Days turned into weeks, and Tobias found himself drawn to the hidden chamber beneath the altar more and more. Every day, he would sit before the sword, listening as Siegfried Di Roy spoke of the past—of battles fought, of oaths sworn, of the legendary group known as the Ten Nameless Oaths. The stories consumed Tobias, filling his mind with visions of adventure, glory, and purpose. Siegfried described a time when he and his comrades stood as protectors of Maderat, a land Tobias had only heard of in passing.
The tales were thrilling, filled with daring fights, unbreakable bonds, and sacrifices that shaped the world. But as much as Tobias loved them, he couldn't shake a question that lingered in his heart.
"If the Ten Nameless Oaths were so incredible, why have I never heard of them? Why does no one speak of their deeds?"
It didn't make sense. Heroes were remembered. Legends were passed down. And yet, the names of these warriors had faded into obscurity, as if they had never existed at all.
Despite the questions, Tobias kept coming back, kept listening, kept learning. He never told anyone about the sword, about the ancient voice that whispered forgotten history in the dark. The only person he confided in was his mother.
At first, she didn't seem to mind, simply smiling and nodding when he spoke about his new secret place. But as the days stretched on, Tobias noticed a shift in her expression whenever he brought it up—a shadow of unease that crept into her warm eyes.
One evening, as he sat in the chamber, he spoke of it to Siegfried.
"My mom seems a little worried when I mention that I come here every day… talking to an old sword," Tobias said, kicking a loose pebble across the stone floor. His voice held a hint of frustration.
A low chuckle echoed through the chamber. It was old, dry, like laughter that had not been used in centuries.
"Of course she would be... After all, it's strange, isn't it? Talking to a voice from the past, hidden beneath an altar? She thinks you're just lonely."
Tobias frowned, tilting his head in confusion. "But why?" he asked. "I told her we talk every day! I even asked her to come with me, to see you for herself. But she always says she has too much work, especially when Dad isn't around…"
He let out a deep sigh, his gaze drifting up to the glowing crystals in the ceiling. He wished she would understand. He wished she would listen.
Siegfried was silent for a moment before speaking again, his voice quieter this time.
"Perhaps... she fears what she does not understand."
Tobias looked at the sword, a strange weight settling in his chest. He wanted to argue, to say that his mother would understand if only she gave it a chance. But something in Siegfried's tone made him hesitate.
And for the first time since he had found this place… a sliver of doubt crept into his mind.
Siegfried let out a tired sigh, his voice carrying both amusement and nostalgia. "Toby, you wish to be an adventurer when you grow older, don't you?"
Tobias nodded eagerly, his eyes shining with excitement.
"Well then, how about this—I give you your first lesson in wielding a real sword?" Siegfried offered, his voice filled with an old warmth, as if recalling memories long forgotten.
Tobias' eyes widened with excitement. "I would love that!" he exclaimed, but after a moment, his enthusiasm faltered. He looked at the massive, rune-covered blade before him and let out a sheepish laugh. "But… you're too big for my hands," he admitted.
Siegfried chuckled, the sound echoing softly through the chamber. "And that, Tobias, will be your first lesson," he said. "Find a weapon that fits you. A sword is an extension of its wielder—it must be right for your hand. I'm sure you'll be able to find one, or perhaps even make one yourself."
Tobias grinned, determination lighting up his face. Without another word, he turned and rushed out of the chamber, ready to complete his first task.
He scoured the forest first, searching through the undergrowth for anything that could resemble a sword. He found sturdy branches, long sticks, even a few pieces of fallen wood that felt balanced in his grip. But no matter what he picked up, nothing felt right. Some were too brittle, snapping when he swung them. Others were too awkward to hold. Frustration gnawed at him, but he refused to give up.
When the forest failed him, he turned his attention to the village. He wandered through the streets, glancing around for something—anything—that could work. His eyes landed on the blacksmith's forge, the glow of molten metal casting flickering shadows across the workshop. There, real swords hung on racks, their polished steel gleaming. But he knew he couldn't afford one, and he definitely wasn't about to steal.
