It had been a month since Ares lost his father.
In that time, he managed to uncover fragments of truth about the mysterious Guild of Assassins. It wasn't easy—he had to pester his grandfather relentlessly, asking again and again despite the grown-ups' hesitations. No one wanted to share such grim stories with an eight-year-old. But Ares was stubborn. His persistence eventually paid off.
"They're an ancient organization," his grandfather finally admitted one evening, voice low and cautious. "No one truly knows their goals, but they tend to stir chaos—toppling kingdoms, seizing cities from within. Actually... there's a bit of a war going on." The old man paused, then forced a smile. "But you've got nothing to worry about, boy! We're far from the frontlines. No one would dare reach this deep into our lands."
He chuckled, but Ares caught the hesitation in his voice. A flicker of doubt.
"War…"
The word echoed in Ares' mind, clinging to his thoughts like a thorn.
Growing up in a quiet village tucked away from the world, he had always believed peace was the only reality. The idea of war felt absurd, like a bedtime story twisted into a nightmare.
But the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Soul Weapons—powerful, unique arms wielded by many—how could such things not lead to conflict?
He tried to dig deeper, to learn more. But the answers stopped at his age. No one would talk. Even the villagers turned away when he asked, their faces softening with sympathy. A simple sight of his face reminded everyone of his father.
Only now did Ares begin to understand the kind of man his father had been. His expeditions hadn't just benefited his family—he had brought his treasures back for the entire village, sharing what he found with everyone.
Some even called him the Village Head, though such a title doesn't officially exist. Whenever he tried to talk to someone, to pry information, he would instead have to listen to stories about how great his father was.
Not long after yet another failed attempt at prying information from the villagers, Ares found himself beyond the edge of the settlement—just behind one of the grassy slopes that dipped away from his village.
Lately, he hadn't been able to train as much.
Since his father's death, his mother had become painfully overprotective. She watched over him constantly, interrupting every attempt at practice. Ares understood—she was grieving, just like he was—but her constant presence left him no room to breathe. No chance to wield Father's Will—the name still stirred a sharp ache in his chest.
But here, away from the eyes of home, he could finally breathe.
His mind could finally focus.
He shifted his thoughts toward the weapon, and almost instantly, blue particles shimmered into existence, spiraling in the air before condensing into a single form—an obsidian katana.
Father's Will.
The familiar weight of it grounded him, but the summoning still took a toll. He felt the drain, a tug on his core, like something being pulled too tightly.
Ares closed his eyes.
He cleared his mind of all distractions—grief, doubt, fear—and focused solely on the flow of mana.
He directed the energy toward his palm, then extended it through his fingers to the katana's hilt. The moment his mana touched the weapon, he felt it—the pull. The katana drew the energy in with purpose, almost like it was alive, hungrily absorbing every drop.
His grandfather once said that enchantments, when done right, feel natural—like breathing.
Only now did Ares begin to understand what he meant.
The mana streamed into the blade, flowing exactly where it needed to go. As it reached the dark steel, runes ignited along the surface, glowing faintly with power.
Ares steadied his breath. His heart pounded in his chest, loud enough that he feared it might break his concentration. Still, he held on, refusing to lose focus.
The final rune began to flicker—just a little more...
And then, without warning, the enchantment fizzled out. The light vanished. The mana scattered.
"Huh… dammit!"
Ares growled in frustration. He had been so close. He felt it—this was supposed to be the one. The moment it all clicked.
He clenched his fists. He couldn't waste time. He needed to master the enchantment—soon.
His eyes closed once more.
He took a deep breath, reaching for the mana within his core—but before he could summon even a thread, a voice cut through the silence.
"You're doing it wrong."
Ares' eyes snapped open. The voice was young, calm, and confident—completely out of place in the solitude he thought he'd found. Sitting casually on the slope just above him was a young man in a dark tunic, watching him with quiet amusement.
Ares blinked, staring for a few moments before recognition hit him like a wave.
"The soldier!" he gasped. His eyes widened.
"W—what are you—"
"You take too long to activate it," the man said, interrupting before Ares could finish.
He spoke plainly, with no room for small talk, and before Ares could ask another question, the stranger continued.
"You let the mana get pulled. That's the mistake. You have to understand where it wants to go—but guide it yourself. You can never stop controlling your mana. Not even for a second."
Ares sat there, stunned. The words echoed in his mind.
"Take it there myself…"
He closed his eyes again.
Drawing mana from his core, he moved it deliberately toward the hilt of the katana. As before, the weapon began to pull—but this time, Ares didn't just let it happen. He pushed, guiding the flow with intent. The weapon's pull and his own will combined, and the mana surged forward like a river breaking free of a dam.
The runes on the obsidian blade lit up all at once, blazing with energy.
He could feel it.
The enchantment—it activated.
Ares opened his eyes slowly, heart racing. The weapon hummed with power in his hands… but nothing changed.
His brow furrowed.
"Why is nothing happening?" he asked aloud, confusion clear in his voice.
The soldier, still seated casually on the hill, answered without hesitation. "Your father's enchantment—do you know what it is?"
Ares hesitated, then shook his head. His father had shown him the weapon many times, but he had never once revealed its enchantment.
"It allows him to trap a fragment of his opponent's soul upon their death," the young soldier said, his voice steady. "He could summon those fragments—spirits—to aid him in battle."