Arlund let out a mocking chuckle. "And what would I do with a sword against someone as weak as you? You don't even know how to hold it properly."

He crossed his arms and added, "Your task in this training is simple: hit me once. If you manage that, you pass."

Zephyr remained silent.

"Come on, boy," Arlund barked. "Don't be afraid. You can't hurt me anyway."

Zephyr charged forward, throwing his thin body into the effort. He gripped the sword with all his strength and slashed at Arlund's chest.

But Arlund merely stepped aside, avoiding the blow with ease. He placed a hand on Zephyr's back and shoved him, sending him tumbling into the sand.

"Too rushed," Arlund said flatly. "No control."

Zephyr sat on the ground, panting.

"What are you doing?" Arlund snapped. "Get up! We don't have all day. Learn from your mistakes. Every time you fall, get back up immediately!"

Zephyr rose, picked up his sword, and steadied his stance. He charged again, this time swinging horizontally. But Arlund caught his wrist mid-swing and lightly swept Zephyr's leg from under him, sending him crashing down once more.

"Up," Arlund ordered.

Zephyr jumped up again. This time, he approached slowly, thinking carefully about how to strike. But Arlund didn't wait. He stepped forward, grabbed the edge of Zephyr's shirt, slid a foot behind his, and tipped him over with absurd ease.

He laughed as Zephyr groaned. "Did you think your enemy would wait patiently while you ponder how to kill him? Use your brain! Now move!"

Zephyr rose once more and attacked again—and again—and again. Each time, Arlund knocked him down in a different way. Three hours passed like this. Zephyr, drenched in sweat, sat on the ground gasping for air, his sword beside him. Meanwhile, Arlund stood tall, completely unaffected.

"Alright," Arlund finally said. "That's enough for today. Get up—and give me your sword."

Zephyr took a few moments to catch his breath, wiping the sweat from his brow. Then he stood, retrieved his sword, and handed it over.

"Watch my hands and stance carefully," Arlund said.

He gripped the sword with both hands, stepping into a balanced position. His right foot led slightly ahead of his left, and his hands were tightly aligned on the hilt. With a light motion, he swung the blade forward.

"This is the simplest form of an attack—and you don't even know how to perform it yet. Here."

He handed the sword back to Zephyr.

"Stand just like I did."

Zephyr tried to imitate him, but Arlund shook his head.

"No. Wrong."

He stepped forward, adjusted Zephyr's hands, then widened his stance slightly.

"Hold this position. Now swing the sword a thousand times. After that, go to sleep. We resume training tomorrow night."

With that, Arlund turned and disappeared into his tent.

Zephyr remained in position, muscles trembling from exhaustion. His body wasn't used to this kind of physical strain. He had been an office worker, handling papers—not swinging swords.

He already feared the cramps and soreness that would greet him in the coming days.

He began to count softly, swinging his blade through the air:

"One… two… three…"

The sword sliced through nothingness, his movements sluggish and stiff.

"…Nine hundred and ninety-eight…"

His entire body trembled, sweat pouring from every inch of him, the desert heat clinging to his skin.

"…Nine hundred and ninety-nine…"

"…One thousand."

The moment he hit the final swing, his body gave out. He collapsed onto the ground, gasping for breath.

Despite his exhaustion, his mind felt strangely clear. He lay there for a while, then slowly stood, dragging the sword back to his tent. As soon as he reached it, he fell onto the sand inside and, within moments, drifted into a deep, heavy sleep.

7:00 AM

Zephyr awoke to the sound of an alarm. He reached out to turn it off—but then froze.

His eyes shot open wide.

"What…?" he whispered. "This… is my room?"

He looked around in shock. The familiar furniture, the plain ceiling—it was unmistakably his bedroom.

"It was just a nightmare," he whispered, tears welling up in his eyes.

He tried wiping them away with his pajama sleeve, but the tears kept flowing. Minutes passed like this.

Then the door creaked open.

His little sister, Rina, entered—brown-haired and brown-eyed, dressed in her school uniform.

"Big brother, you overslept!" she said cheerfully. But she stopped short when she saw him crying.

She approached him, concern on her face. "Why are you crying?"

Seeing his sister—whom he had missed so much—Zephyr couldn't hold himself back. He pulled her into a hug as tears streamed down his cheeks.

"I missed you, Rina," he said softly.

Rina giggled and replied playfully, "Me too! It's been years since I've seen you, hehe! But why are you crying, really?"

Her teasing lightened his mood. He wiped his face and released her from the hug.

"I had a terrible nightmare."

Rina puffed her cheeks and placed her hands on her hips. "Well, if you'd called my name three times, I would've come and rescued you!"

Zephyr couldn't resist—he pinched her cheek.

"Hey!" she protested, slapping his hand away. "Stop that!"

"Mom said to wake you up or you'll be late for work," she added, turning to leave.

"Alright, alright," Zephyr said, getting up and heading to the bathroom, a wide smile on his face. Relief washed over him—he was free of the nightmare.

After washing his face, he looked into the mirror. Black hair, dark eyes, and a small mole beneath his lip. It had been a while since he'd really looked at himself.

He chuckled.

"Ascenders, and ascension energy… and mutant beasts…" he scoffed. "Nonsense."

He went back to his room, got dressed, and headed downstairs.

His father sat at the table reading the newspaper, just like always. His mother stood at the stove, cooking.

The sight filled Zephyr with joy. A warm smile spread across his face.

He truly hadn't realized how much he had until it was almost taken away.

He sat down, and his mother placed his usual breakfast in front of him—eggs and sausage.

"What's with the smile?" she asked.

"I don't know," he replied. "I just feel really happy today."

"Don't forget," she reminded him, "we have dinner at your uncle's house tonight."

"Sure, I'll be there."

After eating, Zephyr walked through the streets of his neighborhood. People were heading to work—some walking, some driving.

A car drove past him, and he couldn't help but remember the painful horse rides from the dream.

"Damn, that really hurt."

He shook his head, trying to banish the thought, and whistled as he walked.

He passed the café he always walked by. The TV inside blared at its usual, annoying volume.

"Someone really needs to lower that thing," he muttered.

The news came on.

"Experts from the International Astronomy Observatory have reported unusual phenomena occurring within our solar system—unlike anything ever recorded before."

The anchor continued, "And rumors have begun circulating on social media claiming this is the end o—"

Suddenly, the audio began to distort. The image on the screen flickered. The air around Zephyr trembled. Darkness crept in.

A deep, commanding voice echoed in his ears:

"Wake up! Wake up!"

His eyes flew open.

Someone was shaking him—vigorously.

"Get up. It's time to move!"

Zephyr blinked and looked up.

The torn ceiling of the tent greeted him once more. Jones, the bald, heavyset man, stood over him.

"You're finally awake. Slept deeper than usual today, huh?"

He handed Zephyr his ration of dried meat and stood up.

"Eat, pack your tent. We're moving out in a few minutes."

Jones exited the tent.

Zephyr remained still for a moment. He took a bite of the meat.

Then another. On the third bite, he paused.

It tasted… salty?

Confused, he looked at it—then saw the tears dripping onto his hand, mixing with the meat.

He wiped his face quickly, trying to compose himself.

"Be strong," he whispered.

He got up, packed his tent in silence, and headed to the horses. Mounting his steed beside Jones, he took a deep breath as they set off on their usual journey—through the wild, merciless world once again.