In the days that followed, Riven devoted himself to survival.
Born into a farming family, he already understood how to live off the land.
Slowly, he began building a life within the forest.
He cleared a small patch of soil outside the cave and planted crops like the ones his family once grew.
When food was scarce, he hunted the animals that roamed the woods.
Each hunt became more than survival.
It became training.
Day after day, Riven grew stronger.
One evening, he sat quietly outside the cave, staring down at his hands.
They were small.
Thin.
Weak.
Even after everything he had witnessed—the destruction of his home, the helplessness he had felt, the overwhelming power of the warriors who had destroyed everything—he remained the same fragile child.
The memory of that power still burned in his mind like a scar that refused to fade.
If he stayed like this…
He would always be at the mercy of others.
Riven slowly curled his fingers into fists.
A quiet determination began to form in his heart.
“…Raku,” he finally whispered.
The spirit’s voice answered immediately within his mind, calm and ever-present.
“Yes, sire?”
Riven swallowed.
The words felt heavy, as if speaking them would change the course of his life forever.
“…Can you train me?”
There was silence.
Not the comfortable silence Riven had grown used to — but a heavy pause filled with hesitation.
When Raku finally spoke, his tone carried a firmness Riven had never heard before.
“No, sire. You do not need to fight. You have me.”
The answer struck harder than Riven expected.
His shoulders sank.
His gaze dropped to the ground, and for a moment the fire in his chest flickered.
Raku was strong — unimaginably so.
With him, Riven would always be protected.
But that thought only deepened the hollow feeling inside him.
Protected.
Dependent.
Powerless.
His hands trembled slightly.
“…That’s not enough.”
Raku did not respond.
Riven’s voice grew quieter, but the weight behind it only increased.
“What if you’re not around?” he asked.
“What if something happens when I’m alone?”
The images came rushing back — fear, chaos, helplessness, the crushing realization of his own weakness.
“If I can’t even protect myself when you’re not there…” His voice tightened.
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
The question was not born from pride.
It was born from fear.
From a deep, unspoken terror of ever feeling that powerless again.
Within Riven’s consciousness, Raku fell into troubled silence.
He had sworn to protect the boy.
That alone should have been enough.
Yet he could not deny the truth within Riven’s words.
Power borrowed was not the same as power earned.
Protection that relied solely on another could be lost in an instant.
Raku had seen kingdoms fall for less.
He also understood the cost of strength.
Training meant pain.
Training meant danger.
Training meant exposing a child to the harsh truths of the world.
And Raku had already failed once to protect what mattered to him.
Could he risk shaping another life into a weapon?
Yet Riven’s resolve did not waver.
Even with his head lowered, the boy’s fists remained clenched — not in defiance, but in desperate determination.
The spirit sighed softly.
“…You speak truth, sire.”
Riven’s eyes widened slightly.
After a long pause, Raku spoke again, his voice heavy with reluctant acceptance.
“Very well. If you seek strength, I shall teach you.”
The words had barely finished echoing before Riven looked up.
The despair that once clouded his face vanished instantly, replaced by pure excitement.
His eyes shone with a fierce light, hope and determination blazing together.
“Really?!”
He jumped to his feet, energy surging through his body.
He felt a path opening before him — a way to change, a way to never be helpless again.
“I’ll do anything,” he said quickly.
“No matter how hard it is.”
Raku watched the boy’s eagerness in silence.
Beneath the excitement, he sensed something deeper — a quiet desperation, a hunger born not from ambition, but from unresolved pain.
The spirit’s voice softened.
“Then prepare yourself, sire.”
A faint heaviness lingered in his tone.
“The path to strength is not gentle… and once you begin, you cannot return to who you were.”
Riven did not hesitate.
“I understand.”
But he did not.
And Raku knew it.
The years that followed were merciless.
Each morning began before sunrise.
He ran through the forest until his lungs burned and his legs failed beneath him.
He lifted stones heavier than his own body, strengthening muscles that had once belonged to a frightened child.
He swung a wooden sword thousands of times a day until his hands bled and his arms trembled.
Raku never allowed him to rest without purpose.
When his body collapsed, his soul continued training.
Riven learned to feel the presence within himself — the strange energy that answered his will.
At first it was only a faint warmth in his chest.
Over time it grew stronger, flowing through his limbs like liquid light.
Under Raku’s guidance, he learned to shape it, control it, and eventually project it beyond his body.
