LAUGHTER AND SHADOWS

Five years later.

The courtyard echoed with the gentle whoosh of steel slicing through the air. Shu’en’s small frame moved with careful precision, his bare feet pressing into the packed dirt as he guided the wooden practice blade in a graceful arc.

There was no clumsy flailing or wild swings each movement was filled with purpose, patience, and the kind of control that only comes from hours of practice.

His breath formed a faint mist in the cool morning air, perfectly synced with each strike. Step. Cut. Draw back. Reset. And then, again.

Though he was just five years old, the intensity in his pale blue eyes made him appear much older. While most kids played with sticks in the street, Shu’en approached every motion as if his life depended on it. His small hands quivered slightly with effort, but he pressed on without hesitation.

Finally, he lowered the wooden blade and let out a breath, sweat trickling down his brow. Crossing the yard, he crouched beside a water jug resting in the shade and poured a careful stream into a clay cup. The cool water touched his lips as he drank deeply, the tranquility of the moment enveloping him.

He pressed the cool cup against his forehead for a moment, feeling the chill seep into his skin. Above him, the sky was a vast expanse of blue, but in Shu’en’s eyes, there was no sense of dreamy wonder—just a quiet calculation, as if even the clouds were mere pieces of a puzzle he still needed to figure out.

Shu’en leaned back against the old water jug, his cup hanging loosely in one hand while the sweat on his forehead began to cool. His small chest rose and fell as he caught his breath, but his eyes remained sharp and contemplative.

Five years… Five years spent watching, listening, and piecing together bits and pieces like a crow collecting shiny treasures.

The world, as he had come to understand it, stretched far beyond what any lullaby could capture. The continent was called Nutoris—a land marked by kingdoms, broken borders, and tales of ancient wars whispered by passing travelers.

But his village? It was so remote, tucked away from the capital that even the maps seemed to forget it was there. To the lords and kings, it might as well have been nameless.

No name… fitting, he thought, taking a sip of the last of his water. It makes it easier to erase if something goes wrong.

What intrigued him the most, however, were the swords. This world revolved around them—different styles, schools, clans—each as unique as the hand that wielded them. There were flowing forms that moved like rivers, heavy cleaving techniques designed for raw power, and sharp, needle-like thrusts said to pierce armor effortlessly.

His father, Ei’sen, practiced one of the more prestigious styles. Shu’en could tell by the way his blade sang through the air—smooth, deliberate, and honed through years of practice. But whenever Shu’en asked about it, his father would just ruffle his hair and say:

“You’re too young to bear the weight of my rank. Just swing until your arms ache. That’s training enough.”

Classic Dad response, Shu’en thought, rolling his eyes.

And then there was the so-called spiritual prowess known as Lucid. It was said to be the great force residing within every warrior.

The books he had managed to sneak a peek at in the village library talked about inner energy, flowing streams, and radiant bursts of power that could shake the heavens.

Shu’en frowned, recalling the crude diagrams and exaggerated metaphors.

It’s basically just chakra with a fake mustache.

Shu’en’s lips were twisted into that familiar deadpan, blank-eyed look again, the kind of expression that could only be summed up as “I’ve just realized life is an anime filler arc.”

And, of course, that was the exact moment Ei’sen decided to stroll in.

“What’s with the face?” his father exclaimed, pretending to be horrified as he dropped a hefty bundle of firewood onto the ground. “Oi, Moanna! Our boy’s possessed again!”

Shu’en nearly choked on his water. “I’m not possessed!”

Ei’sen leaned in closer, squinting at him like he was some rare creature. “No, no, that’s definitely a demon face. Just look at those eyes, all lifeless. Hah! You’ve been training so seriously that you’ll end up like those monks who can’t even laugh at fart jokes.”

Shu’en groaned, dragging his hand across his face in exasperation. “You’re impossible.”

Ei’sen just grinned wider, effortlessly scooping the boy up in one arm as if he weighed nothing at all. “Impossible? Nah, boy, I’m legendary.”

He puffed out his chest and raised a dramatic fist. “They’ll write songs about my heroic son and his tragic, dead-fish face!”

Despite himself, Shu’en let out a snort, his small shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter. His father had this uncanny ability to make him chuckle just when he least expected it.

It was a mix of warmth, annoyance, and comfort all rolled into one.

But then—pain.

A sharp, sudden stab shot through his head like a hot knife. Shu’en flinched, gripping his head as the world around him swayed.

Ei’sen’s smile vanished in an instant. “Shu’en! Hey, are you alright?” His hands, usually so steady on the sword, trembled slightly as he reached out to his son.

The boy managed a small nod, trying to steady his breath. “I… I’m fine. It just comes and goes.”

But deep down, the truth pressed harder than the headache itself.

Ever since I was born… these annoying headaches have plagued me whenever I think about my past life. When I was three, I tried to channel the Spirit power I learned from my previous life, even though I didn’t understand it at all, and it left me with a splitting headache.

He let out a slow breath, trying to calm himself as his father’s concerned gaze lingered.

Why does it hurt?

His small fingers tightened around the cup of water.

These headaches… they’re not just random. They’re reminders. Reminders that no matter how far I try to run from it, my past won’t stay buried.

And even though his father’s voice was warm and grounding beside him, the thought lingered:

What the hell is happening to me?