"The wind isn't your enemy, Pasta. Breathe."
Pasta sat with his fingers pressed together, legs crossed, eyes closed in deep meditation, completely at peace, one with the universe.
Or at least, that's what he thought he was doing.
It had been two weeks.
Two. Freaking. Weeks of him defying death.
At this point, even the cosmos was questioning how he was still alive.
Pasta exhaled through his nose, his eyes fluttering open under the moon's glow. His gaze drifted to a lone leaf at his feet.
The delicate thing shimmered in the pale light, so still… so peaceful…
The more he stared at it, the more its shape… twisted.
Until it morphed into Mr. Swordsman's cold, indifferent face.
His eye twitched.
With a loud cry, he lunged at the leaves, swinging wildly at the poor leaves.
"Damn that swordsman!"
He snarled, still swinging under the moonlight. "Giving me an impossible challenge and then disappearing on me?! Worst teacher on the planet! Maybe I should send a letter to Bloodborne and request a new guide. An actual one with a name"
Pasta flopped onto a soft bed of leaves, limbs sprawled as he gazed up at the endless stars.
"Just what am I doing wrong…?"
His voice was hoarse. "I got the whole commandment thing right, so why do I keep getting launched into the air? And more importantly—how am I supposed to cut things while falling?!"
Silence.
It felt nice on the floor. The leaves were soft, and the air was cool. No more falling from the sky, no more slamming into trees, no more midair existential crises.
For the first time in weeks, Pasta felt… at peace.
…
No.
"This isn't what I signed up for," he muttered, clenching his fists. "I didn't become an adventurer to relax."
With a groan, he forced himself up, brushing leaves from his clothes. Drowsiness clouded his vision, and his legs wobbled like a newborn fawn.
Then—
He punched himself in the face.
Hard.
If sleep wanted to take him, It was going to have to try harder.
Not stopping there, he stripped off his shirt, leaving only his trousers, and without a shred of hesitation leapt into the nearby river.
"C-C-COLD, C-COLD, COLD—!!"
In a blur, he bolted out, shivering so violently his teeth were close to shattering each other as he staggered back onto dry land.
"A-as long as I'm not sleepy anymore," he chattered, reaching for his sword with trembling hands.
Deep breath.
One more time.
Pasta planted his feet, commanding the wind once more.
The chilling breeze surged beneath him—lifting the leaves and him into the sky.
His eyes flickered open.
For a moment, he floated, weightless, drifting through the night air. The moon shone behind him, silver light illuminating the thousands of leaves swirling around him.
Pasta grinned.
His blade twirled in his grip—then he spun, twisting midair, slicing through the leaves in a fluid dance.
"One—two—ten—twenty—forty—ninety—"
Faster. More.
But then—gravity took hold.
He started falling.
His momentum made it impossible to keep the same speed, his strikes slowing as the wind roared past him.
Desperate, he commanded the air beneath him to slow his descent.
He didn't hit the ground.
Instead, the wind slammed him sideways—right into a massive tree.
The forest fell silent.
Leaves fluttered down, covering the fresh human-shaped dent in the bark.
Pasta, now unconscious, remained at the tree's base, his snores echoing across the forest.
#
The sweet, smoky scent of roasted meat drifted through the crisp morning air, tickling Pasta's nose. His nostrils twitched as he sprang to his feet.
"Who's there?! Reveal yourself!"
His stomach rumbled.
Mr. Swordsman was deadpan as he sat on a stone slab, casually tending to a perfectly roasted skewer of meat over the fire not saying a word.
Pasta blinked twice.
Then grinned.
"Oh! Didn't see you there." He rubbed the back of his neck, feigning innocence before darting forward. "Morning, Mr. Swordsman!"
Pasta flopped down beside him, eyes locked on the heavenly meal in front of him.
"Why'd you leave me alone with such a ridiculous exercise, huh?!" He threw his hands in the air. "Do you have any idea how hard it was to even get those leaves to float, let alone cut them?!"
No response.
Mr. Swordsman calmly took a bite of his food, chewing in absolute silence.
Pasta narrowed his eyes.
"You're ignoring me again, aren't you?"
He snatched a piece and took a huge bite. "Five hundred leaves, really?! Isn't there an easier way? Something less likely to send me crashing into a tree every two seconds?"
Mr. Swordsman said nothing.
Instead, he methodically turned the roasting meat over the fire, watching the flames flicker.
Then, finally—
"You still complain." His voice was smooth, yet sharp. "Speed alone won't let you cut down five hundred opponents. The precision of the cut. Calculations of one's movement. That is what determines the victor."
He paused, watching the fire dance before him.
