Chapter 22 - Reason
--Tomorrow, Lyra--
"Mom! I'm going for a walk!" Kyro called out as he slipped into his leather shoes. He tugged the straps tighter around his feet, the worn leather creaking softly beneath his fingers as he stood up and checked his balance. "I'll be back before evening!"
"You better be!" Mom's voice echoed clearly from the kitchen. It was accompanied by the familiar clatter of heavy iron pots and the rhythmic, scraping sound of a wooden spoon against metal.
Kyro stepped outside a moment later, closing the wooden door behind him with a quiet, solid click.
I came down the stairs shortly after he left. The familiar, comforting weight of my sword settled against my lower back as I adjusted and secured its leather sheath. Saul had given me this blade during my birthmonth party. The leather grip was perfectly smooth, molded to my hands, and the steel gleamed with flawless silver light. It was obvious that this was a newly forged masterpiece, and a quiet surge of gratitude washed over me as I remembered thanking Saul for the gift.
I moved through the living room, my boots landing softly against the cobblestone floor, before stepping into the warm kitchen. Mom stood at the counter with her back turned to me, scrubbing a stained pot with vigorous, focused strokes. I silently grabbed a red apple from the wooden counter. Its skin felt cool and polished against my palm. She did not even glance my way as I slipped out the back door and into the yard.
I took a sharp bite of the apple, letting the crisp sweetness burst across my tongue. The cold juice dribbled down my chin, but I did not bother to wipe it away. My mind was already swirling elsewhere, completely consumed by the restless, volatile energy coursing through my veins.
The backyard stretched before me, wide and green. It was the same familiar plot of grass where Saul, Kyro, and I spent hours training until our muscles ached. I walked past the boundary line and approached the barn. The massive wooden doors stood slightly ajar. Pushing them open, I watched the morning sunlight spill across the hay-strewn floor like pools of liquid gold.
Inside, Papa sat flat on a smooth stone, quietly milking one of our cows. A wooden bucket sat beneath the udder, already half-full with frothy milk. Thorskil wiped a line of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, his movements steady, slow, and practiced. He must have heard the rustle of my footsteps because he turned his head, his eyes landing on me and the sword strapped to my back.
"Lyra, good morning," he said, his voice warm and easy. "Did you finish your chores?"
I did not answer him. The frustration inside me was too hot for words. Instead, I hurled the half-eaten apple straight toward his chest with everything I had.
He caught it effortlessly without even looking, his reflexes as terrifyingly sharp as ever. But before he could utter another syllable, I was already moving. My sword sang a high, lethal note as I ripped it from its sheath.
I swung with all my strength, aiming for his midsection. But when I thought I would finally land a hit, he was gone. My blade connected with the stone he had been sitting on instead, the metal biting deep with a sharp crack. The cow beside me let out a startled low, its ears twitching nervously.
"Nice form, Lyra," Thorskil said, now standing beside me, clapping his hands together. His smile was wide, his eyes alight with amusement.
I gritted my teeth, frustration coiling in my gut. "HARGH!" I swung again, this time my blade finding a wooden beam. The wood splintered with a satisfying crack, but Thorskil had already moved, his form a blur of motion.
"Oh man," he sighed, shaking his head. "I just fixed that beam last week."
"Train me, Papa!" I demanded, rushing toward him again. "You're a Sword God, right?!"
I swung at him once, and he dodged, "RIGHT!?"
Then I swung again, repeatedly, delivering a flurry of strikes, each one faster and more desperate than the last. But he weaved through the lethal net of steel with fluid, effortless grace. It looked as if he were participating in a light dance rather than fighting for his life.
"Why do you keep avoiding me?!" I screamed, my biceps burning with the immense effort. "Why won't you train me?!"
"Lyra, why are you acting like this?" Thorskil asked, his voice remaining completely calm.
"Just train me!" I cut him off, swinging once more in a wide arc.
The tip of my blade sliced cleanly through the barn door, sending a violent shower of wooden splinters across the floor. The sound of splitting timber filled the small space, sharp and final.