Failures were constant.
His Vyr would lash out wildly, tearing apart trees or draining him to the point of unconsciousness.
Many nights he collapsed in the dirt, unable to move, his vision fading as Raku stood watch over him.
Yet each failure only hardened his resolve.
One night after Riven was resting from training during the day he lay still on the ground.
“Raku..?”
“Yes sire?”
“Why do you call me sire? And why did you save me that night? You didn’t have to yet you did.”
The spirit stood silently for a long moment before answering.
“I once swore to protect a king.”
His voice carried a weight unlike before.
“I failed.”
The forest grew quiet.
“The war consumed everything. I survived… but my king did not. My soul could not find rest. I wander seeking one worthy to serve, so that my failure may one day be forgiven.”
Riven stared at him.
“You protect me because of that?”
Raku knelt.
“I will not fail again.”
Something about those words stirred a strange feeling in Riven’s chest — a quiet understanding neither of them spoke aloud.
Both had lost everything.
Both refused to be powerless again.
Seasons passed.
Winter froze the forest, forcing Riven to endure brutal cold while training.
Summer scorched the earth beneath his feet.
Storms battered his small shelter.
He adapted to all of it.
Using knowledge from his farming family, he cultivated a small patch of land near the cave, growing what little food he could.
When crops failed, he hunted.
When he failed to hunt, he starved.
Survival became instinct.
As his body grew stronger, so did the bond between him and Raku.
The spirit taught him swordsmanship — discipline, precision, and control.
Their sparring grew increasingly violent.
Wooden blades shattered.
The earth cracked beneath their clashes.
The forest itself bore the scars of their battles.
Through constant combat, Riven learned to fight without hesitation.
To strike without fear.
To endure pain without complaint.
But as his strength increased, something else changed.
The cheerful child who once laughed freely grew quieter each year.
Words became unnecessary.
Emotion faded behind calm, distant eyes.
The forest became his only companion.
Scars covered his body — marks from training, battle, and survival.
A long scar stretched across his face, a permanent reminder of his harsh path.
Riven Silverleaf, once a boy who brought joy with a simple smile, slowly became something else.
Something colder.
Something unbreakable.
By the age of eighteen, he stood over six feet tall, his body forged through relentless hardship.
His soul had grown vast, his power still developing, its limits unknown even to him.
Riven had become the complete opposite of the child he once was.
The boy who once laughed freely now lived only for strength.
Joy had been replaced by discipline.
Warmth by relentless purpose.
Another morning began like all the others.
Light spilled through the trees as birds called from the forest canopy, their songs unheard by the boy in the clearing.
Before the cave, Riven stood facing Raku, wooden sword in hand.
Riven tightened his grip around a worn wooden sword.
Across from him, Raku’s glowing form flickered softly, his own blade humming with faint blue light.
Neither moved.
Then—
Riven stepped forward first.
Their swords met with a sharp crack of wood against energy.
The force sent vibrations up Riven’s arms, but he did not falter.
He pivoted and struck again, faster, aiming for Raku’s side.
Raku parried smoothly, his movements precise and effortless.
He countered with a downward slash.
Riven barely raised his weapon in time.
The impact forced him back several steps, his boots carving lines into the dirt.
He steadied himself and rushed forward again.
Strike.
Block.
Counter.
The clearing filled with the relentless rhythm of clashing blades.
Riven attacked aggressively, chaining strikes together in fluid combinations — high, low, thrust, sweep.
Raku responded to each motion with calm precision, redirecting the blows rather than meeting them head-on.
Riven feinted toward Raku’s shoulder before spinning into a sweeping strike aimed at his legs.
Raku’s form lifted slightly above the ground, the attack passing harmlessly beneath him.
He retaliated with a swift thrust that stopped inches from Riven’s throat.
Riven twisted away at the last second, the wooden blade grazing his neck.
He leapt back, breathing harder.
Again.
Riven charged, pushing his body faster than before.
His strikes grew heavier, stronger, and more desperate.
The wooden sword whistled through the air as he swung with everything he had.
Raku blocked each blow, but the force behind Riven’s attacks began to grow.
A faint blue mist started to leak from Riven’s skin.
At first it was barely visible — thin strands of light drifting from his arms like smoke.
But with every movement, the energy thickened.
Raku’s eyes narrowed.
Riven didn’t notice.
He stepped in with a powerful overhead strike.
