Kazel pushed open the door to his home, stepping inside with a quiet but firm presence. The familiar scent of wood, earth, and herbs greeted him as he walked through the threshold. His mother, who had been busy tending to the home, looked up as he entered, a soft smile spreading across her face.
"Kazel," she greeted warmly. "You're back."
He nodded, returning her smile with one of his own, though it lacked the lightness of old. His gaze moved around the room, and then he turned to her with a straightforward question. "Where's Father?"
His mother's smile softened, her eyes fond. "He's in the backyard, training."
Kazel didn't need to hear more. He turned and moved toward the door, and his mother, curious about his intent, followed quietly behind him. The gentle creak of the door sounded as they stepped outside, and Kazel's eyes swept across the backyard where his father was hard at work.
His father, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a face hardened by years of discipline, was practicing his swordsmanship with fluid but powerful strikes. The rhythm of his movements was steady, precise, each one calculated to maintain his strength and technique.
Kazel watched for a moment before stepping forward, breaking the silence. "Father," he called, his voice calm but assertive.
His father paused mid-swing and looked over at him, raising an eyebrow. "Kazel," he replied, his expression one of surprise. "You're home."
Kazel's gaze locked onto his father's sword. He hadn't trained in a lifetime, but his body still itched for it. "I want to spar."
His father's brows furrowed at the request. "Spar? After what you've been through? You just recovered from that illness. It's too soon."
Kazel's lips twisted into a faint smirk. "It's never too soon."
His father sighed, shaking his head in mild disbelief. "You've got a stubborn streak, don't you?" He lowered his sword for a moment, assessing his son. "Alright, but you're not in the condition you used to be."
Kazel, not waiting for more, grabbed a sword from a nearby rack. His grip was firm, and he immediately assumed a stance—one that seemed odd, almost too open. It was unguarded in a way, a stance that invited strikes, yet Kazel didn't seem bothered by it at all.
His father stared at him, his mouth turning into a small frown. "That's the stance you're going with?" he asked, his voice skeptical. "You're inviting critical hits with that posture. It's reckless."
Kazel's smirk remained. "It'll work. Trust me."
A sigh escaped his father as he observed the stance. He thought for a moment that this would be a short spar, a simple way to give Kazel some rest while still allowing him to move around a bit. His expression softened into one of resignation as he took his sword in hand again.
"Fine. Let's see what you've got, then."
Kazel's eyes glinted with determination, and without another word, he closed the distance between them, sword in hand and ready to meet his father's challenge
The first clash of steel rang dull and hollow. Kazel's father led with a textbook overhead chop—all power, no subtlety. ( A lumbering strike. I've beheaded warlords for less! ) Kazel tilted his blade a finger's width, deflecting the blow past his shoulder without shifting his feet.
His father recovered swiftly, lunging with a thrust aimed at the heart. ( Three inches overextended. His liver was mine five breaths ago. ) Kazel's sword drifted sideways, point hovering at the soft hollow beneath his father's jaw. A flick of the wrist would have painted the grass red. He let the moment pass.
Three more engagements. Three more deaths withheld. Kazel's blade whispered against his father's throat, then hovered at his kidney, then rested lightly against his carotid—each time withdrawing like a serpent choosing not to strike.
His father's breaths grew labored, sweat darkening his tunic. When he attempted a feint-and-slash combination, Kazel nearly snorted. ( The same pattern drilled into me at age eight. Slower now. Weaker. ) The counterstrike came without thought, Kazel's sword edge kissing the pulse point beneath his father's ear before pulling back.
Then the air changed—a guttural roar vibrating in Kazel's teeth, the stench of upturned earth and musk flooding his nostrils. Ghostly tusks erupted behind his father's shoulders, spectral hooves churning the ground. ( That's like what Salma did... ) His father's blade glowed faintly as he swung.
Kazel met the strike head-on. The training sword exploded from his grip, spinning end over end to stab into the soil. He hit the ground hard, palms scraping gravel as the Two-Tusk Boar's spirit dissolved into mist.
"Kazel!" His father dropped to his knees, hands trembling as they gripped Kazel's shoulders. "Gods—did I break bone? Let me—"
Kazel stared at his empty hand, the ghost of raw power still tingling in his nerves. His blood stirred—not fear, but the old hunger. The hunger that once razed nations.
His mother descended on them like a storm, slapping her husband's chest. "Spirit arts in a spar? Have you lost your mind?!"
His father didn't defend himself, eyes locked on Kazel's unmarked skin. "He… he countered every move. Like I was swinging at smoke."
Kazel stood up slowly, brushing the dirt from his clothes with a subtle flick of his hand. His expression was a mix of satisfaction and challenge. "Tomorrow," he said, voice steady and calm, "Teach me how to do that."
His father, still catching his breath, raised an eyebrow in confusion. "Do what?"
Kazel's smirk deepened as he motioned with a flick of his hand, his gaze now focused on the spot where the boar had fallen. "You know, the boar thing."
His father's confusion only deepened as he glanced at his wife. "The boar thing? What are you talking about?"
Kazel's eyes glinted, a mix of curiosity and determination. "That. The way you made it fall with just that..." he trailed off, as if the words were just out of reach. "The way you harnessed energy. The spirit arts."
The mother, who had been watching with an intrigued yet concerned expression, tilted her head slightly. A small understanding passed through her eyes, and she glanced at her husband before responding. "You mean soul cultivation?"
Kazel nodded quickly, his eyes sharp with intent. "Yes, that's it. Soul cultivation." He glanced back at his father. "Show me how you did it, Father. I want to learn."
His father's expression shifted, from surprise to a thoughtful frown. "You've just recovered, Kazel. Soul cultivation isn't a simple matter—it takes time and focus. You're not ready yet."
But Kazel's stance remained unwavering. "I'm ready. I've seen enough." His eyes were steady, and beneath them lay the fierce confidence of someone who had seen countless battles and conflicts, someone who had long since transcended his old limits. He was no longer the weak, frail boy they remembered. And now, he was ready for the next step.
His father exhaled softly, his gaze softening but still tinged with concern. "Alright," he said finally, "We'll start tomorrow. But don't expect it to be easy. This is going to test every bit of your patience and determination."
Kazel's smirk returned, a glint of challenge in his eyes. "I wouldn't want it any other way."