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Chapter 2: The First Step

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After that day, when I saw the man called the "Sword God" perform in person, something of a fascination awakened inside of me.

Though to be honest, it would probably be more accurate to call it an obsession.

I had grown some kind of obsession with that image- one that I did not notice had sunk into place until months afterwards. An obsession with the sight of those superhuman figures moving faster than anything I had ever seen, clashing in beautiful bursts of light.

I began to take notice of the world around me, think about what I wanted to do, and genuinely listen to the people in my new life.

It was safe to say that once such a new change took hold of me, everything about the way I felt shifting and morphing- it was like the world was filtered in a different color of light. As the once-dull sight of the snowy land was overlaid with those vibrant emotions, I couldn't sit still.

The arms of my ever-present mother, while once comforting, had never felt more restricting after those moments. The urge to leap out and explore the various dojos, watch the countless swordsmen train, and go out on my own to pick up a blade... It was all nearly overwhelming.

There were a small number of other children and toddlers, but for the most part I didn't care about them. The people I had become infatuated with were the countless swordsmen who lived there, such as my father, and of course Gal Farion.

It seemed as if my parents were very well respected in this society of swordsmen, though not to the level of reverence all those people afforded the Sword God. As far as I could tell, your social standing was directly determined by your skill with a blade, and both my father and mother were quite powerful.

Yes- though it seemed like my mother was semi-retired after having me, my father continued to studiously practice every day, sparring with the other swordsmen living in the community and leaving every day to practice at the various gym-like buildings across the area.

My favorite part of every day was the morning, when my father hadn't yet left and simply did practice swings in the front yard.

I could spend all day just sitting on the steps of our house, watching him intently as he practiced those swings outside, each one easily breaking through the speed of sound.

He was probably in his mid-twenties, but the serious and firm expression on his face made him seem older. Those cat-like eyes of his might have scared me slightly when I was still new to the world, but after getting to know him more, understanding that he was simply a straightforward and no-nonsense kind of guy, I started to enjoy my time with him.

Those mornings, with me sitting by the side and him practicing repeatedly for an hour before leaving, truly were my favorite, but although I felt a kinship for him as the person who took care of me, the reason I liked those times was not because of him. It was simply the fact that he was swinging a sword. The blade in his hand caught my eye- drawing me like a moth to a radiant bonfire.

His movements were certainly awe-inspiring, far more than any other person I had seen in this new world besides the Sword God, but I could have interchanged my father with any random stranger at his level of skill and be just as satisfied, just as fascinated, as I was every time I saw him move.

There was something special about a person, a seemingly regular, everyday person, moving at such a speed and with such precision and strength that it managed to send a shockwave blasting through the air. It was a spark of brilliance, flaring up with all the colors I loved so much.
The overall change in my disposition certainly seemed to please my parents, as the glimpses of their worried faces disappeared completely, my father content and happy with me watching him. I think he was glad at the chance to show off for me, though I couldn't tell for sure- he was a very inexpressive person overall- the only faces of his that I could pin down were "solemn approval" and "stern discontent."

Their excitement made sense to me; after all, anybody would appreciate having an almost lethargic child begin to take fascination in what seemed to be the cultural base of this society, that being swordsmanship. I was sure that before I had experienced my newly found awakening, my parents were beginning to suspect I was disabled somehow.

But as I continued to grow, living in this strange and fascinating place under the tutelage and care of those parents, I learned more about the world around me. While my father often left during the day for the main training halls, my mother always stayed by to take care of me. I even got to see some of her movements with a blade while she practiced offhandedly in her free time, and though she wasn't nearly at the speed of father, I appreciated the sights all the same.

And as every day passed I began to feel my once-weak body grow stronger. I saw those brilliant movements all those around me performed with their beautiful swords, and a desperate desire began to form within me.

I wished to do the same.

I wanted to hold a sword myself, in the same way all of them did.

That urge would only be fulfilled slowly, though. After all, even through such a seemingly long time I was still under a year old, and no matter how much I wanted to pick up a blade and feel the thrill for myself, I was far too young to do so.

It was disappointing, to be sure, but I occupied myself by watching and learning.

After starting to pay more attention to the world, leaving that lethargic state I once sunk into, I could somewhat figure out the language after another few months, and was able to move my mouth into certain words, much to the happiness of my parents.

But my parents also spoke about the greatness of the "Sword God Style," which the people in this northern community all practiced.

For one thing, this strange isolated place I was born into was the central dojo of the sword style, the place where the master of it resided, Gal Farion the Sword God. People from all across the world traveled to this community in order to study the blade and reach their full potential under his tutelage.

There might have been other sword styles out there, with their own communities and masters, but this one was surely the best and strongest. That fact was hammered into me, and I hardly doubted it.

The moment I learned this, and the moment I understood that this was the one place in the world I could have honestly experienced the beauty of this sword-fighting, I felt something akin to gratitude spring up in my chest, though I was not sure who it was directed towards.

It seemed like I truly had been blessed in this world, being reborn in the place that I had.

But the full breath of that gratitude, and the satisfaction with my place in life that would only continue to grow as I also matured into adulthood, would not properly show itself until much later.

It was true that I felt a deeply blessed feeling in those times as a child, when I watched and learned from the people around me. But only much later in my life would I ever feel the urge to simply sit down and accept the world around me.

I had to take a step back and breathe in all of the things I was grateful for.