"The wind takes you with the leaves—yet you call it a curse. But wind is not like fire, nor earth, nor water. It is everywhere. Always present. It moves freely, without restraint. That is why it is my favourite."
Mr. Swordsman rose to his feet, his cloak shifting with the wind.
"One does not always command the wind, Pasta."
His voice carried with the breeze. "Sometimes, one must listen. Follow its rhythm. Learn to move with it. If you do that… the wind will be more than a servant to you. It'll become a friend"
Pasta watched as his teacher walked away, his words lingering on him.
He exhaled.
Then downed the rest of his water in one go.
His gaze flickered to the final piece of roasted meat, its golden-brown skin glistening. He plucked it up and studied the flames, watching them twist and sway.
Then—
With a snap of his fingers, the fire vanished.
The wind picked up, weaving through the trees, curling around Pasta.
He smirked.
"A companion, huh?"
He shrugged on his clothes, rolling his shoulders. His fingers danced around his blade's hilt.
"Alright then. Let's try something new."
He took a deep breath and a step forward. Then a mighty stomp.
The air erupted beneath him, hurling him skyward alongside the swirling leaves.
He closed his eyes.
Feel it.
He let out a slow breath, releasing a tiny pulse of his lifeforce, letting it flow outward.
The wind didn't resist him this time.
It pulled toward him.
Pasta's eyes snapped open.
His heart pounded as he felt something click.
With a sharp push, he forced the air downward, slamming himself back toward the ground.
The impact shook the earth, sending shockwaves through the forest, leaves raining down like a hurricane.
Pasta groaned, coughing as debris fell off his back.
Then—he clenched his fists.
And grinned.
"Guess… there's a chance after all."
—
Days turned into more weeks as Pasta crashed into trees. Into rocks. Into rivers, waterfalls, and occasionally an innocent bystander.
Day after day, he fell.
Day after day, he rose.
Little by little, he sharpened his control—letting the wind carry him, rather than just throwing himself into the sky and acting like an idiot. Even if the wind carrying him was just another way of saying it kept on launching him to the sky.
Still, as time went on, even with the explosive bursts he learnt how to follow the current of the wind.
He could rise. He could fall. He could guide the air, strengthen it, and launch himself down with force.
Through pain. Through bruises. Through sheer, brutal stubbornness—
He learned.
—
A Month Passed.
The sun hung low in the sky, casting golden light over the clearing.
A lone figure sat cross-legged on a stone slab, his body still, his breath slow.
His once-boyish face was now rough, dirt and faint stubble shadowing his jaw. His calloused hands rested on his knees, fingers lightly twitching in meditation.
Slowly—
His eyes opened.
His hand drifted to the sword at his side.
Fingers curled around the hilt.
He stood.
A gust of wind swept through the clearing, rustling his hair, and sending dust swirling at his feet.
Pasta's grip tightened. "I'm ready."
#
Pasta strolled leisurely through the golden forest, the rhythmic tap of his fingers hitting his blade's hilt accompanying each step. In his free hand, he nibbled on the remains of a corn cob Mr Swordsman had brought a week prior.
Then, he stopped, lowering his gaze.
The half-eaten corn flew into the air.
He stomped against the ground, shifting into a stance with his fingers gripping the hilt. A sudden gust of wind exploded outward, lifting the surrounding leaves high into the air, yet leaving him grounded.
Pasta spun with the rising current, his body taken by the wind. Midair, his keen eyes flickered as they traced the suspended leaves around him. He unsheathed his blade in a flash, his form twisting as he danced with the breeze. The wind wrapped around him, drawing the leaves closer, swirling in a controlled storm of gold.
A smirk tugged at his lips.
In an instant, he launched downward, tearing through the spiral of leaves at blinding speed. The air behind him howled, twisting into a cyclone that followed in his wake.
The moment he hit the ground, his blade rested lightly before him as he knelt on the floor. The swirling storm of leaves above him began to collapse, plummeting toward the earth.
He waited.
...
The leaves drew closer.
...
Silence.
Then—
Click!
The sound of his sword sliding back into its sheath echoed through the clearing. At that instant, the suspended storm erupted outward, countless leaves bursting apart in clean, perfect halves. Not a single one remained untouched.
Pasta took a deep breath, raising a hand to catch his unfinished corn and having a satisfying bite from it.
His eyes widened as he flung the corn away.
Clang!
His sword met another in a flash of steel.
Mr. Swordsman stood before him, blade locked against his own.
The sheer force sent Pasta skidding backwards, but before he could lose his footing, he summoned another burst of wind. With an explosion of air, he shot forward, crashing into Mr Swordsman in a renewed clash of blades.