Undeterred, he began asking around. He went to his friends, the other boys he played with, but none of them had anything close to a real weapon. Some had wooden toys, but those wouldn't do. He approached villagers he had seen carrying swords—hunters, guards, even travelers—but every request was met with a shake of the head.
Disappointed but not defeated, Tobias eventually made his way home. His mother was resting, her long hair draped over her shoulders as she lay on the small wooden bench near the fireplace. Seeing her peaceful expression, he hesitated for a moment, not wanting to disturb her. But the question burned in his mind.
Quietly, he stepped closer and spoke. "Mom… do we have a sword I can borrow?"
His mother stirred, opening her eyes to look at him with gentle curiosity. She reached out, cupping his cheek with her warm palm. "A sword?" she murmured. "And why do you need a sword, my little Toby?"
Tobias hesitated before answering, his excitement returning. "I… I want to learn swordsmanship! A friend told me he can teach me," he said earnestly.
For a moment, his mother was silent, studying his face. Then, a soft smile touched her lips, though there was something unreadable in her eyes. She brushed her fingers through his hair and let out a quiet sigh.
"There is a sword," she admitted. "But I can't let you have it just yet. Soon, when your birthday comes, I will give it to you."
Tobias' heart leaped. His mother had a sword! He wanted to ask more, to beg her to let him see it, but something in her voice told him it was not yet time.
He swallowed his impatience and nodded. "Alright… I'll wait."
His mother smiled, pulling him into a warm embrace. "Good boy," she whispered. "But tell me, Toby… who is this friend teaching you?"
Tobias hesitated. He had never lied to his mother before. And yet, as he looked into her kind, knowing eyes, he found himself unsure if he should tell her the truth.
His mother smiled gently, watching the hesitation flicker across Tobias' face. She already knew—perhaps she had known from the start. But she didn't press him. Instead, she simply nodded.
"Very well then… Once you turn fifteen, that would be a good time to give you the sword."
Tobias' face twisted in frustration. "What?!" he blurted out, crossing his arms. "You just said my next birthday! That's not fair!"
His mother giggled, a playful glint in her eyes as she cupped his cheek again. "Oh, my little Toby… I did say your next birthday." She leaned in with a mischievous smile. "I never specified which next birthday."
Tobias groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. "That's cheating!" he protested, but she only laughed, ruffling his hair.
"Patience, my love. A sword is not just a toy—it carries weight, responsibility," she said, her voice soft but firm. "When the time is right, you will have it."
Tobias pouted, but deep down, he knew arguing wouldn't change her mind. He sighed, resting his chin on the table, already counting down the days until his real next birthday.
From that day on, Siegfried became Toby's teacher, guiding him through the basics of swordsmanship. Each lesson was demanding, but Toby eagerly absorbed everything, his hands growing more steady, his movements sharper. Though he trained in secrecy, he carried the discipline into his daily life. Outside of his lessons, he spent time with his loving mother, whose warmth never faded. Yet, despite her constant smiles and laughter, there were moments—fleeting but unmistakable—where a shadow of worry flickered across her face.
One evening, as they sat together, his mother's voice broke the comfortable silence.
"Tell me, Toby… about that friend of yours. You never told me his name. Who is he?"
Toby hesitated. He hadn't hidden Siegfried's existence from her, but something about saying his name aloud felt… different. As if it would make everything more real. He glanced around the room, thinking, before finally speaking.
"His name is _____."
His mother was quiet for a moment, then she reached out, her fingers gently running through his hair. "I see… so that's the name of your friend," she murmured.
Her voice was calm, her touch just as warm as ever, but there was something different in her expression. A softness that wasn't just affection—something deeper, something unreadable. Toby, still too young to notice the subtle shift, simply smiled and nuzzled into her arms, comforted by her embrace.
