On a bright, tranquil morning, the village of Xian seemed as if it belonged to another world. Simple wooden houses were scattered across the pine-covered mountain slopes, while farmers toiled diligently in fields glistening under the sun's rays. The air carried the fragrance of wildflowers, and the sound of a nearby river added an indescribable serenity to the place.
At the heart of the village stood the great temple of the Xian Sect, towering with majesty and reverence. Its walls were adorned with intricate carvings depicting the battles and wisdom of ancestors. The massive gate leading into the temple was crafted from ancient cedar wood, engraved with meticulously inscribed talismans. The temple seemed like the beating heart of the village, a place where followers gathered to train and meditate.
In one of the temple's inner chambers, where silence reigned supreme, sat Masaru Shinda, the sect's elder and grand master. The man was in the twilight of his life; his skin was wrinkled, but his eyes held profound wisdom. He sat before a simple wooden table, practicing the art of calligraphy with a long brush and blank sheets of paper. His movements were precise and coordinated, as if every stroke carried a hidden meaning.
As Masaru focused on his work, a young man appeared behind him. The youth was in the prime of his life, his silver hair shimmering under the sunlight streaming through the windows, and his eyes as black as a starless night. He stood with a respectful bow, his demeanor reflecting unyielding dedication.
Masaru slowly lifted his head and gazed at the young man. A faint smile crossed his lips as he spoke in a calm yet authoritative voice, "You have come, Ryo. And you have completed your training."
Ryo stepped forward and knelt before his master with respect. Masaru continued, "You have become physically ready, but you still lack the mindset of a ninja. You are merely a tool, and tools should not possess emotions."
The weight of Masaru's words was heavy, yet they did not stir any visible reaction on Ryo's face. He remained silent, listening intently before lifting his head slightly and asking, "Then, Master, when?"
Masaru did not respond immediately. Instead, he reached to his side and lifted an ancient sword that seemed to carry the scent of history. The blade glimmered faintly, as if it possessed a soul of its own. Masaru glanced at the sword, then back at Ryo, and said, "In time."
A deep silence enveloped the room, broken only by the sound of the wind outside, as if it were narrating tales of the past. Ryo remained kneeling, his eyes fixed on the sword, while Masaru's mind seemed lost in distant memories.
Thus began of the journey of the silver-haired youth, in a world filled with conspiracies and bloodshed, where his destiny remained shrouded in uncertainty.