Thorskil stopped moving. He let out a long sigh and stepped closer to me. His large, calloused hand reached out, not to strike or parry, but to rest gently on my trembling shoulder. His nose twitched slightly, as if he could literally scent the raw emotions radiating off my skin: the crushing insecurity, the bitter frustration, and the desperate, bleeding need to prove my own worth.
"Lyra, it is completely clear that something heavy is weighing on your mind," he said, his tone softening into something firm but deeply protective. "You can always talk it out with your pops."
The moment his hand touched my shoulder, the dam broke. Something inside my chest snapped completely.
My left hand shot up like lightning, locking onto his wrist in a vice-like grip to keep him from escaping. Simultaneously, my right hand brought the sword around with every ounce of aura and physical force I could muster.
The impact was spectacular. The sheer shockwave of the blow blew the side of the barn outward, sending wood kindling flying into the fields. The force sent Thorskil skidding backward, his heavy boots carving deep, jagged grooves into the dirt as he slid across the grass outside. My muscles trembled violently, thick veins bulging along my forearms as I stood there panting, my vision tunneling from the pure exertion.
But I refused to give him time to recover. I dashed forward out of the broken barn, my heart pounding like a war drum in my ears.
"ARGH!" I screamed, bringing the blade down in a final, crushing vertical strike.
I watched the steel inch toward Thorskil's face, the polished metal catching the morning sun like a sliver of raw fire. For one beautiful, fleeting second, I actually thought I had him.
Then, Thorskil sighed.
Time seemed to grind to a absolute halt. To my perception, my body was moving at its absolute limit, but to Thorskil, I was moving in slow motion.
With an almost lazy fluidity, he casually stepped to the side of my descending blade and walked right past my flank. Before I could even register that he was gone, he leaned forward from behind me, his warm breath brushing against the back of my neck.
He brought the edge of his bare hand down against the base of my neck in a swift, gentle chop.
Instantly, my aura shattered.
It sounded exactly like a sheet of thick glass fracturing into a million pieces. The glowing fragments of my defensive barrier dissolved into the morning air, scattered instantly by the passing breeze. The physical force of the strike was so light it wouldn't have harmed a fly, but the precise internal shock was enough to completely disrupt the spiritual flow that had protected me for as long as I could remember.
"Ah!" I gasped, the air completely leaving my lungs.
My knees buckled beneath me instantly. The world tilted violently as a heavy, suffocating darkness crept in at the edges of my vision. But before my face could hit the dirt, Thorskil caught me, his massive arms wrapping securely around my torso. My body went completely limp, my grip failing as Saul's sword slipped from my fingers and clattered uselessly onto the grass.
For a long moment, there was absolute silence, save for the whistling wind. Thorskil sighed, his steady breath brushing against my hair. He turned, carrying my deadweight effortlessly, and gently set me down on the soft, cool grass just outside the ruined barn. He looked over at the gaping hole in the wall, the door hanging by a single broken hinge, and then looked back down at me with an unreadable expression.
"You are giving your pops a lot of unnecessary carpentry work," he said, his tone light, though a distinct edge of exhaustion lingered beneath the words.
***
After what felt like an eternity, I finally forced my eyes open.
The world was a blurry, distorted mess of green and gold. The sunlight felt entirely too bright, the morning air too still. I groaned aloud, rolling onto my side and painfully pushing myself up onto my elbows. My head throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache pulsing right behind my temples. I rubbed the back of my neck, wincing at the deep tenderness there.
Memory slowly clicked back into place. I remembered the desperate swing, the sudden absence of gravity, and the terrifying sensation of my aura shattering like fragile glass.
"What just happened?" I muttered, my voice hoarse and small.
"Are you calm now?" Thorskil's voice cut through the quiet, steady and grounded as ever.
I blinked, my vision finally clearing as I looked up. Thorskil was standing a few feet away, casually playing with my heavy steel sword as if it were a mere twig. The razor-sharp tip was balanced perfectly on the pad of his pinky finger, wobbling slightly with the wind but never losing its center.
