In those grey, cloudy days when he finished age two and neared three, the sky of the North was like an iron plate pressing down on the world.
Elara pushed open the heavy, iron-latched window. It wasn't fresh air that filled the room; it was the metallic North wind smelling of rust, frozen mud, and ozone. The wind blew Elara's platinum blonde hair into her face, but she didn't mind. Her porcelain-white skin stood pure in the middle of this grey and dirty world, as if it would break if touched.
"Look, Aether," she said, pointing down. There was an anxious affection in her ice-blue eyes for the man below. "Your father is there. Wearing that sullen face again."
Aetherion looked down from his mother's arms.
In the courtyard, Zero was training a group of soldiers. With his towering 1.92-meter frame, he rose like a tower among the soldiers around him. The matte black armor he wore didn't reflect the light; it swallowed it like a black hole. In his hand was the family heirloom: "Crimson Dawn." But Aetherion could feel it even from above; the snowflakes around his father melted before hitting the ground. There was an unquenchable, dangerous furnace inside that man.
The soldiers facing him were the dregs of the North. Their cheeks were sunken, their noses purple from the cold, dark circles under their eyes from sleeplessness. But they all looked at that massive man not with fear, but with a hungry loyalty, as if he were their only chance of survival.
Zero raised his voice. He wasn't shouting, but his voice cracked through the air like a commander's whip, suppressing the wind in the courtyard:
"Correct your stance! This isn't a ballroom, this is the edge of your grave!"
Zero stopped in front of a trembling soldier.
"A moment of hesitation kills! The enemy does not wait, the enemy shows no mercy! This border, this castle, those villages behind... they are all on your shoulders! If you don't sweat on these stones here, you will bleed on the battlefield tomorrow! You won't just kill yourselves; you will kill your wives, your children, your mothers whose warm soup you drink, with your own hands!"
Zero raised his sword. The steel shone against the grey sky as if challenging it.
"Remember – we are here because we are the northern shield of the Empire. And if the shield breaks... everything ends!"
The soldiers shouted in unison, "YES SIR!" The sound echoed off the stone walls and hit the mountains.
Zero stepped back. Before him stood a dummy made of a wet oak log, the thickness of a human torso.
He took a deep breath.
At that moment, Elara turned her back to ask something in the kitchen, calling out to the maid. "Hilda! Where are you?" Her attention wavered for a moment. She put Aetherion down and dove into a heated conversation with the maid.
For Aetherion, this was that momentary gap where the chains loosened.
He moved immediately. But he had to be careful. The problem wasn't just walking quietly; the problem was the curse on his head. His flame-orange hair shone like a signal flare in this grey castle.
He pulled his hood over his head, choosing the darkest shadows. He moved using the outer arch of his small feet, spreading his weight on the ground. He was as silent as a hunting cat.
He held his breath as he passed between his mother and the maid. He slowed his heart rate. He blurred his presence. No one turned to look.
The heavy oak door at the end of the corridor was ajar. Aetherion slipped through and reached the head of the stone stairs opening to the North Courtyard.
This was his Observation Tower.
He sat on the top step and began to watch below through the cold iron railings. This was strategic; it had a commanding angle of the entire courtyard and remained in the shadow thanks to the pillar behind him.
The scene below was less a heroic painting and more a picture of a sorrowful resistance.
The courtyard of Iron Tooth Keep resembled a gloomy arena under the grey sky. The ground was paved with dark basalt stones worn by thousands of boots, and a constant metallic smell of rust and ozone hung in the air. This was the scent of the Chain Realm, of the infinite void beneath them.
Aetherion studied the soldiers.
Their armor... Most had patched armor; rusted iron plates held together by boiled leather scraps. The dents in the helmets were like maps of previous battles. Their cloaks were reinforced with thick furs to protect against the cold, but the furs were shedding, their colors faded.
On the faces of the soldiers, fatigue and anger were read rather than a desire for victory. Their eyes were hollow, their cheeks gaunt.
Aetherion's sharp ears caught whispers amidst the howling wind. Two spearmen were grumbling at the back of the line.
"Half rations again," one said through clenched teeth. His eyes under the helmet were angry. "Last night there wasn't even meat in the soup. Just water and frozen potatoes."
The other slammed his spear into the ground. "What did you expect? Our King doesn't care about us. For him, the real deal is the shiny Chain Links on the east and west borders. Us? We are just an icy buffer zone at the tip of this Rusty Chain where Ignis's fire is drawn and we are left to the frost."
"Whenever a monster or shade comes, we are the first shield," the first added, almost spitting. "But when rewards are distributed, we are at the bottom of the Void."
This tension was fed by survival instinct and abandonment. These men were loyal not to the king, but only to survival.
And the only nail holding them together was that man in the middle of the courtyard.
Aetherion turned his gaze to his father.
