The trees were thrown in the fading sun of late afternoon when Su Vaen was by himself in his well-known practice field—a secluded glade where old trees formed a natural coliseum of light and darkness.
Today was not like any day. There was a determined glint in his invisible eyes as he was going to use the move he had rehearsed in his mind: the first stroke of his indigenous sword form.
He unsheathed his weathered, scarred sword with slow refinement.
This blade, a loyal friend to his lonely nights of solitary training, cast its chill light from a liquid silver, eager to devour the richest Tenebris Energy coursing through his veins.
Fixing himself in dew-moist soil, Su Vaen ground.
He drew the energy in to recharge first before taking deep, slow breaths, allowing the charged material to set with his power-up Luminous Heart and accumulate in his Umbral Repository.
Today's practice was to concentrate that energy into one dense, controlled blow—a blow he wanted to name "Slash of Nightfall: First Slash."
The title reminded him of the inexorable, unforeseen shadow that could fall upon an opponent, like the night.
As his sword cut in a curved sweep, his inner vision guided black, strands of Tenebris Energy.
And the practice was not merely a movement of the body, but a poetic union of mind and body.
With every calculated step, the strength of his body balanced.
He spun back and forth repeatedly, each spin smoother and more resolute than the previous one.
The air itself responded—a gentle quiver along the edge of leaves, a gentle hum between the branches, as if the forest felt something new emerging. Slash of Nightfall was not a mad, crazy spin; it was a sharp, beautiful strike—a demonstration of power offered with elegance.
Weeks passed and he continued practicing the stroke, making sure to keep the explosiveness in its proper balance with the softness.
His inner being put it all in sets of lists: the way the Tenebris Energy flowed through him with the searing indigo glow, how the musculature spoke to his soul in order to hurl the energy outward, and the light whisper of a promise—a rumor, in fact, from his inner realms.
With these a new sword technique was born.
Slash of Nightfall : Phantom Fang Slash
He initiates his assault with a swift, piercing slash. His sword momentarily extends a shadowy, fang-like projection—a blade of dark Tenebris Energy that slices through the air with lethal precision.
This move is designed to disrupt the enemy's guard and force them into reaction, setting the stage for the following moves.
This is the beginning of his sword play.
As he settled into his new rhythm, a disturbance at the edge of the glade interrupted him.
Cruch-cruch on forest earth.
A man appeared at the edge of the practice glade, dressed in simple but sensible clothes—a servant from his uncle's residence in Misty Grove town.
His face was solemn, his eyes nervously darting about as he hurried towards him.
"Young master", the man screamed out, his deep voice low and underscored by rush. "I have very bad news."
Su Vaen froze, sword still raised at his hip, power thudding dully down the length of steel. "Say it," he said, his own voice even and smooth, but with a strand of tension woven through his posture.
The servant went to one knee, weighed down by the sorrow he bore.
"I bring you this news from the town of Misty Grove," he announced. "One of your mother's most devoted liege men—a man of impeccable character who served the clan for ten years—is suffering. His precious children… they vanished. We discovered afterwards their dead bodies on the River of Sorrows.".
A silence of gravity fell on the clearing upon hearing the news. Su Vaen's inner vision was shrouded for a moment—a mixture of shock and grief filling his mind.
The River of Sorrows, about which only in hushed terror was it whispered among the commoners, was said to be followed by tales of loss and heartbreak.
The servant continued, shaking.
"He is devastated, Guardian. You must go see him if you can. He needs your wisdom. your fortitude. The shame of our clan has intensified the pain and the pain is a reminder of our clan's cost."
Su Vaen's mind seethed in silence. But the beautiful arc of his Slash of Nightfall, refined by years of single-hand training, seemed so opposite to the bleak image of Su Clan's corruption.
He had worked so long, perfecting his art, finding strength in solitary reflection, getting it just so—only to find that the very members of his own family he had been born to, the very ones who had decided his destiny, were succumbing to greed and violence.
The news sliced like ice. It was not the first time that the greed of power of the clan had brought ruin, but to hear it so close to him, so near—shocked something within him, a pain long hidden deep within him.
The lesser had been his beloved mother's friend, a memory of the friendship once shared between members of the clan.
Now this heat was a distant memory amidst the cold greed of their leaders.
Drawing a deep breath, Su Vaen withdrew his sword into its scabbard. His blind eyes seethed with a smoldering blend of grief and determination.
"I will go," he whispered, his voice barely louder than the leaves in the wind. "I must try to provide what comfort I can, no matter that it is but a poor solace against such great loss."
The servant bowed his head. "Thank you, Young Master. Your light will be the only one to stay in this darkness.".
When Su Vaen was prepared to be away from the clearing and journey towards Misty Grove, the echoes of his training—of the Slash of nightfall—still lingered in his mind.
That one, beautiful movement held within it both potential and strength, and the tragic course of his existence.
It reminded him of how even the most beautiful, calculated strike existed alongside pain and tragedy.
The forest was silent witness to his leaving, each step weighed down by his past, his constant training, and the foreboding duties before him.
Harmony between light and darkness was a fragile peace, and for Su Vaen, each step forward was bringing him into the lands of uncertainties where measurement of his own power and price of loyalty to a suppressive clan would be weighed in a few heartbeats.