"What did you do to me?" I asked, rubbing my aching temples to stop the spinning.
Thorskil flicked his pinky upward. The sword spun into the air, flipping end over end in the sunlight before he caught it flawlessly by the leather hilt.
"Well, I made sure to calm you down without causing you any real harm." He followed my gaze down to the weapon in his hand, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious. "And if you think I am giving this blade back to you today, you are sorely mistaken." He offered a small, teasing smile, though his eyes remained strict. "I cannot return a weapon to someone who loses their mind and attacks their own family. I still have chores to finish, you know?"
I gritted my teeth, the familiar, bitter taste of frustration flaring up in my chest. "Why?"
Unable to look him in the eye, I turned away, curling my knees tightly against my chest. I stared blankly at our small farmhouse in the distance. The familiar sight of the smoke rising from the chimney, the quiet barn, the endless green fields; it suddenly felt less like a home and more like a beautifully constructed cage.
"Why?" Thorskil repeated softly, raising a brow as he watched my small form curl up in the grass.
"Why are you farming like a regular, unimportant peasant?" I asked, my voice barely dropping above a whisper, the words tasting like ash on my tongue. "You possess all that legendary power. I want to be just like you, Papa. I want to be one of the strongest people alive. No, I want to be the strongest."
Thorskil paused. He walked over and gently set the sword down in the grass beside him, the steel gleaming silently in the sun. Then, he sat down directly next to me, the dry grass rustling softly beneath his massive frame.
"Is all of this because of yesterday's match?" he asked, his voice incredibly gentle, ignoring the anger in my question. "Because Kyro managed to beat you for the very first time?"
I clamped my jaw shut. I couldn't say anything; the truth was stuck in my throat, heavy, suffocating, and pathetic. My eyes burned intensely, tears welling up and spilling over my lower lashes before I had the strength to stop them.
Thorskil knew. Of course he did. He was the Sword God; nothing escaped him.
"You came running to me because you wanted a shortcut to get stronger fast, correct?" he murmured. "Because you know I am the Sword God, a tier far above Saul, who is merely a Sword Saint."
I hesitated for a long second, then gave a miserable nod, aggressively wiping the hot tears from my cheeks. I absolutely detested this feeling. I felt so incredibly small, so entirely powerless compared to the boys around me.
"Lyra," Thorskil said, his voice carrying the delicate care one might use when approaching a wounded, cornered animal. "Losing is an essential part of growing up. You cannot simply skip your way to the top of the mountain. Besides..." He reached out, hesitating for a fraction of a second before placing his palm on my shoulder. "There is a very dark, very real reason why I cannot train you, even though I know how much you want it."
"Then tell me why!" I yelled, spinning around to face him completely, my voice breaking under the strain. "Tell me why! I have spent my entire life admiring you! After I found out you were one of the most powerful people in the entire world, all I ever wanted was to follow in your footsteps!"
Thorskil went entirely still, his hand remaining heavy on my shoulder. He let out a long, slow exhale, as if the collective weight of the heavens had suddenly settled onto his chest.
"Okay. Fine. Since you insist on knowing," he said. His voice remained calm, but a dark, chilling tension settled into his words. He looked down at his own hands, his thick, calloused fingers flexing slowly into a fist. "The truth is, your Papa is cursed."
Cursed? I.. what?
I do not know how to react to that. What could possibly curse someone like him?
"I used to believe it was simply my grand destiny," Thorskil continued, his voice dropping into a low register, as if he were sharing a secret that could tear the sky apart. "I was told I was meant to become the Sword God, because that was what the world expected of me."
For a brief moment, Thorskil's gaze drifted, his mind clearly wandering back to a time when he was just a child, forced by brutal training into becoming a weapon he never wanted to be. He forcibly pushed the old trauma aside, refocusing his rose-colored eyes back onto my face.