A year passed since the day Toby met Siegfried, and his lessons continued. He trained with diligence, repeating every motion until they became second nature. Others in the village began to notice the changes. The once-shy boy, who used to keep mostly to himself or play only with his closest friends, had grown taller, his frame beginning to take shape with lean muscle. His posture was more confident, his steps more purposeful.
But it wasn't just physical growth.
There was something about the way he carried himself—gentle but assured, kind but strong. It was as if an invisible weight had settled on his shoulders, though he bore it without complaint. And though no one knew the truth, deep beneath the altar of an ancient ruin, an old voice whispered still, shaping the boy into something more than he had ever imagined.
Toby rushed out of bed, his heart pounding with excitement. He knew he had just one more year until his mother would finally let him wield the sword she had promised—but today was still a special day. Today, he was finally getting his first sword.
It wasn't steel, not yet. But it was the next best thing—a wooden training sword, crafted with care.
The timberjack of Salthbridge had promised him this. In exchange, Toby had worked tirelessly by his side, hauling logs, cutting planks, and helping wherever he could. It had been exhausting, his muscles aching by the end of each day, but he never complained. He wanted this. And now, after all that effort, he finally held in his hands the result of his hard work.
The sword was a masterpiece—an exact replica of a real blade, down to the finest details. The weight was perfect, the balance precise. It wasn't just a toy; it was a weapon in its own right, a step closer to the dream he had chased for so long.
Unable to contain himself, Toby sprinted through the village, past the trees, and into the forest. His feet knew the path by heart, leading him straight to the place he now considered his second home—the ruins beneath the altar.
He descended into the underground chamber, barely able to hold back his excitement. "Siegfried! Siegfried!" he shouted, his voice echoing against the ancient stone. He reached the heart of the chamber and held up his new weapon with pride. "I finally have it!"
The old voice stirred from the depths of the sword embedded in the center of the room. A low chuckle, amused yet pleased, filled the air.
"Show me, then," Siegfried said. "Let's see what you've learned."
"Take the first stance. Hold the hilt firmly, but not too tightly. Remember—always look forward. Never down, never too high," Siegfried instructed, his voice steady, patient.
Toby nodded, adjusting his grip. "Keep both feet on the ground, not too far apart, not too close—hold my balance," he recited. A small grin tugged at his lips. "I know, Siegfried. That was the first thing you taught me."
He took his stance, his feet finding their place. His form was far from perfect—his grip still a little tense, his footing slightly uneven—but he had come a long way. He was no longer just a boy holding a stick. He was a student of the blade.
"Good. Then let's begin," Siegfried said. "One. Four. Two. Five."
Toby moved on instinct. He took one step forward, swinging the wooden sword four times, then stepped back twice before delivering five more strikes. The numbers were burned into his memory, each one a command he understood without hesitation.
"Three. Two. Seven. Eight."
Again, he obeyed, shifting his weight, stepping where instructed, swinging where guided. The rhythm was familiar now, a dance of precision and discipline. Every lesson, every repetition, had led to this moment, and with each movement, he felt himself growing stronger.
The wooden sword was light, but in his hands, it carried weight—not just in form, but in purpose. And though Siegfried remained unseen, his presence was undeniable, shaping Toby into something greater with every lesson.
"Again."
Toby didn't hesitate. His body moved without thought, guided by instinct and repetition. He stepped forward, his wooden sword slicing through the air in sharp, controlled arcs. His breathing was steady, his muscles burning with exertion, but he didn't stop. He wouldn't stop.
"Faster this time. One. Three. Five. Seven."
He lunged forward, striking once, then pivoted smoothly into three follow-up swings. A quick step back, then five more slashes, his grip adjusting with each movement. Seven final strikes, each one carrying more strength than the last.
"You're improving," Siegfried said, his voice tinged with approval. "But you hesitate. You still think before you move."
