Joel stood there, hunched over, trying to contain the trembling in his hands. For a moment, he felt like he was eight years old again, like when he'd hidden under the blankets at the orphanage after a nightmare, searching the darkness for protection that never came. But now there were no blankets, no shared beds, no caretaker to light a lamp. Now there was only stone, silence, and the weight of a mind that no longer fully belonged to him.

  Then something pulled him out of his spiral: something different in the room, something he hadn't noticed when he woke up. When he looked up, he saw it: on the stone desk, next to the books he usually skimmed, rested an object that hadn't been there before. An unmistakable sword, and beside it… a letter, rolled up and tied with a ribbon.

  The sword wasn't a decorative piece or a ceremonial weapon; it was crude, with a blackened, featureless wooden scabbard. The handle, wrapped in rough rope, lacked a hint of elegance. There was nothing beautiful about it.

  And yet, something about it resonated with him, as if the weapon slept in tune with him, waiting to be awakened by his touch alone. A dormant presence, a deep echo that only he could hear. It wasn't just any sword; it was his, even if he'd never seen it before.

  He looked at the letter, picked it up, and untied the ribbon. The parchment unfurled with a soft rustle. The handwriting was firm, careful, fluid as water, in an ancient style that Joel didn't quite recognize, but he could read clearly. The words seemed written with solemnity. And they were addressed to him.

  "To you, Joel, who has lent me your flesh and blood…"

  Joel began to read, his brows drawn tight, his lips pursed. The letter was long, and in it, a distinct voice—serene, proud, and deeply disciplined—narrated his story. He was a warrior from another time, named Hoshinobu, a samurai. A man of honor who had died with his sword in his hand, betrayed by his lord and his era. A story that immediately stirred a kind of familiarity in Joel, as if he had already witnessed something similar, long ago.

  Hoshinobu explained how he awoke in Joel's body, how he slowly discovered his world, his memories, his pain. He described his meditation, his introspection, the recognition of the hidden power in the blood they shared. He spoke of the art of the sword, of the spirit that accompanied it, of how his will had crossed the veil of death to find rest—and purpose—in a new world. And more importantly… he respected him.

  "This body is yours. It was never mine, but I cared for it as if it were. I honored it as I would honor the temple of a god I don't understand, but to whom I bow in gratitude. You gave me seven days, and I leave you a sword, to serve and protect you. May you remember that there is more in you than blood and muscle, for destiny has granted you a strength you must not ignore."

  Joel didn't know when his legs gave way. He sat back down, but this time with the letter in his lap and his eyes fixed on the sword, or katana, as Hoshinobu described it. He felt something in his chest, not fear or anger, but something close to sadness, or perhaps a strange reverence. He didn't know whether to believe in spirits or reincarnation, but there was something true in those words. He felt it in the ink and the sharp edge the words carried. And for the first time in a long time, Joel didn't feel alone in his body. He felt... that he was two, that he was more than just a young man delirious in a cave.

  Joel lowered the letter slowly. His fingers touched the hilt of the katana. And then something he hadn't expected happened. It wasn't a memory, not a vision, but a wealth of knowledge. As if a seed had been planted in his soul, and now it was suddenly sprouting. He immediately knew how to wield it, how to move his feet, how to breathe in the midst of combat. He instinctively knew the shape of a stance, the rhythm of a cut, even advanced, incomplete techniques created by Hoshinobu in his brief time with him. Techniques that would take time, perhaps years, to fully master, but the essentials were already there. It was as if the crudely forged steel had recognized his blood.

  Joel slowly raised the katana. The weight was perfect, neither light nor heavy, as if it had been made for him, even if its shape was graceless. He felt something in his chest, a mixture of respect, vertigo, and strange gratitude, for he was no longer alone. He didn't know what would become of him, or why this fate had befallen him. But now he had a sword, and within him, the echoes of someone who had also fought for something greater than himself.

  He put the katana back in its sheath. He sat down by the desk, the rolled letter in his hands. However, as silence once again fell over the room, his mind returned to an image that did not belong to his own memories: the figure of himself—or rather, the samurai within his skin—under the harsh light of the High Circle. He vaguely recalled the hallway rumors about a recruit who had dared to appear before Deyar with a primitive sword, challenging the most veteran magi. He couldn't recall it completely, but the scene loomed like a half-dream.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  "Why did he do it? What did he want to prove?" he thought.