Zero stood like a dynamic, powerful statue even under the weight of his armor. His black, matte armor wasn't patched like the others', nor was it ornate; it was a purely functional, deadly tool.
The Crimson Dawn in his hand was the only living color in that grey and rusty world. Its blood-colored steel shone in the sunlight, radiating a faint heat around it.
Zero felt that fatigue, that hunger, and anger of the soldiers. He didn't give them false hopes. If he couldn't give them food, he gave them a chance to survive.
Zero turned to the soldiers. His voice cracked through the air like a commander's whip:
Aetherion held onto the railings. He locked his eyes on his father.
Zero had heard the complaints, but neither anger nor mercy appeared on his face. He was just bored.
"Silence!"
Zero's voice came out with a certainty that instantly drowned all whispers in the courtyard.
He slowly walked in front of the soldiers. He looked not at the soldier who complained, but at a general void, with a weary expression as if he had heard these whines thousands of times.
"I see you exercise your jaws more than your swords," Zero said, his voice like ice. "If you tired your arms as much as you tire your jaws, you would have finished three forms by now."
He rested the tip of his sword indifferently on the ground.
"Half rations... The Empire forgot us... Tell me a trouble I don't know. This is the North. Here bellies are never full, armor never fully warms. This was yesterday's truth, and it is today's truth. Conditions don't change, only those who can't endure and die change."
He hardened his gaze and raised his sword.
"You cannot get warm by whining. You get warm by moving. Stop slacking and take your guard!"
"Form Three!" Zero commanded. "With me!"
Zero stepped forward with his right foot. The soldiers, like a single body, stepped forward with their right feet. The sound of boots hitting stone echoed a dull THUD in the courtyard.
Zero drew a flawless crescent in the air with his sword. All swords cut the air simultaneously.
VOOOP.
The sound of tearing air came out like a single massive whip crack. Zero moved not like an orchestra conductor, but like the main gear of a massive war machine; when he turned, the whole army had to turn.
Aetherion emerged from his shadow at the top of the stairs.
This wind created by his father and the army had awakened the old warrior inside him. Watching was no longer enough. His muscles burned to join that rhythm.
He found a knotted, crooked stick half-buried in the mud on the ground. He bent and picked it up. It was wet, cold, and unbalanced.
Aetherion weighed the stick in his hand. He grimaced. An insult to a warrior, he thought. But it is not the steel that makes the sword, but the soul of the hand that holds it. Even with this piece of trash, I can learn to dance.
Below, commands continued.
"Cut and turn! Defensive position!"
As the soldiers turned, Aetherion turned too. His small body moved at the same time, at the same angle, as fifty adult men.
However, the problem was this: Aetherion was in the soldiers' field of view.
The spearman in the back row, the one complaining about "half rations," caught the stairs out of the corner of his eye. His concentration broke at what he saw. A three-year-old child, with a broken branch in his hand, was performing the commander's complex maneuver with flawless seriousness.
The soldier faltered. His hesitation broke the rhythm of the one next to him.
"What are you doing, idiot?" whispered the one next to him. Then he too looked at the stairs.
The wave spread. The synchronized clatter of swords was disrupted, metal hit metal. Not chaos, but a distinct crack appeared in the discipline.
Zero felt the rhythm break instantly. One of the machine's gears had skipped.
He turned in fury. Fire shot from his eyes.
"WHO IS BREAKING THE RHYTHM?!" he roared. "Do you hesitate like this before the ene..."
His words cut off when he realized the soldiers were looking at the top of the stairs.
Zero turned his gaze.
And he saw his son.
Aetherion had frozen in the "High Guard" position with that crooked, muddy stick in his hand. The soldiers had stopped, his father had stopped, but Aetherion hadn't broken his stance. His feet were rooted to the ground, back straight, eyes locked on an imaginary enemy.
Zero's anger knotted in his throat.
That stance... thought Zero, in astonishment. Shoulders loose, elbows in, center of gravity perfectly in the middle. He is doing the defensive guard... technically perfectly.
Zero walked, ignoring the soldiers. His armor clanking, he headed towards the stairs.
Aetherion saw his father approaching but didn't move. Do not fear, he told himself. A soldier gets scolded if he makes a mistake in drill. But I made no mistake.
Zero stopped in front of his son. His shadow fell over the small child like a massive darkness.
Aetherion lifted his head. From under his hood, he looked into his father's ice-blue eyes. His own eyes were a dull ash grey due to the drop.
With his large, calloused hand, Zero reached out and roughly snatched that broken, muddy stick from Aetherion's hand. He threw it aside.
Aetherion was surprised. was he angry?
But Zero walked to the weapon rack standing under the portico. From there, he took a balanced training sword (bokken) made of smooth ash wood, carved for the soldiers' children but never used.
He returned. He held the sword not by the hilt, but by the blade, extending it to his son.
This was not the gesture of giving a toy. It was a weapon handover ceremony.