As the blade descended, the blue energy surged, flowing down his arm and coating the wooden weapon like liquid flame.
The air trembled.
The sword glowed.
Riven felt a sudden rush of strength flood his body.
He swung.
Raku raised his blade to block — but the moment their weapons collided, a shockwave burst outward, scattering leaves and dust across the clearing.
Light exploded between them.
Riven pressed forward, shouting as he forced his weight into the strike.
The blue energy wrapped around his arms, reinforcing his movements, amplifying every ounce of strength.
Raku slid backward across the ground, his feet carving deep grooves in the earth as he struggled to hold the blow.
Their weapons ground against each other.
To his surprise, Raku was being pushed back.
Riven roared and drove forward with one final surge.
A blinding flash erupted.
When the light faded, silence returned to the clearing.
Raku’s sword lay broken on the ground.
The spirit knelt on one knee, head lowered.
Riven stood above him, chest rising and falling rapidly, sweat dripping from his face.
The blue energy slowly faded from his wooden blade.
“Truly remarkable, sire,” Raku said quietly.
“You have surpassed me.”
Riven stared at his weapon, stunned.
“…I guess I did.” He turned his hand, watching the last traces of blue energy drift from his skin.
“That power… that was my soul, wasn’t it?”
Raku rose slowly and retrieved his fallen weapon, brushing the dirt from its surface before resting the blade against his shoulder.
His glowing form pulsed faintly, as if reacting to what had just occurred.
“Yes,” he said calmly.
“You projected your soul beyond your body. What you just displayed is proof that you have advanced… to the Neshama stage.”
Riven lowered his wooden sword.
His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths as sweat dripped from his chin.
He looked down at his scarred, battle-worn hands, slowly clenching and unclenching his fingers as if expecting something to change.
“Neshama…” he murmured.
The word felt heavy.
Important.
But empty without meaning.
He lifted his gaze toward Raku.
“What exactly is Neshama?” he asked quietly.
“Where does my strength stand in this world?”
For a moment, Raku did not answer.
The spirit looked toward the forest canopy above them, as if recalling knowledge buried deep within his fractured memories.
Then he spoke.
“There are five stages… known as the Soul Ascension,” Raku said, his voice echoing faintly within the clearing.
“They mark the evolution of one’s soul — the path from awakening… to transcendence.”
He raised one glowing finger.
“The first stage — Nefesh is the beginning. It is the moment one first awakens to their soul. Power exists, but it is wild… unstable… like a newborn flame struggling against the wind. Those at this stage can sense their soul, but cannot fully control it.”
Riven remembered the night he met Raku — the fear, the desperation, the uncontrollable power.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“The second stage — Ruach. The stage of control. At Ruach, one no longer begs their soul to answer. They command it. Power flows at will. The body grows stronger, manifestations stabilize, and the soul becomes a weapon that obeys its master.”
Riven nodded slightly.
That sounded like the power he had trained for years to achieve.
Raku’s voice grew quieter — more reverent.
“The third stage — Neshama. The stage you now stand within. The soul and body exist in harmony. No longer separate… no longer in conflict. One may draw power directly from the inner soul itself, projecting it outward and shaping it as an extension of one’s being.”
Raku looked directly at Riven.
“What you produced just now — that liquid energy coating your blade — was your soul made manifest.”
“The soul does not obey you anymore.”
“It moves with you.”
Riven stared at his hands again.
The idea sent a strange warmth through his chest.
Raku continued.
“The fourth stage is Chaya.”
Here, his voice carried a weight Riven had never heard before.
“At Chaya… the distinction between soul and self disappears entirely. The inner soul and outer soul merge as one. The user’s very existence becomes spiritual power. Their soul capacity grows immensely, and they gain what is known as a Soul Aura — a living presence that can heal, protect, and even slow the decay of the body. Their mere presence can overwhelm weaker beings.”
Riven swallowed slightly.
That sounded monstrous.
Raku then lowered his head.
“The final stage — Yechida.”
His voice softened almost to a whisper.
“A realm few have ever reached. At Yechida, one transcends mortality itself. The soul no longer exists within the world…the world begins to yield to the soul. Such beings may impose their will upon reality, shaping existence itself — though even this power has limits.”
He paused.
“All Vyr users dream of reaching this stage. Most never will.”
Silence settled between them.
Wind moved through the trees.
Leaves rustled softly.
Riven stood motionless, absorbing every word.
