The village of Merco, once renowned for its bustling trade and vibrant marketplace, was a hub for commerce and entrepreneurship.

It had been celebrated for nearly a century as an ideal place to start a business. The constant hum of activity, the shouts of merchants hawking their goods and the haggling of eager buyers, had long been a defining characteristic of the village.

However, the relentless noise, which had once been a symbol of prosperity, became a source of irritation for one of the lord. Over time, his patience wore thin. From his vantage point high above the sky, he gazed down with fury etched across his face, his fists clenched tightly. His eyes, brimming with hatred, bore into the lively settlement below.

"I've endured the noise of this village for over a century," he muttered bitterly. "But I can't tolerate it no longer! I haven't had a proper sleep in decades because of this incessant racket!"

The lord summoned his sword, its blade gleaming ominously under the sunlight. Without hesitation, he unleashed a single swing. In an instant, the village of Merco was annihilated, reduced to nothing. The sheer force of the strike caused a massive shockwave that rippled across not just the surrounding region but the entire continent.

Merco was gone. No trace of its existence remained—not a single building, street, or fragment of its once-thriving market. All that was left was a colossal scar in the earth, a deep sword mark left by the lord's unrestrained power.

Satisfied, the lord sheathed his weapon and departed, as though nothing had happened. To him, this was merely another problem resolved. But for the rest of the continent, it was a catastrophe. The destruction of Merco—responsible for fifty percent of the continent's trade and commerce was a harbinger of chaos.

The loss of such a crucial economic hub sent shockwaves through neighboring villages and kingdoms, igniting fears of widespread inflation and economic collapse. What the lord saw as a solution was, for the rest of the world, the beginning of a dire new crisis.

While the continent grappled with fears of economic collapse, a young man knelt at the edge of the massive sword mark that now scarred at massive land. Tears streamed down his face as he gazed at the empty land where his hometown, Merco, had once stood. His eyes traced the landscape he knew so well—the spot near the mountain and the lake where the village had thrived. But now, all that remained was a barren wasteland, marked by the devastation that had obliterated everything he held dear.

It wasn't the loss of the village itself that shattered him. What broke his heart was the loss of someone irreplaceable—his mother, who had lived there. The memories of her warmth, her laughter, and her love now haunted him, consumed by the destruction.

Kneeling, his body wracked with sobs, he clenched his fists so tightly they trembled. Hatred burned in his heart as he screamed toward the empty sky.

"Why... Why?! Why did it have to come to this?!" he cried, his voice raw with anguish. "Was there no other way but destruction?! Do you know how many innocent lives were lost?! My precious mother… she was one of them! Why?!! WHYYYY?!!!"

He continued to question the reason behind the destruction, but the answer he so desperately sought never came.

Weeks passed, yet the young man remained in the barren land where Merco had once stood. His eyes were hollow and tired, his once-decent clothing now filthy and tattered, making him indistinguishable from a beggar. Despite it all, he sat there, unmoving, as though still waiting for an answer that would never arrive.

The vast emptiness around him was silent, save for the occasional whisper of the wind that echoed across the desolate plain. It was this stillness that drew the attention of a group of travelers passing through. Upon closer inspection, they realized it wasn't an ordinary traveler—it was a lone, vulnerable young man.

The group exchanged glances, their intentions dark. These were no ordinary travelers; they were a band of thugs, notorious for their illegal activities across the continent. Opportunists to the core, they saw the young man as nothing more than a potential slave to sell for profit.

Weapons in hand, they began to approach him, their movements calculated and slow. One of them, a gruff man with a scar across his cheek, carried a coiled rope, ready to restrain the boy. They grinned, their twisted thoughts apparent in their gleaming eyes.

As the thugs crept closer to the grieving young man, their sinister plan was suddenly interrupted. An old man appeared out of nowhere, stepping calmly into their path. His presence was unassuming, yet there was something about him that demanded attention. Though his clothes were simple and weathered, a sword strapped to his back hinted that this was no ordinary wanderer.

One of the thugs, a tall, burly man with a sneer, scowled at the interruption. Brandishing his weapon, he called out in a mocking tone.

"Hey, old man! If you're looking for trouble, you've come to the wrong place. We've got business to take care of. Now, unless you've got a death wish, I suggest you turn around and get moving."

The old man remained calm, even as the tension around him thickened. His eyes briefly glanced at the young man sitting in despair, and it became clear to him what the thugs intended to do. With a steady voice, he spoke, his tone calm but carrying an unmistakable weight.

"What do you mean? I am already standing at my destination."

The thugs exchanged glances, their confusion quickly replaced by arrogance. With silent nods, they began to prepare for a fight, gripping their weapons tighter. Their intent was clear—they were not about to let an old wanderer stand in their way.

The old man noticed their shift in demeanor. Letting out a faint sigh, he rested his hand near the hilt of his sword and addressed them again, his voice firm but still calm.

"Think about your decision," the old man said firmly, his gaze steady. "You're all still far too young to die in this world."

Without hesitation, the group оf thugs launched their attack on the old man. Despite their unruly appearance, their movements were coordinated and precise, revealing a surprising level of teamwork. Faced with no other choice, the old man prepared to defend himself.

The group consisted of six men, each armed and ready, surrounding the lone old man. As the first clash of blades echoed across the barren land, the thugs attacked one by one, their strikes fast and well-timed.

The old man, though outnumbered, moved with remarkable grace and precision. Parrying their attacks with ease, he began to notice the skill behind their movements.

