After some time passed, Evans was seen sitting in a chair near his father's bed, watching his mother apply the medicine he'd bought to John's wounds. He wanted to help, but the fear of making things worse kept him rooted to the chair. Evans hated that he couldn't do anything. His father lying injured, and his uncle showing with unknown intentions, made him feel so weak… too powerless to protect his own family.
Evans clenched his hands beneath the chair, nails digging into his palm. He didn't want to feel this anymore — small, weak, useless.
No.
He stood up, the chair scraping softly against the wooden floor.
His mother looked up at the sudden movement. "Evans? What's wrong?"
"I'm going outside," he said, forcing his voice to stay steady.
She hesitated, but when she saw the look in his eyes — the seriousness far too mature for his age, she nodded.
Evans stepped out into the yard, the cool evening breeze brushing against his face.
He drew the wooden sword from his side. It felt light in his hand… Too light.
He gripped it tighter.
"Dad always said…" he muttered to himself, lowering into an awkward stance, "…a sword only listens to those who have the 'strength' and 'will' to wield it."
He swung, but lost control midway.
Again.
Sloppy. Weak.
Evans bit his lips and swung harder. And harder.
His arms stung. His shoulders ached. But he didn't stop. Not until the sword slipped from his trembling hands and hit the ground.
Evans bent forward, panting, sweat dripping down his forehead, and picked up the sword.
"I will… become strong," he whispered between breaths. "So strong that no one would ever dare lay a finger on my family again."
His heartbeat was loud in his ears, and for a moment, that was all he heard.
***
As the sun settled on the horizon, Evans finally went back inside the house, panting heavily; his entire body was drenched with sweat.
Lisa looked at him in surprise. "Where did you go to end up like this?"
Evans wiped his forehead with his sleeve, trying to calm his breathing.
"I was just… outside," Evans replied, avoiding her gaze.
Lisa frowned slightly. "You shouldn't push yourself too hard."
Evans didn't respond. His gaze drifted quietly towards the room where his father lay.
Lisa gently patted his head, attempting a smile that didn't hide her worry. "Come. Dinner is almost ready."
Evans nodded and followed her inside.
But even as he sat at the table, his mind was lost in his own thoughts.
Lisa placed a bowl of stew in front of him, the warm aroma filling the room. The smell of the stew snapped Evans from his daze, and he looked up at Lisa in astonishment.
"Wow! It smells great."
"Of course it does. I put a lot of effort into cooking it," she replied proudly.
"I can't wait any longer. Mom, you should grab a bowl as well."
Lisa laughed softly at his sudden enthusiasm and sat down across from him with her own bowl. For a short moment… it almost felt normal.
"It's delicious," Evans said, stuffing his mouth with the stew.
"Eat slowly, or you'll choke."
"But I can't help it — it's too delicious... You're the best Mom."
She could only shake her head, a warm smile creeping on her face.
But their peaceful moment was shattered when a sudden groan echoed from the room where John was resting.
Lisa's heart jumped.
"John!?" She rushed inside without another thought.
Evans hurried after her, gripping his wooden sword tightly.
John's body tensed up on the bed, his face twisted in pain as if he was fighting someone in a dream.
"John! Can you hear me? John!" Lisa shook his shoulder desperately.
Evans stepped closer, fearful yet hopeful.
John's lips quivered… and a faint, trembling whisper escaped them:
"…The sword… isn't weak…"
Both Evans and Lisa Froze.
Before either of them could react, John's breathing steadied again. Silence settled… heavy and frightening.
Evans stared at his father, eyes wide.
"What… what did he mean by that…?" he whispered.
Lisa placed a trembling hand on John's chest, as if afraid he might stop breathing.
"I-I don't know…" she replied quietly, shaking her head.
"But at least he reacted. That means he is recovering."
Evans swallowed hard, feeling his heart pounding in his ears.
"Do you think Dad is getting better?"
"Yes… Mr Bennett's medicine must be working. Your father is strong… he'll wake up soon."
Evans nodded, wanting to believe every word.
A moment of silence lingered—just the sound of John's steady breath filling the room.
Lisa stood up and turned toward Evans. "You should rest too. You've had a long day."
"But I can st—"
Lisa shook her head, placing her hands on his shoulders.
"You already did enough today. Your father would scold me if I let you run yourself ragged." Lisa gave him a small smile. "I'll keep an eye on him. Don't worry."
Evans hesitated, glancing once more at John before giving in.
"…Alright."
***
Evans stepped into his room and closed the door behind him. Inside the quiet darkness, Evans embraced the wooden sword — the only thing that made him feel strong.
Yet despite holding it so tightly, he still felt afraid.
The image of his father struggling in pain replayed again and again in his mind. His mother's trembling voice echoed in his ears.
His heartbeat quickened, and he pressed the sword harder against his chest as if it could take the fear away.
Evans lay down on the bed, hoping sleep would come quickly.
But it didn't.
As he stared at the ceiling, his father's trembling words echoed in his mind.
'The sword isn't weak.'
"Why would he say that…?"
Evans frowned, trying to make sense of his father's strange words. Then he remembered something his grandfather once told him when he was little.
Before the Great Demon War, Sword was considered as grand as the magic… It's also said that the strongest being in this realm was a swordsman — the very one who led the armies against the demons and brought an end to the war.
But after the war, every trace of him vanished — as if he had never existed at all, and with him the fame of the sword began to fade as well.
'Were swordsmen truly as powerful as the mages back then... ?'
'What happened after the war for swords to fall so far... ?'
As his mind kept circling about those thoughts, his eyelids grew heavy, and he drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.