"You know of the Blade God?" Thorskil asked. "Well, I have been actively disobeying his direct commands for decades. And he absolutely hates me for it."
I tilted my head, my confusion temporarily overriding my anger. "Why?"
Thorskil hummed, rubbing his stubbled chin thoughtfully. "A Sword God has two distinct roles to play in this universe. One is designated for the darkness, and one is designated for the light. The execution of these roles exists solely to entertain the boss upstairs, the Blade God. Through our dreams, he imparts strict commands on what we must do. Every single task must be executed flawlessly to avoid displeasing him."
He turned his eyes back toward our quiet farmhouse, his expression growing distant, staring at something far beyond the wooden walls and green pastures.
"And as you have likely guessed by now, I was chosen to be the darkness." His hand clenched into a tight fist, the thick tendons standing out sharply against his tanned skin. "My divine role was to cause widespread destruction, spread misery, and throw civilizations into absolute chaos."
I stared at him in stunned, horrific silence. My mind was completely reeling. This was my father. the gentle man who had raised me, who carried me on his shoulders when my legs were tired, who laughed at the dinner table and loved me fiercely. Now he was telling me he was born to be a monster.
"But I was absolutely terrible at the job. In fact, I am officially the worst Sword God of Darkness in recorded history," Thorskil let out a sudden, genuine chuckle. He looked down at his left palm, checking the callouses. "Instead of destroying things, I made friends. I built real connections. I fell in love and got married. The Blade God told me I wasn't supposed to exist like this. Eventually, I grew so incredibly fed up with his voice in my head that I chose to voluntarily disobey him entirely."
He paused, his voice dropping into a quiet, almost ashamed whisper as his brows furrowed tightly. "I never wanted the glory of a Sword God, honestly. I have always leaned toward the simple peace of farming, of living a quiet, normal life with the people I care about."
Then, he looked me directly in the eyes.
"To officially stop being the Sword God of Darkness, I am required to train a successor, someone who possesses the innate genetic affinity to handle the raw Power of Darkness. Power of Darkness is my blessing, but to me, as I mention, is more like a curse. If I attempt to train someone who lacks that specific affinity, the dark energy will literally reject their body, and they will die automatically within the very first day of training. Over the course of the training, the power slowly transfers from my body to theirs, until it finds its new permanent host."
I sat perfectly still, the wind rustling my hair as I stared at my father as if he were a complete stranger.
"Around the time you were born, the Blade God gave me a very clear command to seek out and train a specific child," Thorskil said, each word dropping like a heavy iron stone between us. "That child was meant to inherit my curse. To become the next Sword God of Darkness." His knuckles turned completely white as his grip tightened. "But once in a dream, I saw a glimpse of the future. The very child I was commanded to train was destined to grow into a monster that would destroy this entire world."
He let out a short, bitter laugh that carried no humor. "The Blade God demanded I train him. But when I looked at the destiny of that boy, all I could think about was you."
I could see his entire arm shaking from the absolute tension in his fist.
"So, instead of taking him in as my student, I tracked him down the next night and I killed him." His voice dropped to a chilling, absolute whisper. "Because I thought of your future, Lyra. I chose you, and your safety, over absolutely anything else in this world."
My breath caught completely in my throat. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't speak. Thorskil looked back up at me, his intense expression breaking into a beautiful, familiar smile, looking at me as if I were the most precious, irreplaceable gem in existence.
"I..." I began, but the words failed me completely. I lowered my head, my pride and anger entirely washing away, replaced by a profound, heavy realization of what my father had done to keep our family safe.
Thorskil looked up at the vast morning sky. Even without looking directly at him, I could sense the immense, rigid tension in his frame, the way his fingers flexed at his sides as if he were constantly bracing for a celestial blow. It was as if he were actively daring the Blade God himself to strike him down right then and there. The raw defiance in his posture was palpable, but beneath it lay a profound, generational exhaustion, the invisible weight of years spent carrying a burden no mortal should ever have to bear.
