The old shrine lay half-buried in weeds beyond the eastern hill, where the trees grew thick and silent.
Kaen stood barefoot on the cold stone floor, Ironfang—the wooden training sword—clutched tightly. It was all he had for now. In this life, his true blade—Ashveil—was still scattered in pieces, waiting to be forged again.
He closed his eyes.
Breathed in.
And moved.
The Crimson Wind Stance—he remembered it well. A forward-leaning guard, dominant leg back, blade tucked beside his ribs. Then came the Six Arcs of Severance—each slash a memory, each movement a scar.
But his body was too young. His arms quivered. His back hurt. Halfway through the second form, his legs gave out and he fell to his knees, panting.
In the last life, it took him a decade to master the forms. He didn't have that long anymore.
He heard rustling behind him.
A figure watched from the trees—a child about his age, eyes wide with curiosity. It was Tarn, the baker's son.
"That's not from Master Ferin's style," Tarn said, stepping closer.
Kaen paused. "No. It's… something older."
"You move weird. Like you're dancing, but angry."
Kaen cracked a smile.
"Promise not to tell anyone?" Kaen asked.
Tarn nodded.
"Then tomorrow, bring me a bag of flour. I'll show you a movement called the Crimson Gust."
Tarn's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Deal!"
Kaen resumed his practice as the sun dipped behind the trees. He was slow now, yes. But knowledge was power, and his mind was centuries ahead of this world.