Chapter 9: The Blade

Bari woke before dawn. The small cot in the back room of Stillbrew was still warm against his back, but the pull of the morning air outside was stronger than sleep. He stretched, muscles tight from yesterday's work, then quietly slipped from the café into the cool, misty streets of New Sun Quarter City.

Outside, the city was just waking, the pale sky tinged with the faintest blush of pink. The damp air carried the terrible scent of traffic, and slums, mingling with the faint hum of distant traffic and the occasional clink of tools from the nearby repair kiosks.

The sky was a soft gray wash, the city still half-asleep. Bari's boots echoed faintly against the cracked pavement as he made his way to the training ground—a narrow alley tucked between two faded buildings, littered with scraps and the faint scent of oil. This was his sanctuary, a place where time slowed and the outside world's noise faded away.

His thoughts drifted to Toma's words from several nights before. Toma had arranged for a mentor — an old warrior reputed for his mastery of the blade and his knowledge of the world beyond the ordinary. Bari wasn't sure what to expect, but the promise of guidance was a flicker of hope amidst the haze of uncertainty.

As the first light crept over the rooftops, Bari heard the crunch of footsteps behind him. His mentor appeared—broad-shouldered, face lined with scars and stories, eyes sharp beneath a battered hood.

"Ready, kid?" the man grunted. Standing at a good five foot eleven, he had charcoal black eyes and pale skin marked with deep gashes that looked like claw marks along his exposed arm. His hair was a brilliant dark blue, hanging off his shoulders as if made of some sort of wig.

People in this world had some weird characteristics — some had blood-red hair, others white. It baffled Bari the first time he saw someone walk in with dark green hair and turquoise irises.

Bari nodded, gripping the sword Toma had given him. It was heavier than any knife he'd handled, balanced oddly but perfectly tuned to his hand. The cold steel felt alive — a weight both physical and spiritual.

"The names Klein, refer to me as sensei or mentor, honestly anything will do." The mentor wasted no time. "Form," he barked. "Discipline. A sword isn't just a weapon. It's an extension of your will."

Bari swung the blade, the air hissing softly as it cut through the dawn. At first, his movements were raw — too much muscle, too little finesse. The mentor shook his head. "Stop swinging like you're chopping wood. The blade is a whisper, not a shout. Learn to conceal your feelings and intentions. It's how monsters react to you — they can sense your killing intent."

Days turned into weeks. Bari's muscles ached, his skin bruised and scratched, but with each session, the sword began to feel like a part of him. More than that, the air around the blade started to respond — subtle gusts following his swings, the ground beneath his feet humming with delight as his footwork improved. It was unlike anything he'd experienced with a knife or gun; he was forced to use it as an extension of his body.

One evening, after a particularly sharp strike, the mentor nodded with a rare hint of approval. "You're not just swinging steel, boy. You're shaping intent. Concealing will. That's what separates the awakened from the damned."

Bari's brow furrowed. "The awakened?"

The mentor's eyes darkened. "The Nightmare Spell — ever heard of it?"

Bari swallowed, remembering his talk with Toma. "It's a curse that traps souls… gives some powers."

The mentor exhaled slowly. "The Dream Realm is a vast, ruined magical world populated by Nightmare Creatures. It is also the place where Nightmares are born. Humans are brought there by the Spell after surviving their First Nightmare and can only return to the real world through one of the special portals, which are known as Gateways. By accomplishing this feat, they become Awakened."

Bari felt a flicker of understanding — and fear. He thought back to flashes of his former life: the fights, the strategies, the bonds he'd made and won. He decided to write it all down, after buying himself a journal.

Years passed. Bari grew leaner, sharper. The lessons extended beyond the blade: how to read an opponent's breath, how to move unseen, how to trust no one but those he was sure had his best interests. His mentor was a stern guardian of these truths, his own face a testament to hard lessons — scars running like rivers of experience across his cheek.

"Never lower your guard," the mentor warned one afternoon as he slammed he sword across my shoulder, revealing a deep scar across his jaw. "This realm feeds on weakness."

Bari absorbed the lesson, his own resolve hardening like the blade he wielded.

Word of Bari's skill and talent eventually reached Toma. The old man watched with quiet pride as the boy he'd taken in carved a reputation — lowborn but unbreakable.

Yet beneath the growing respect and the sharp edge of his blade, Bari carried a weight heavier than any sword. The knowledge that the Nightmare could strike anytime — often between the ages of fifteen and eighteen — drove him to prepare not just for survival, but for war.

No longer was he just a survivor of the slums. He was a man who would forge his destiny, one that had only just begun.