“So…” he said slowly, “I am only at the third stage.”
Raku nodded.
“Yes.”
There was no judgment in his voice — only certainty.
Riven clenched his fist.A faint trace of blue energy flickered across his skin before fading.
“Then I still have far to go.”
Raku watched him carefully.
“You have advanced faster than most mortals ever could, sire. But power is not measured only by stages.”
Riven turned toward the distant outline of Sabercrest.
His voice was quiet, but firm.
“I need more strength.”
4 years of pain, struggle, and isolation had not been in vain.
He lifted his gaze.
“I need a real sword.” Beyond the forest stood the city that had once rejected him.
Sabercrest.
The next morning, Riven returned to Sabercrest.
He carried a bundle of food grown from the small farm beside his cave — a simple offering for trade.
As he passed through the city gates, conversations faltered.
Eyes followed him wherever he walked.
The scars covering his body told stories no one dared to ask about.
Riven ignored the stares.
Their whispers meant nothing.
He moved through the streets in silence until he found a blacksmith’s shop, the steady ringing of hammer against steel echoing from within.
A real sword will make me stronger, he thought.
He stepped inside.
The blacksmith looked up from his work, wiping soot from his hands.
His eyes widened slightly at the sight of the towering young man before him.
“Well now,” the man said with a rough chuckle.
“A young traveler looking to trade. What can I do for you?”
Riven approached the counter and placed his fruits and vegetables down carefully.
“A sword,” he said quietly.
The blacksmith studied him for a long moment, his expression softening into concern.
He shook his head.
“Always hate seeing someone so young walk this path…” he muttered.
Then he sighed.
“Fine. I’ll forge one suited to you. It’ll take a week. Until then, I’ll lend you a blade. Deal?”
Riven gave a small nod.
He turned toward the display wall, scanning the weapons in silence.
A familiar voice echoed within his mind.
Choose the longer blade, Raku said calmly.
The one with the angled tip.
Riven reached out without hesitation and lifted the weapon from the rack.
“This one.”
The blacksmith nodded knowingly.
“Ah — a chokuto style. Straight blade, slight curve at the tip. Good choice. Now I know exactly what to make for you.”
“Good,” Riven replied.
The blacksmith watched him for a moment before sighing again.
“You’re a man of few words. Come back in a week. Your sword will be ready.”
Riven turned to leave.
“Wait,” the blacksmith called.
He tossed a sheath across the room.
Riven caught it effortlessly and fastened it at his side without a word.
Then he walked out.
Riven once again walked the streets of Sabercrest.
To his surprise, he felt it — a presence trailing behind him.
Footsteps that stopped when he stopped.
Eyes that lingered too long.
Raku’s voice echoed in his mind.
“Sire… you are being followed. Shall I deal with them?”
Riven’s answer was immediate.
“No.”
He continued walking without turning around, his pace calm and steady.
After a few turns, he slipped into a narrow alleyway that ended in a dead end.
Damp stone walls rose on both sides, trapping the morning light in long shadows.
Silence.
Then footsteps.
Four men rounded the corner.
Each carried a weapon unlike anything Riven had seen before — their blades and bows shimmered with a strange energy, like living extensions of their bodies.
Riven’s eyes narrowed.
“What is that?”
Raku answered calmly.
“Two of them are soul archers — fast and precise. The other two are bladebearers. Common, but dangerous.”
Riven hummed softly.
“Hmm.”
The men approached slowly, spreading out to block the exit.
One of them pointed at the blade hanging from Riven’s side and burst out laughing.
“Look at this guy’s cheap metal sword! You think that thing can beat a soul weapon?”
The others joined in, their laughter echoing through the alley.
Riven did not react.
He simply stared at them.
“Fight.”
The laughter stopped.
The men exchanged confused looks.
“This idiot has a death wish,” one of them scoffed.
“Listen, kid. Hand over anything valuable and we might let you walk away.” Riven’s expression remained empty.
“Fight.”
A flicker of irritation crossed the leader’s face.
“…Fine. If that’s what you want.”
The men raised their weapons.
Energy pulsed from their soul armaments, illuminating the alley in shifting light.
“You just chose your grave.” Riven slowly reached for his sword.
The air grew heavy.
The alley fell silent.
The four men spread out, surrounding him — two stepping back as glowing spirit bows formed in their hands, while the other two advanced with shimmering soul blades.
Energy pulsed from their weapons like living fire.