"All of you are wasting your skills on things that cannot be praised," the old man said calmly, his tone almost disappointed as he sidestepped yet another attack.

The fight dragged on, but the old man never once swung his sword with lethal intent. Instead, he deflected, dodged, and neutralized their strikes with a level of control that bordered on effortless. It became evident to the thugs that he was merely toying with them, never fully engaging in the battle.

Frustration turned to despair for the group. One of the thugs, overwhelmed and out of breath, dropped his weapon and sat on the ground, defeated. One by one, the others followed, drained of both their energy and their will to fight. Only one remained standing—their leader.

Despite his exhaustion, the leader refused to yield. His breaths came heavy, his legs trembled, but his gaze never wavered. The old man paused, studying him with a mix of admiration and curiosity.

"You still stand," the old man remarked. "Your determination is commendable." He lowered his stance slightly, no longer defensive, and spoke again. "But tell me, why are you and your men wasting your talents on pursuits that bring no honor or praise?

The leader of the thugs, his chest heaving with frustration, sneered at the old man.

"Why do you care about any of that?!" he shouted. "If we didn't do this, we wouldn't survive! We wouldn't earn a damn thing!."

The old man sighed deeply, his shoulders relaxing as he sheathed his sword with deliberate calmness.

"I have no reason to kill any of you," he muttered. "You're nothing but a bunch of idiots with garbage reasons for being criminals."

Suddenly, an overwhelming power surged from the old man, a surge so potent it made the very air around them vibrate with intensity. The group of thugs froze in shock, their eyes widening as the realization hit them.

"That... That's... Aura!" one of them stammered. "He's a Swordmaster! We need to get out of here before we die!"

A heavy, suffocating aura emanated from the old man, filling the space around him with a pressure so intense that the very rocks nearby began to crack and shatter from the force of the thick air. The thugs, panic rising in their hearts, turned and bolted, their instincts screaming at them to flee for their lives. One by one, they ran, but the leader remained rooted in place, still glaring at the old man.

The old man glanced at the thug leader, a mocking smile curling at the corner of his lips.

"Seems you have too much pride to not flee," he said, his voice laced with amusement. "Even as your men flee, you choose to face me."

The thug leader, shaking but resolute, gritted his teeth. His determination never wavered, even in the face of overwhelming strength. He knew he was outmatched, but his ego refused to allow him to run.

"What a sh*t life!" he shouted, his voice raw with frustration. "I'm sorry, old man, but I can't back down. My ego won't let me!"

In a split second, the thug leader unleashed a surge of powerful energy, a dark and volatile aura that erupted from him like a storm. It was clear now—the leader possessed a dangerous power, one that could be lethal. The old man's expression shifted, his eyes narrowing with focus. He knew this was a threat that could not be ignored, and it was a force that would force him to act decisively.

The old man's hand gripped the hilt of his sword with unyielding resolve. As the thug leader's aura continued to swell, the old man unsheathed his blade in one smooth, fluid motion. Without hesitation, he closed the distance between them, moving at an incredible speed, intent on ending the fight in a single stroke.

The thug leader had finally completed gathering his energy, his body surging with a violent, dark aura. Fueled by rage, he charged at the old man, his sword raised high. The moment their blades met, a shockwave erupted with such intensity that it sent ripples through the air, shaking the very ground beneath them.

The force of the clash was so overwhelming that it reached the young man, who had been sitting motionless in the desolate land. He suddenly stirred, shaken from his grief by the violent wave of energy. His mind, clouded by despair, snapped back to focus as he tried to make sense of what was happening.

"What the hell are they doing?" the young man muttered, his voice low but full of curiosity.

All he knew was that he had been waiting there, consumed by his own sorrow, and now the shockwave had jolted him into a state of alertness. He watched, unsure of what to do, but the answer to his question seemed to be unfolding before his eyes.

Meanwhile, the battle between the old man and the thug leader raged on. The old man, no longer holding back, became a force of sheer precision and power. Each swing of his sword unleashed a powerful shockwave, forcing the thug leader to struggle just to block the blows. His weapon quivered under the force, his arms trembling as he struggled to keep up.

The old man's movements were deliberate and swift, and he soon saw an opening. In a split second, he kicked the thug leader with explosive force. The leader was sent flying, tumbling through the air before crashing into the ground far from the old man.

"You are strong, but in the wrong way," the old man said, his voice filled with both admiration and regret. "You have potential, but I can't let you live. I'm sorry."

The old man raised his sword to a high stance, his gaze fixed on the thug leader, who was struggling to rise.

There was a glint of disappointment in the old man's eyes-a warrior with such potential, yet wasted on the wrong path. Before striking the final blow, the old man paused and asked, "What's your name?"

The thug leader, his breath shallow, gave a faint smile despite the blood on his lips. "Just call me Hans, old man. If you'r going to kill me, then do it now."

The old man nodded solemnly. "I will," he said quietly. In a single fluid motion, the old man swung his sword with unrelenting force.

The blade cut through Hans with ease, cleaving him in half as a shockwave followed, sending a blast of energy rippling through the air. The body of the thug leader fell to the ground, lifeless.

The old man stood silently for a moment, the weight of the decision heavy on him. He glanced at the lifeless form of Hans and spoke softly, his voice full of respect.

"You may rest in peace, Hans." He bowed deeply to the fallen warrior, a final tribute to a life that could have been great, had it not been squandered.