Rusty Sword

Hidden deep within the heart of the jungle, an abandoned and dilapidated shed stood, surrounded by scattered wood fragments and assorted debris. The encroaching moss, interspersed with patches of fungus, hinted at the shed's long neglect.

Inside this forsaken structure, a solitary podium occupied the center of the room, veiled in cobwebs and dust, obscuring its once magnificent appearance. Atop the podium lay a severely rusted short sword, its edges fractured, and only half of its former self intact—a testament to a history of fierce and lethal battles.

Suddenly, the decaying door of the shed creaked open, revealing a bald man adorned in monk robes. Stepping into the dimly lit space, he traversed the length of the shed until he stood before the podium. With dull gray eyes fixed upon the rusted sword, he brought time itself to a standstill, freezing the outside world—the wind ceased, and the forest creatures paused.

After what felt like an eternity, the monk broke the silence. "I choose you as my first-ever sword," he declared in a monotone voice, gripping the blade's handle. With a swift and forceful motion, he raised the sword above his head, aiming to cleave the podium in two. However, mid-swing, he arrested the motion.

"Not bad," a satisfied voice echoed within the shed. Retrieving a sheath from behind his back, the monk securely housed the rusted sword. Placing the sword at his hip, he took a deep breath, turned, and exited the shed.

As he distanced himself from the now-destroyed structure, the rotting wood succumbed to the relentless river of time, crumbling in decay. Just beyond the remnants of the shed lay a massive ravine stretching over a kilometer.

When viewed from above, the ravine resembled the aftermath of a colossal sword slash. Questions lingered—what force could create such a profound mark, and what blade could withstand such overwhelming power?

Glancing back at the path the monk had taken, an unsettling aura emanated from his direction, leaving an ominous feeling in its wake.