In those moments where I felt the full breadth of my luck, the full scope of how perfect this land truly was, I felt bubbles of stress in my chest, formed from the nagging worry that I would never be able to repay whatever might have given me the chance to live my life in that place.

But ignoring the incredible peace and gratitude I could experience, I simply soaked up everything I could learn from my parents, learning more about the techniques of the Sword God Style, and the incredible strength it had.

Apparently, in this strange world where the physical power of a person determined their social ranking, there were seven possible tiers to obtain in the Sword God Style, as well as all the other sword styles and even the schools of magic, which were apparently studied elsewhere.

The tiers of combat, from lowest to highest, went Beginner, Intermediate, Advanced, Saint, King, Emperor, and God.

Only one person could ever be God-ranked in the Sword God Style, and that person would be titled the Sword God. It made sense to me- though I was taken aback at the somewhat primitive meritocracy.

However, those rankings, and the talk of becoming so strong… none of it really mattered to me.

I could tell that my father, who proudly preached those values and spoke about the glories of becoming powerful, truly believed in the ideals of becoming "strong." In another world, maybe a place even closer to some fantasy story than my new home was, a man like him would probably become a stereotypical villain with that mindset, but in this place he put it to good use in order to motivate himself.

The idea of becoming strong for fame and glory did not entice me, though. Instead, I was simply fascinated by the beauty of the style itself. All I could think about was how… nice it would feel to use such a beautiful thing as a sword- how nice it would feel to execute movements as beautiful as the Sword God's.

I didn't kid myself, though. I knew that I would never reach the level of such a genius as the man who reigned over all of the passionate warriors who lived in this harsh place. I doubted I would ever rise through the ranks of those people with far greater motivations than me.

But I did think that I would be able to enjoy myself if I decided to practice with the sword in the same way.

I truly believed in that place, in that whole new world I had come to know, and love, I would be able to find something I wasn't ever able to grasp in my old life.

I daydreamed about the possibilities.

I fantasized about how one day, with a sword in hand, I might find fulfillment.

. . . . . . . . . .

It was a very long time until I was finally allowed to hold that sword.

The body of a toddler, the body of a baby, just wasn't able to properly accomplish tasks or train itself. Physical conditioning wasn't an option at that age and I could barely even walk, let alone run.

So I let the years until roughly my third birthday simply pass me by. It was a long, drawn-out and terribly boring process, where I was introduced to various other young children around my age and some important figures in the area.

I met the four year old daughter of the Sword God, Nina Farion- it seemed as if she had already started practicing with a wooden sword, just like all the children in the area, and was the best of the young kids currently training.

That said, she was still just a four-year-old. Compared to the adults in the area, watching her was pretty boring. It didn't feel as if I was observing a proper swordsman of this world, I was just watching a kid playing around.

But at least I could watch that girl hold a sword at all- unlike the other children who were old enough to start training before me. All of them were so bad I couldn't even look at them attempting to imitate the adults. Sure, they were just kids, but the idea of "swordsmanship" had already been built up in my mind as something to be respected, something to be admired. It felt almost offensive to see that perfect ideal be reduced down to a handful of toddlers waddling about with wooden sticks in hand.

Of course, I had the exact same intention as all of them, but it was the principle of the matter!

I felt that they shouldn't have been allowed to start training until they could understand exactly why they were training. They needed to properly recognize the beauty of the sword god style!

…I was getting a little heated.

But although I may have been taking out some mental frustrations on those genuine toddlers, my feelings were surprisingly genuine- surprisingly intense.

I decided to look at that frustration, and that respect I had already grown for the sword god style, as a good thing. It was very different from the apathetic outlook I once held, after all, and I was hoping to distance myself from the person I once was.

I felt as if just by watching all of these people strive their hardest, I was also able to grow.

Though sometimes I had to lament how boring the life of a toddler was.

Sleeping all day, laying in a small bed for any waking hours, all I could do was think, and ponder, and daydream about the day I would be old enough to start my training.

The times I was picked up and taken around, shown the dojos and all the sparring swordsmen were absolutely my favorite, and simply watching the more powerful warriors was an experience in itself, as I learned plenty about those great people throughout the years.

While at first I hadn't noticed, after watching them for longer, I could tell there was something different about just the basic movements of the more experienced fighters. They walked with more confidence, more grace in their strides, and they seemed to have a special awareness and balance to themselves that was intriguing.

But there was something else to the presence each one had- something almost electric, fluttering beneath my skin if I came just a little too close as they were preparing for a duel.

That feeling was fascinating to me, even though I couldn't exactly tell what it was.

But besides those small moments of growth and knowledge, the years passed slowly in the Holy Land of the Sword, as I grew from a baby, to a toddler, to a young child.

I watched those swordsmen train, and I learned the language clearly- and though I was never taught how to read or write, I supposed it didn't matter too much.

That said, I did finally figure out what I had been named in this new world of mine.

My parents called me Jino.

It was a simple name, shorter than what I had been previously, but it rolled off the tongue in a nice way, similar to the names of the people in this community.

I liked it.

Jino Britts.

The son of the Sword Emperor Timothy Britts and the younger sister of the Sword God, Elea Britts.

The one who had been reborn, and was about to embark on a new beginning- a new journey towards fulfillment.

I told myself that the name Jino Britts would only belong to a respectable man, one who would be admired in the same way my father was amongst all those in the community.

With that new name of mine, and those thoughts held firmly at the forefront of my mind, my third birthday arrived in a rather subdued event compared to those slow years, my father presenting me a small wooden sword.

My training had finally begun.

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