Ethen Greyfield stood in the shadow of the crumbling orphanage, his boots crunching against the dry earth. The place reeked of neglect, walls peeling, and air thick with the faint cries of children within. He let out a sigh, dragging a hand through his hair.
"They send me here for soldiers, but all I find is sorrow," he thought bitterly.
Ethen Greyfield wasn't just any man. He was the Sword of the East, undefeated in duels and hailed as a hero for vanquishing the unbeatable Ameen Khan of the South. But glory wore thin after years of bloodshed. His title, "The Red Swordsman," might have come from the crimson sheath of his blade, but to him, it symbolized the countless lives he'd ended.
Are all these the kids you have?" he asked the caretaker, more harshly than he had in mind.
"Yes, sir," the woman said as she trembled.
Ethen sighed again, his eyes scanning the room full of hollow-eyed children. They were malnourished, dressed in rags, and clearly unfit for the Kingdom's Perfect Soldier project. He questioned the judgment of his superiors. "Four subjects already. Why send me here?" he muttered under his breath.
As he wandered the orphanage, a flicker of movement in the backyard caught his eye. Under the open sky was an isolated boy, bringing up his knees to his chest, his pale face staring towards the heavens. Those sky-reflected blue eyes just didn't belong in such an environment.
Ethen started walking toward him; that curiosity got the better of him. "The sky looks beautiful today, boy," he said.
The boy flinched but didn't look away. His voice was quiet and uneven, as though unused to conversation. "I'm. going to reach the sky."
Ethen raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a faint smirk. "And why's that?"
The boy's gaze never wavered, his voice gaining strength. "Because it's the only way my parents will hear my name."
The words hit Ethen harder than he expected. For a moment, he was silent, studying the boy. His frame was thin, his hands too small to wield a sword, yet his conviction was unshakable.
"What's your name?" Ethen asked, his voice softer now.
"Aleck," the boy answered hesitantly.
A grin spread across Ethen's face, sharp and sudden like the strike of a blade. "I, Ethen Greyfield, challenge you, Aleck, to a duel."
It resounded through the orphanage like a clap of thunder. The children, peeking out from around corners, whispered to each other in excitement. The caretakers panicked.
"Oh Sir Greyfield!" one shouted, running forward. "If Aleck has done wrong, take me instead! He's only a lad!
He knelt to Aleck's level, his eyes locking onto the boy's. Ethen didn't even glance at her. "If you can't take it, then you'd better give up on your dream to touch the sky.
Aleck's chest tightened. He knew what his words cost him, the weight of his dream. Ian was older than Aleck by at least five years; he was from the orphanage. He went to the capital to join the army and never came back. Aleck knew failure; still, this was his chance. He took the wooden sword that was offered to him, his small hands tightening around it.
The orphanage backyard was a battleground. Children huddled in a circle, their whispers growing loud, as two caretakers watched, worried etched on their faces.
Ethen stood tall, his confidence pouring out of him. "Bring it on!" he bellowed.
Aleck charged. His strikes were wild and chaotic, driven more by determination than skill. Ethen blocked each one effortlessly, his movements smooth and calculated. "Sloppy," he muttered, parrying another strike.
He did not cease. Again and again he attacked with relentless swings, but that was all it would take. Ethen swept his feet from under him and sent him tumbling. The wooden sword went flying out of Aleck's hand. Aleck crashed to the ground, coughing for air.
"It's over," said Ethen, turning away. "Another dream crushed before it could even start.
But as he turned, something caught his eye. His crimson sheath lay open on the ground. He spun around, and froze.
Aleck stood—barely. The boy's legs wobbled, his face pale and slick with sweat, but he stood there, holding his wooden sword. His blue eyes burned with defiance.
Ethen's lips curled into a genuine smile, the first one in a long time. He stepped forward, his voice low and almost tender. "You've got guts, kid. I like that."
He placed a firm hand on Aleck's shoulder and said the words that would change the boy's life forever.
"You're coming with me to the capital.
The crowd of children erupted in whispers as Aleck's legs buckled. Ethen caught him before he hit the ground, lifting the boy effortlessly. For the first time in years, Ethen felt something stir deep inside—a flicker of hope.
In the crumbling orphanage, amidst the hopelessness, he had found something rare. A boy who could stand even after falling. A boy who could one day reach the sky.
But life rarely goes the way one hopes. Aleck, after four grueling years of training, was deemed unfit for the Perfect Soldier project. His "resistive nature" made him a failure in the eyes of those in charge. The decision came swiftly and mercilessly: Aleck was to be given a choice—die or live a quiet, forgotten life in the slums on the outskirts of the eastern kingdom, Trez.
A man in a dark cloak, his voice as cold as steel, delivered the verdict to Ethen. "I am giving him this chance only because you begged for it, Ethen. Don't forget that. As a subject, he has no qualities worth preserving. He should be disposed of."
Ethen stood stiffly, his fists clenched at his sides. His jaw tightened, but his voice remained steady. "I understand, sir. I will fulfill my part of the agreement. Thank you for sparing him."
The cloaked man nodded and disappeared into the shadows, leaving Ethen alone with Aleck.
Aleck, now barely eleven, trembled as tears streaked his face. "I'm sorry, Ethen. I... I'm no use to you. I'm just undesirable." His voice cracked, his head hanging in shame.
Ethen knelt before him, gripping the boy's shoulders firmly. His gaze softened, but his tone carried the weight of a promise. "You're going to reach the sky, remember? There are always other ways to get there. You don't need them to define you."
Aleck's tear-filled eyes met Ethen's. "But... if I can't come back to the capital, what can I do? How will I..."
Ethen cut him off, his voice steady but tinged with sorrow. "You're not coming back to the capital, Aleck. Ever. Not if you value your life. Don't anger them, and don't give them a reason to find you. You understand?"
Aleck nodded hesitantly.
Ethen stood and unbuckled the crimson sheath from his side. He handed the sword to Aleck, its weight far greater than the boy expected. "Take this. It deserves a rightful owner, and that's you now."
Aleck's eyes widened. "But this is your sword. The sword of the East! How can I—"
Ethen smiled faintly, placing a hand on Aleck's head. "You'll take it because I said so. A sword is nothing without the will to wield it, and you've got plenty of that."
He turned away, his voice growing gruff as he fought back the emotions rising in his chest. "When you arrive in the slums, someone I trust will take you in. She's a little... eccentric, but she's one of the best former knights of the kingdom. Don't trouble her, though. She doesn't take kindly to nonsense."
Aleck clutched the sword tightly, his voice small. "And what do I do then?"
Ethen paused, glancing back over his shoulder. His face softened as he gave a bittersweet smile. "Live your life, kid. That's your first step. Go, live, and don't waste it."
Aleck's lip quivered, but he nodded resolutely. "I will. I'll live. And... thank you, Ethen. For everything."
As Aleck walked away, his small frame barely visible in the dimming light, Ethen felt the weight of the goodbye settle over him.
"Go live your life, kid," he whispered to himself, gripping the hilt of his empty sheath. "Because someone like you deserves more than this damned kingdom can give."