"That piece of trash," Zero said, his voice clear enough for everyone in the courtyard to hear. "Was an insult to that stance."
Aetherion looked into his father's eyes. There was no anger there; there was a challenge.
He took the wooden sword. The weight was perfect. It fit his palm exactly.
Zero stepped back, moved to the center of the courtyard, and drew his own Crimson Dawn.
"Now,"
Zero stepped forward with his right foot. He raised his sword, Crimson Dawn, above his head.
"Watch and execute."
And then... time in the courtyard bent for a moment.
Zero moved.
The first move was that familiar, devastating 'lightning' cut descending from above. The sound of tearing air filled ears. But this time, the sword didn't stop.
Zero caught the massive momentum of the sword about to hit the ground with an impossibly seeming twist of his wrist and hip. The sword changed direction suddenly like a snake, became parallel to the ground, and turned into a deadly fast horizontal 'waist-level' slash.
VOOOP-SHLACK!
The sound of air turned into a two-toned, wild scream.
And before the wind of that second movement even died down, Zero suddenly shifted his weight to his back foot. He pulled the sword to his chest and finished the combo with a blind, piercing thrust aimed at the heart, penetrating the enemy's defense. When the tip of the sword froze in the air, it was trembling slightly.
Three moves. A single breath. There wasn't even a millisecond gap in between. This was an inescapable execution.
Aetherion's breath was taken away. The old, critical samurai in his mind fell silent. He gave way to pure admiration.
This... he thought, his heart speeding up in his chest. This isn't just brute force. This is like a river finding its bed. He isn't swinging the sword; he is guiding where the sword wants to go.
He looked at his father's massive shoulders, at the muscles stretching like steel cables under the armor. Old man... he said internally, with a slight smile on his lips. You weren't just a commander. You were a poet who speaks the language of the sword.
Zero completed his move and straightened up slowly. He lowered his sword and looked at his son over his shoulder. He had that cold expression that said "Do it if you can."
Aetherion gripped the wooden sword. His palms were sweaty. This was a much harder test than the imitation done with a piece of wood.
Zero waited. The soldiers in the courtyard and the servants who saw the events and came to watch held their breath. Even the wind fell silent.
Aetherion took a deep breath. The cold air of the North filled his lungs.
He narrowed his eyes.
And he moved.
His small body turned. The wooden sword followed the imaginary trail left by his father's legendary sword.
The movements were the same.
Angle, stance, breathing... all perfectly identical. But Aetherion's movement was shorter, with less power, but executed with frightening speed. The place where he stopped the tip of the sword was millimetrically precise.
The soldier in the back row who complained about "half rations" swallowed hard. His fatigue vanished instantly. He nudged the ribs of the soldier next to him hard with his elbow.
"Did you see that?" he said, his voice trembling. "Did you see where he stopped the sword?"
Whispers spread in waves.
Zero walked back to his son slowly, clanking his armor. His eyes were locked on Aetherion's stance.
This... this is impossible, Zero thought. His heart strained his ribcage. The subtlety and timing of this movement require spilling blood for years. A child cannot do this just by watching. This is a miracle.
He knelt, coming down to eye level. Despite the cold stone of the courtyard, his father's face was sweating.
"Again, Aether," he said. His voice trembled.
Aetherion lifted the wooden sword, which was heavy for him. His arms trembled, his child muscles rebelled, but his will held his body upright like a steel corset.
He took a deep breath. Narrowed his eyes.
And moved.
His small body turned. At that moment, he felt the fire inside him rise. His body temperature increased, and his flame-orange hair blew in the wind.
When he completed the movement and stopped, he was breathless. The grey veil in his eyes thinned with the momentary heat; a magma-red glow from the depths flashed like a challenge to his father's eyes.
This time, he had even copied that characteristic, momentary pause his father made while drawing his sword from its sheath.
A rare, very rare look of pride appeared on Zero's face. The corner of his lips curled up slightly. But deep in his eyes, a fear of the unknown also sprouted.
He put his hand on his son's shoulder.
"Of course..." he said in a low voice, a whisper that all soldiers could hear. "It's clear whose son he is."
Zero stood up. Wiping that momentary expression of surprise from his face, he put that hard commander mask back on.
"Go to the very back," he said, pointing with his head to the end of the line of soldiers. "Behind the soldiers. From now on, you join the training. But if you slow me down, I will throw you out."
Yes, he knew he was saying this to a child. But this courtyard was the courtyard of soldiers only. The rule was single. Even if he is my son, I could not break the deadly seriousness of the North.
Aetherion nodded. Without saying a single word, he turned his back and started walking towards the indicated spot, towards the gap behind those massive spearmen.
Zero looked at that tiny back walking among the huge men in that grey and rusty courtyard. The cold and hunger of the North would not change. But at that moment, a warmth he hadn't felt in years, a spark of hope appeared inside him.
This castle will hold, he thought. Because the North has not only a today, but now, a future.