Their swords met in rapid succession, each strike ringing through the forest. Mr Swordsman commanded the wind effortlessly, allowing him to hover momentarily before twisting midair, his leg sweeping downward in a devastating kick.
Pasta barely ducked in time, feeling the rush of air as the strike narrowly missed him.
Then, just as swiftly, Mr. Swordsman sheathed his blade and turned away.
"You've improved, Pasta. But you failed."
Pasta's expression contorted in disbelief. "What?! Hey, hey—what do you mean failed?! And what's with you attacking me out of nowhere?! You were this close to taking my head off!"
Mr. Swordsman glanced back, arms folded. "I said five hundred. You cut down nearly a thousand, maybe more."
Pasta blinked. "You're joking, right? You seriously expected me to cut exactly five hundred?"
He squinted at Mr. Swordsman. "Wait... how do you even know it wasn't five hundred exactly? You didn't count!"
"Perspective."
"Perspective my ass!" Pasta pointed at him. "You can't just assume things like that, man! This whole exercise was so hard I think I aged a few years!"
Mr. Swordsman's expression remained impassive. "Then count the leaves you sliced. Let's see if they're five hundred."
Pasta blinked again, looking around at the countless golden fragments blanketing the forest floor.
He chuckled nervously. "...Alright, but I still have another task, you know?"
Mr. Swordsman raised a brow. "And what might that be?"
"The whole point of this training is for me to defeat a particular man. I need to meditate, visualise the fight you know, just to be sure I'm ready."
Mr. Swordsman studied him. "You've already fought me. That should be enough proof of your growth."
Pasta rubbed the back of his head, looking away. "Well… it's not you, Mr. Swordsman. It's someone else."
A flicker of something unreadable passed through Mr. Swordsman's gaze. Someone else? Was Pasta implying this mysterious opponent was stronger than him? Their sparring match should have already shown how much Pasta had progressed—why did he need more?
"Three minutes," Mr. Swordsman said at last, turning away. "Finish your fight in three minutes. Then you count the leaves."
Pasta nodded, sweat trickling down his temple.
Three minutes.
Three minutes to figure out how to escape.
#
Pasta sat in the void, arms clasped together, his expression grim. "Knowing how Mr. Swordsman is… he's dead serious about me counting those leaves. Dammit!"
Groaning, he lowered his head and raked his fingers through his hair. It had taken him over a month just to get a grasp on controlling the wind, and even now, he was far from perfect. Every time he tried, he unleashed an overwhelming burst of energy instead of a controlled, subtle breeze. Mr Swordsman had once told him it was because of his 'chaotic behaviour.'
Pasta sighed, reaching for his sword. "I just have to pray that some divine entity saves me… because my three minutes are up."
With that, he rose from the fallen form of Hack, stepping over the mercenaries he had just defeated.
Back in the real world, Pasta remained seated on a stone slab, fingers pressed together, legs crossed. His eyes flickered to the side, stealing glances at Mr Swordsman, who leaned casually against a tree, unbothered.
"You're the worst, you know that?-"
THWACK!
A sharp pain exploded on his head as he was sent crashing to the floor.
Above him stood Emilia, her fury practically radiating off her. "So this is where you've been hiding? How unserious can you get?!"
She grabbed him by the collar and hoisted him up. "We have a commission, you lazy buffoon! That old lady can't tend to her apple orchard by herself, and here you are, napping and calling it training?!"
With a frustrated huff, she tossed him back onto the ground.
"Hold on—wait, let's talk about this—!"
Emilia ignored his protests and shot Mr Swordsman a look. "It's time to leave. You'll get a small portion of the payment since I did almost all the work."
Mr. Swordsman nodded. "I have no issue with that."
"But you—" Emilia glared down at Pasta. "You get nothing, you lazy buffoon. Honestly, I don't even know why you're not fat with how much you slack off and eat. Can't believe I imagined you were getting serious"
As she dragged him away by his collar, Pasta winced from the pain in his ears… but despite it all, a bright smile stretched across his face.
All the gruelling training… all the endless suffering… it had finally come to an end.
And most importantly, he wasn't going to count those leaves.
He really was blessed.
Pasta blinked.
And found himself in a much larger forest stretched before him, leaves blanketing the earth in an endless sea of orange and red.
A rake sat in his hands.
Under the shade of a tree, Emilia sat comfortably in a chair beside the old lady. The two of them enjoyed a book, sipping tea like nobles.
Emilia looked up from her page and called out—
"We don't have all day, y'know. Chop, chop!"
Pasta stood there, silent.
A single tear slid down his cheek as he gazed up at the unforgiving sun.
"This world… is devoid of happiness. Only suffering remains. I no longer wish to live. Please… just let me die."