[93] The Lonely Path of Zephyr Ranga

The Holy Land of Swords, located in the northern reaches of the Central Continent, was a place where only the strong could endure. The biting cold wind swept mercilessly across the land, carrying shards of snow that danced in the air like tiny blades. At the foot of a snowy hill, far from the renowned dojo of the Sword God Style, a lone boy stood firm, a wooden sword gripped tightly in his hand.

Zephyr Ranga, a 14-year-old elf, appeared older than his years. The harsh environment and relentless training had sculpted his once-frail body into a sturdy frame, despite being born weak. His brown hair, usually soft and flowing, was now frosted with a thin layer of ice from the frigid air. His gray eyes burned with unwavering determination, fixed solely on the massive boulder before him, a silent and eternal opponent.

With swift and powerful movements, Zephyr swung his wooden sword. The sharp crack of wood striking stone echoed through the frozen air, followed by tiny fragments chipping away from the boulder's surface. Around him, the shattered remains of broken wooden swords lay scattered in the snow—a testament to his tireless resolve. Countless blades had splintered in his hands that day alone, yet he refused to stop.

He couldn't stop.

Each swing of Zephyr's sword was a declaration of his will. Amidst the bone-chilling cold, he pushed his body to its limits, defying the exhaustion burning through his muscles.

"Stronger," he muttered softly, almost like a mantra he repeated to himself. "I have to become stronger."

Zephyr was not a student of the prestigious dojo in the Holy Land of Swords. He had once tried to join the Sword God Style, hoping to gain the recognition of Gal Farion, the Sword God himself. But his efforts had been met with cold rejection.

"Your style is strange," Gal Farion had said at the time, his tone as cold and firm as the snow beneath their feet. "It's not a swordsmanship that can be honed here."

Those words had shattered Zephyr's heart but not his spirit. Instead, they fueled his resolve. If the sword style taught to him by his master, Ash, was considered "strange," then Zephyr would prove that it could become the strongest.

Zephyr paused, taking a moment to catch his labored breath. He looked down at the cracked and nearly broken wooden sword in his hand. His fingers were stiff from the cold, but he didn't allow himself the luxury of stopping.

He recalled the words of his master.

"Zephyr, you don't need to be the strongest to be respected. You just need to be yourself."

But Zephyr didn't agree. To him, strength was everything. In a world where the sword dictated one's fate, strength was the only way to carve his name into the hearts of others.

Letting out a deep breath, Zephyr's gaze returned to the boulder before him. "Master, I know you want me to find my own path. But to protect what I hold dear… I have to become stronger. There's no other way."

The Holy Land of Swords was a harsh place. The relentless snowfall blanketed everything in a thick white layer, concealing natural traps like slippery stones and hidden cliffs. Here, survival was a constant battle. Even the seasoned swordsmen training in the prestigious dojo had spent years honing their skills, yet they knew that the land itself was an unending test.

Zephyr, once a frail child, had transformed his body through grueling effort. That strength came at a steep cost—endless, punishing training without respite. To outsiders, his actions seemed like a slow march to death. To Zephyr, it was the only way forward.

He hoisted a large wooden beam weighted with heavy stones onto his shoulders, trudging up the snow-covered hill. Each step was a battle, the snow clinging to his legs like chains, but he pressed on. Reaching the summit, he turned and descended, only to repeat the process again and again.

When he reached the base of the hill, he didn't rest. A fresh wooden sword lay in wait on a pile, and Zephyr grasped it with trembling hands. He began to swing, the blade cutting through the frigid air toward stone, tree, or simply the void.

"One… two… three…" he counted silently, his focus unyielding.

To him, no one was watching—or so he thought.

Behind a towering, ancient tree, Nina Farion observed silently. Her long, dark-blue hair was tied back, ensuring it didn't obscure her view, and her well-trained body shielded her from the biting cold. As the daughter of Gal Farion, one of the strongest swordsmen in the world, Nina felt a strange unworthiness as she witnessed the scene before her.

When Zephyr had first appeared at the dojo, she'd dismissed him as a naïve beginner. And when her father, Gal Farion, coldly rejected Zephyr's sword style as "strange," Nina assumed that would be the end of him. But it wasn't. Zephyr didn't leave. Instead, he isolated himself in this remote hill, far from the eyes of those who had mocked him.

At first, Nina was curious. Why would someone who'd been rejected by the Sword God remain in such an unforgiving place? Wouldn't it be easier to give up and seek another path? But as she continued to watch Zephyr's relentless training—far more extreme than anything undertaken by the dojo's students—she began to understand something.

"This kind of training…" Nina thought, holding her breath. "It's like he's trying to kill himself. But… he keeps going."

A lump formed in her throat as she saw Zephyr swing his wooden sword over and over. Each strike was filled with determination, even when the blade inevitably broke, and he replaced it without hesitation. There was no doubt, no complaint. Zephyr simply kept moving forward, as if stopping was never an option.

"He's different from the dojo students," Nina thought. "They train because they want to be strong. But he… he trains as if his life depends on it."

She recalled the day her father had dueled Zephyr. It was a rare occurrence—Gal Farion almost never spared time for those he deemed unworthy. Yet Zephyr had earned a brief audience, only to lose spectacularly without landing a single blow.

Even so, Zephyr hadn't shown anger or despair. Instead, he had left with his head held high, choosing to prove himself in his own way.

Nina bit her lip, a mix of admiration and shame stirring in her chest. She was the daughter of Gal Farion, blessed with access to resources, guidance, and the support of the dojo. But Zephyr?

"He has nothing," Nina realized. "No mentor, no companions. Just himself and that unwavering resolve."

A strange urge welled within her to approach Zephyr, to ask him what drove him to continue even when the world seemed to stand against him. But Nina couldn't bring herself to do it. She felt that interrupting him now would be like defiling something sacred.

Taking a deep breath, Nina watched as Zephyr continued his relentless training. "What is it that you're seeking, Zephyr Ranga?" she murmured, her voice barely audible over the wind.

Zephyr remained oblivious to her presence. To him, it was just another day of training, with his goal ever clear in his mind.

"I won't stop," he thought as he swung the newly picked wooden sword. "I don't care what they say. This style, my master's teachings… I'll prove that they're worth something."

With each swing, each step up the snowy hill, Zephyr forged ahead, unaware that his solitary struggle had begun to inspire someone he had never met.