"Do you understand now why I refuse to train you?" His voice was quiet, but the words cut through my chest cleaner than any blade ever could. "You do not possess the genetic affinity to wield the Power of Darkness. Trust me, Lyra, I know your soul inside and out. If I gave in to your demands, the training would kill you."
He turned back to me, his rose-colored eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my heart skip a beat. For the first time in my life, I saw something hidden deep within his gaze: it wasn't just legendary strength, but an unshakable, ancient sorrow. It looked like an old, deep wound that would never fully heal.
He turned his face back toward the horizon, looking over the peaceful fields. The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy. I could feel a million questions pressing against my chest, demanding to be let out, but my tongue felt tied. What could a ten-year-old girl possibly say to that? The man I had spent my entire life viewing as an invincible, carefree god was carrying the weight of the world on his back just so we could grow up on a quiet farm.
"Now," Thorskil continued, his voice dropping low, as if he were sharing a private joke with the passing wind, "because I have spent years ignoring the Blade God's dictates, he regularly sends people to eliminate me. Strong people, too. Elite assassins, legendary warlords, master swordsmen; all of them sent to shatter my peace and destroy this home in every way imaginable." He let out a sharp, shaky exhale, the first sign of vulnerability I had ever heard from him. "But I killed every single one of them before they could ever reach the front gate."
There was absolutely no pride or arrogance in his voice. It was stated as a simple, cold fact.
"None of them possessed the capability to stand against me. And eventually, during the chaos..." His voice softened beautifully, a genuine warmth filtering into his tone. "your mother gave birth to Kyro."
A small, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "And the rest, as they say, is history." He glanced down at me, the terrifying weight in his eyes lifting just a fraction. "Do not worry about the future, Lyra. Even if the gods send an army of champions to take my head, I will always win. I will always protect you, and Kyro, and your mother. That is an absolute promise."
The sheer certainty in his voice felt like a heavy, warm blanket wrapping around my shoulders. My fears and confusion didn't vanish entirely, but the suffocating pressure in my chest loosened significantly.
But the comfort was short-lived, because he suddenly turned his entire body to face me, his eyes burning with an intense, commanding fire that forced me to sit up straighter, my lingering tears completely forgotten.
"I want you to grow, Lyra," he said, his voice firm and absolute, leaving zero room for argument. "But I want you to become strong in your own unique way. Grow as a swordsman on your own path, free from the dark corruption that ruined my youth. Be entirely free from the shackles of the gods."
He paused, and for a brief second, I thought the lecture was over. But then, the corner of his mouth twitched, and a mischievous, wicked glint returned to his eyes.
"More specifically," he chuckled, his voice lightening instantly as if he were letting me in on a private joke, "be free from those two absolute morons, Lightning and Blade."
The sudden, whiplash shift in his tone caught me completely off guard. I blinked stupidly, my mind still trying to process the heavy lore of divine curses while he was casually insulting supreme deities. A small, reluctant smile began to tug at my own lips. Only Papa could transition from discussing cosmic infanticide to calling literal gods idiots in the span of a single breath.
Thorskil let out a rich, booming laugh that echoed across the field, and it felt as though the invisible weight of the world had lifted from his shoulders, if only for a brief moment. The lines around his eyes crinkled happily, and he looked exactly like the father I had always known: the one who teased me, who challenged me, and who loved me more than his own life.
"They think they are so incredibly clever, sending their little champions after me," he said, tapping his broad chest with a closed fist. "But they always forget one crucial detail. I am the Sword God of Darkness, Thorskil Samsworth, and I am not going down so easily."
I quietly leaned my head against his massive shoulder, the rough fabric of his shirt scratching my cheek. "I am sorry, Papa... for losing my temper and trying to attack you."
Thorskil laughed heartily, reaching out to ruffle my hair until it was a completely tangled mess. "It is all good, Lyra. Say, how about we head inside and ask your mother to help us bake your favorite carrot cake, hm?"
I wiped the last of my tears away and nodded happily.
[End]