THE RISE OF SWORD MAN

the sky above the mountain village of Oakhaven did not weep on the night Dominic was born; it bled.A violent, crimson aurora tore through the clouds, casting an eerie, ruby glow over the snow-covered peaks. In the valley below, the wind howled like a dying beast, rattling the wooden shutters of a humble stone cottage. Inside, the atmosphere was thick with tension, sweat, and the sharp scent of iron.Garrick, a man whose hands were heavily calloused from years of gripping a blacksmith’s hammer, paced the floor. His broad shoulders were tense, and his eyes kept darting toward the heavy oak door of the bedroom. For hours, the muffled cries of his wife, Elena, had pierced the night. Every scream tore at Garrick’s heart more than any battlefield wound ever had.He was no ordinary blacksmith. Decades ago, Garrick was known across the realm of Eldoria as the Iron Vanguard, a master swordsman who had survived the bloody Scourge of the Ashen Plains. He had traded his legendary blade for a forge, seeking peace in this remote sanctuary. But tonight, peace felt a world away.A sudden, deafening crash of thunder shook the cottage. At that exact moment, a sharp, piercing cry broke through the storm—not of terror, but of defiance. The bedroom door creaked open. The village midwife, an elderly woman named Martha, stepped out. Her face was pale, her hands trembling, but a look of profound awe shone in her eyes."Garrick," Martha whispered, her voice shaking. "Come. Look at your son."Garrick rushed past her into the dimly lit room. Elena lay beneath the furs, her pale face slick with sweat, but a radiant smile graced her lips. In her arms rested a newborn infant, wrapped in a coarse linen cloth.As Garrick knelt by the bedside, taking his wife’s hand, he looked down at the boy. The child had stopped crying. Instead, his wide, unblinking eyes fixed directly onto his father. Garrick gasped. The boy’s eyes were not the standard blue or brown of newborns. They were a piercing, molten silver—the color of a freshly forged blade reflecting the moonlight."He is beautiful," Elena whispered, her voice a fragile thread. "His name is Dominic.""Dominic," Garrick repeated, the name heavy with meaning.But it was not just the silver eyes that caught the old warrior's attention. As Martha gently unwrapped the cloth to clean the babe, Garrick noticed a strange, dark mark etched into the skin of the boy’s right forearm. It was a birthmark, perfectly shaped like a broadsword, its tip pointing directly toward the child’s hand.Garrick’s blood ran cold. The Crimson Aurora. The silver eyes. The sword mark. The ancient prophecies spoke of a child born under a bleeding sky, marked by the gods to wield the ultimate steel. A child destined to either save Eldoria from the rising darkness or shatter the world entirely."The prophecy..." Garrick muttered, his voice barely audible."We will protect him, Garrick," Elena said, reading the sudden dread on her husband's face. "No matter what the world says he is, he is our son first."Garrick nodded, forcing a reassuring smile, though a heavy weight settled deep within his chest. He gently traced the sword-shaped mark on his son's arm. As his finger touched the skin, a faint, metallic hum resonated through the room. On the wall across the cottage, Garrick’s old longsword—wrapped in cloth and locked away in a heavy iron chest—rattled violently against its restraints, as if acknowledging its new master.Seven years passed in a blur of sparks, glowing embers, and the steady rhythmic rhythm of the forge. Dominic grew rapidly, proving to be an unusual child. While the other village children played games of tag and hide-and-seek, Dominic would sit for hours on a wooden crate in his father’s smithy, completely mesmerized by the fire.He did not care for toys. His toys were the discarded scraps of iron and the broken hilts of old tools. By the age of five, he could lift a standard blacksmith's hammer that grown apprentices struggled to hold. His silver eyes possessed an unnatural focus, watching every strike his father made on the anvil, memorizing the temperature of the steel by its color alone."The forge teaches patience, Dominic," Garrick would tell him, wiping the sweat from his brow. "A sword is not made in a single strike. It must be heated, beaten, folded, and plunged into ice. Only through hardship does iron become steel.""And what about men, Father?" Dominic asked one afternoon, his voice remarkably steady for a seven-year-old. "Do men become steel through hardship too?"Garrick paused, his hammer hovering in mid-air. He looked at his son, seeing the raw intensity in those silver eyes. "Yes, Dominic. But a man of steel must also possess a heart of gold. Without a soul, a sword is just a tool for murder. A true swordsman does not draw his blade to take life, but to protect it."Dominic looked down at his right arm, where the sword-shaped birthmark had grown darker and more defined over the years. "I want to learn to protect, Father. Teach me the sword."Garrick sighed heavily. He had hoped this day would never come, or at least, not so soon. He had fled the capital to keep Dominic away from the wars of kings and the hunger of warlords. But looking at the boy, Garrick knew he could not fight destiny. If the world came for Dominic, the boy would need to know how to cut it down."Tomorrow," Garrick agreed quietly. "We begin."The next morning, before the sun had even cleared the mountain ridges, Garrick led Dominic deep into the Whispering Woods behind their home. The air was crisp, and dew clung to the long grass. In Garrick’s hands were two simple wooden practice swords, carved from heavy hickory.He tossed one to Dominic. The boy caught it out of the air by the hilt. The moment Dominic’s fingers wrapped around the wood, a strange sensation washed over him. The birthmark on his arm flared with a sudden, localized heat. The heavy hickory didn't feel like a dead piece of wood; it felt like an extension of his own body. It felt right."The first lesson is stance," Garrick commanded, drawing his own wooden weapon. "Keep your feet shoulder-width apart. Balance your weight in your hips. If your base is weak, a gust of wind will disarm you."Garrick spent the next three hours correcting Dominic’s posture. He expected the boy to tire, to complain, or to drop the heavy wooden sword as other children would. But Dominic stood firm. Even when his muscles trembled from fatigue, his grip never loosened. His silver eyes tracked every movement Garrick made, absorbing the instructions like a sponge.By evening, Dominic’s hands were blistered, and his legs felt like lead. As they walked back to the cottage, the sun setting in a brilliant orange hue, Dominic looked up at his father."Did I do well?" he asked.Garrick placed a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder. "You possess a natural balance that takes men decades to find, Dominic. But remember, talent is nothing without discipline. The path of a swordsman is lonely, painful, and never-ending."Dominic gripped his wooden sword tighter. "I am not afraid of the pain."As the night fell over Oakhaven, the young boy lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. He held his blisters up to the moonlight, feeling the dull throb in his palms. He didn't feel pain; he felt a strange, electric thrill running through his veins. Deep in his soul, Dominic knew he was born for this.The birth of the swordsman had begun.