Narvik and the old man sat quietly, the air between them heavy with unspoken thoughts. Narvik's gaze hardened as he looked at the injured man before him.
"You may go," he said coldly. "But remember to tell your men not to touch the owner of the Upper Place."
The man fled in panic, stammering, "Y-yes… yes, sir!"
The old man chuckled softly, his tone dripping with irony.
"Hehehe… the Upper Place? Have you forgotten that you're the son of a criminal?"
Narvik's expression darkened, his voice carrying a trace of old bitterness.
"And have you forgotten what that so-called criminal did to you in the Mist Palace?"
A deep sigh escaped the old man's lips. His eyes clouded with memories best left buried.
"This reminds me of a past I'd rather not recall… Anyway, what's someone like you doing here, Narvik?"
Narvik replied without hesitation, his tone steady and resolved.
"I want to fight until I learn. Maybe… maybe there's still a chance for me to reach the level of true existence. Anyway—how did Baran get here?!"
The old man smiled faintly, his eyes drifting toward the sky as if chasing a distant vision.
"I don't blame you. The best way to learn how to fight is through real battle. As for Baran… that's a long story."
Silence fell between them—an old, heavy silence filled with ghosts of the past.
Moments later, the door creaked open. The old woman entered, carrying a tray of food. On the bed lay a young boy, writhing in pain, whispering weakly,
"Where… am I? What happened to me?"
He clutched his head, memories flooding back like shards of glass cutting through his mind.
The old woman rushed to his side, her voice trembling with concern.
"We found you by the river—you were unconscious. What happened?"
Suddenly, the boy's eyes widened as fragments of his past flashed before him. Before he could speak, the old woman gasped in shock.
"Boy… is your name Baran?!"
Baran froze. A faint white light flared from the old woman's hand, binding him in place. He tried to move—but his body refused to obey.
"I must escape…" he whispered to himself. "Everyone who's ever known my name… is dead."
But the old woman's voice broke through the tension, calm and reassuring.
"Don't worry. I'm your ally. I don't intend to harm you."
She set the food down and left the room quietly, leaving Baran alone with his thoughts and the weight of his name.
---
Two months passed. Baran remained at the old woman's house, training in silence. The land outside still bore scars of battle, and black lightning split the sky like an unhealed wound.
Baran groaned in frustration.
"When will I ever master this technique…?"
The old man, seated nearby, spoke with the firmness of a teacher.
"You've been training for two months—and everything you've done has been wrong."
Baran turned in disbelief.
"Wrong? What do you mean?"
The old man met his eyes, his tone now that of a sage unveiling truth.
"Listen carefully. Every person in this world can truly train only one skill. Each skill has its own forms and techniques, changing with its user. It isn't an absolute law, but once the skill is mastered… new stages will open before you."
He paused, his voice deepening like the rumble before a storm.
"The first stage… is the Transformation of the Skill."
Silence followed—thick, alive, and meaningful. In that stillness, something stirred inside Baran.
It was as if a hidden door had opened within his heart…
A door that led to a world he had yet to discover.