Riven slowly drew his sword.
The metal rang softly as it left the sheath.
No stance.
No fear.
Just stillness.
One of the bladebearers lunged first.
His blade cut through the air with unnatural speed, glowing as it descended toward Riven’s neck.
CLANG.
Riven blocked with one hand on his sword, barely shifting his feet.
The force cracked the ground beneath him, but his expression did not change.
The attacker’s eyes widened.
Riven stepped forward.
A simple upward slash forced the man backward, the raw strength behind the strike sending him sliding across the stone.
“Shoot him!” one of the swordsmen yelled.
Two glowing arrows fired at once.
They screamed through the air.
Riven turned slightly — one arrow grazing his cheek, the other deflected with a precise flick of his blade.
The impact sent sparks of blue energy scattering like liquid light.
He glanced at the blood on his finger.
Calm.
Then he moved.
In a single burst of speed, Riven closed the distance with one of the sword users.
The man swung wildly, but Riven slipped past the attack and struck his ribs with the blunt side of his blade.
A sickening crack.
The man collapsed instantly.
The second swordsman charged in rage, his soul weapon flaring brighter.
Their blades collided repeatedly.
Clash.
Clash.
Clash.
The enemy’s strikes were fast — enhanced by his Vyr — yet Riven matched every movement with effortless precision.
Inside Riven, something stirred.
A bright blue, liquid-like energy began flowing from his body, wrapping around his arm and coating his blade.
The air grew heavy.
“What… what is that?” one archer whispered.
Raku’s voice echoed in Riven’s mind.
“Your soul, Sire. Let it flow.”
The blue energy surged.
Riven swung once.
A wave of force exploded from the strike, shattering the enemy’s soul blade and sending him crashing into the wall.
Silence followed.
The archers panicked.
They fired rapidly — arrows raining toward him like light itself.
Riven stepped forward through the storm.
He deflected one.
Dodged another.
One struck his shoulder — but the blue energy hardened around his body like armor, stopping it from piercing deep.
His eyes remained empty.
He vanished.
Before the archers could react, Riven appeared in front of them.
Two swift strikes.
The first severed a bow of Vyr.
The second knocked the air from the other man’s lungs.
Both collapsed.
The alley returned to silence.
Blue energy slowly faded back into Riven’s body.
The wounded men groaned on the ground, unable to stand.
Riven sheathed his sword.
No pride.
No anger.
Only quiet.
“They were weak.”
Raku answered softly.
“No, Sire. You have simply become strong.”
Riven stepped out of the alley and back into the noise of the public market.
Voices overlapped.
Merchants shouted prices.
Children ran between stalls.
The scent of cooked meat and baked bread hung in the air.
The normalcy of it all felt foreign.
Inside his mind, Raku spoke.
“Sire… you should acquire a soul cultivation text. Your capacity is already vast, but without refinement, it will remain crude. With proper technique, your growth could accelerate.”
Riven scanned the market.
Soul weapons.
Charms.
Herbs.
Cheap trinkets glowing faintly with spiritual residue.
Most of it felt shallow.
He walked slowly between the stalls until he noticed a thin, dust-covered book sitting off to the side of a wooden table.
It wasn’t displayed proudly like the others — it looked forgotten.
He stopped; the title looked faded.
“Spirit Fracturing Technique.”
“What do you sense?” Riven asked quietly.
Raku paused.
“…The name sounds familiar.”
Riven picked it up.
The vendor, an older man with tired eyes, looked up from peeling vegetables.
“That thing?” he said with a scoff.
“I’ve had it for years. No one wants it. Says it’s outdated nonsense.” His eyes shifted over Riven’s scarred frame.
“You don’t look like someone who needs beginner scrap.” Riven didn’t react to the comment.
“How much?”
The man scratched his beard.
“Tell you what… My family’s been wanting potato soup. Bring me five good potatoes, and it’s yours.” He leaned back in his chair.
“Truth is, I’d rather it feed my kids than collect dust.”
Riven studied the book again.
Cheap.
Discarded.
Ignored.
Just like him.
“I’ll return,” he said simply.
The vendor smirked.
“Didn’t think the strong type read books.” Riven turned away without responding.
Inside, Raku’s voice was quieter this time.
“Sire… sometimes the most overlooked foundations create the strongest structures.”
Riven tightened his grip on the book before placing it back down carefully.
If others called it garbage… that only meant they had failed to understand it.