  He paused to analyze the gesture: breaking through to the hierarchy, exhibiting a path of magic and steel that no one took seriously. It was an act of reverence and defiance. A lesson, perhaps, meant for himself. Hoshinobu hadn't just wanted to leave him a sword and a letter; He had needed the sword to be seen, its potential to be inevitable even to unbelievers.

  Perhaps that apparent insolence had been an offering: a way to pave the way so that Joel would never have to justify why he would wield an archaic weapon in a world of spells. A reminder to everyone—and to himself—that courage isn't always measured in spheres of power or bolts of electricity, but in the solidity of a firmly tempered will. Understanding this, Joel felt the katana weigh an ounce less in his lap. It wasn't just a legacy; it was an open door, cut with the blade of a strange ally.

  A soft knock brought him out of his thoughts, as a knock came. Joel stood quickly, still holding the letter. He approached cautiously and opened it. Deyar was standing there, serious as ever, but with an expression that was difficult to decipher.

  "May I come in?" he asked in a neutral tone.

  Joel nodded silently. Nervousness crept into his chest. It was as if the air had become heavier. There was something solemn about Deyar's presence, as if he had come not only to speak... but to judge.

  Deyar walked to a nearby chair and sat down. His gaze never left Joel.

  "Many were surprised by your demonstration yesterday. Including me," he said, his voice calm but firm.

  Joel remained standing. His hands were clasped behind his back. He looked like a statue.

  “The path you’ve begun to take,” Deyar continued, “is not a common one. It’s a path rarely trodden by young people. The path of discovery, of forging one’s own path, is usually followed by accomplished magicians, scholars, or natural geniuses.”

  Deyar paused, as if weighing each word.

  “And you, Joel… it seems you are one of those geniuses. Strange, yes. Eccentric, more than many tolerate. But a genius, nonetheless.”

  Joel narrowed his eyes. His voice came out low, almost like a steely rasp:

  “I’m not interested in being a genius. Only… in making sense of who I am.”

  Deyar smiled slightly. "That's precisely what's needed. To find your own meaning and your own magic. You've already amazed the High Circle, now make it count. Train hard, because if you manage to reach the level of a three or four mage in the next two years, you'll be able to leave this base and go to the empires. Help, learn, and join the active groups of the Cult of the Dawn."

  Joel looked at him for a long time. His eyes were like the edge of a drawn sword.

  "I will," he said. And this time, it wasn't someone else's, but his own voice.

  That same afternoon, Joel met Liria in one of the hallways near the central garden. They both stopped without saying a word, as if they knew the meeting was inevitable.

  "Does it seem like we're not dead yet?" Liria said, raising an eyebrow, her tone sarcastic and neutral.

  "Only partly," Joel replied. "Breathing doesn't guarantee you're alive."

  "I still don't understand how anyone could respond more depressingly than I did."

  Joel shrugged. "Natural talent."

  Liria stared at him in silence for a few seconds longer than usual.

  "Kael will take me away," she said suddenly. "Somewhere special and ancient, I think. He says it's necessary... to awaken what I carry within me."

  Joel tilted his head, unblinking. "How long?"

  "Maybe years."

  The word hung between them like a muffled bell.

  "I don't like it," Joel said, as if it were simply a weather observation.

  "Me neither. But it is what it is."

  There was another silence. This time, thicker.

  "I'm going to miss you, Joel," she said finally, looking at him with cold honesty. "Although we're a mess together."

  "We're not a mess," he corrected himself. "We're a well-contained catastrophe."

  They stood like that, face to face. Both tense and emotionally awkward. Joel, as if driven from deep within, stepped forward and kissed her. It was a dry, simple, and almost brusque gesture. Not for lack of feeling, but for the impossibility of expressing it.

  When they separated, Liria looked at him with a mixture of annoyance and tenderness. "That was horrendous."

  "I know. That's why it fit so well."

  Liria took a deep breath, not knowing whether to laugh or push him away. "Don't die while I'm gone."

  "Only if you promise not to come back transformed into something unbearably brilliant."

  "A difficult promise."

  "The best ones are."

  They looked at each other once more, without speaking. Then they simply went their separate ways. But something invisible, firm and absurd, kept them together. At least for now.