Toby wiped the sweat from his forehead, gripping the hilt tighter. "Isn't that a good thing? I don't want to mess up."
"In battle, thinking too much will get you killed. The sword must be an extension of yourself. No doubts. No second-guessing. Move because you know, not because you decide."
Toby nodded, taking a deep breath. He reset his stance, feet firm, grip relaxed but controlled.
"Again. Two. Six. Four. Eight."
This time, he didn't think. He moved. His strikes flowed together, smooth and deliberate. No hesitation, no pause. Just action.
Siegfried let out a low chuckle. "Better. But you still have far to go."
Toby exhaled sharply, his arms burning from the constant swings, but he straightened up, determination blazing in his eyes. "Then let's keep going."
"Hah. That's the spirit. Again!"
"You hold the sword for the first time, and you're already following the lessons I've taught you over the past year. You know the theory well… but theory alone won't make you a warrior. Practice will."
Siegfried's voice was steady, yet there was something deeper in his tone—something almost thoughtful.
"You are exceptional, that much is clear. But don't let that get to your head. There are two kinds of fighters in this world. Those who believe in hard work—who will push themselves beyond their limits, doing everything in their power to reach their full potential. And then… there are those born with talent. The ones who never have to struggle, who are gifted with abilities that common folk would spend a lifetime trying to attain."
Toby listened carefully, absorbing every word as he continued his training. He followed the instructions given to him, his wooden sword moving through the motions with growing precision. After a moment of silence, he asked, "How do I know if I have talent or not?"
Siegfried let out a dry chuckle. "Good question. I won't answer that."
Toby frowned. "Why not?"
"Because it doesn't matter. I, myself, never had talent," Siegfried admitted.
That made Toby pause. His grip on the sword loosened slightly as confusion crossed his face. "Wait… but weren't you the leader of the Nameless Oaths? I thought you were the strongest among them. How could you not have been born with talent?"
There was silence. Then, Siegfried's voice came again, quieter this time.
"Being the leader didn't mean I was the strongest. It meant I was the one who refused to give up."
Toby furrowed his brows, gripping his sword tighter. "You mean… you weren't the strongest? But you still led them?"
Siegfried let out a low chuckle. "Strength alone doesn't make a leader, boy. The Nameless Oaths… they were warriors beyond compare. Some were born prodigies, others sharpened themselves through sheer will. But me? I was just a man who refused to fall when others would have."
Toby lowered his sword slightly, considering the words. "So… if someone works hard enough, they can surpass those born with talent?"
"Hah! If only it were that simple. Hard work can close the gap, but raw talent can't be ignored. Those gifted by fate will always have an advantage. The real question is—"
Siegfried paused for a moment before his voice hardened. "—do you have the will to endure when you realize you might never reach them?"
Toby clenched his jaw. "I do."
"Then show me."
Without another word, Siegfried barked out another set of commands.
"One. Three. Six. Two."
Toby moved instantly, stepping forward, swinging once, pivoting, striking three more times. His wooden sword cut through the air, his form improving with each repetition.
"Faster. Five. Seven. Four. Eight."
He obeyed, his movements growing more fluid, more natural. Sweat dripped from his brow, but he pushed through it.
"Again. One. Four. Five. Three."
His body ached, his arms burned, but he refused to stop.
"You're slowing down," Siegfried noted.
"I'm not!" Toby gritted his teeth, forcing himself to move quicker.
Siegfried chuckled. "Good. Then let's push further. Try to strike as if your life depended on it."
Toby hesitated. "But... it doesn't."
"Then pretend it does. You dream of being an adventurer, don't you? Of wielding a real sword? Then learn this now—"* Siegfried's voice grew sharper. "—In battle, there is no second chance. Strike with intent, or be struck down."
Toby tightened his grip. He swallowed hard, steeling himself.
"Again!" Siegfried commanded.
And Toby moved. Faster, stronger, no hesitation. The rhythm of training consumed him, each swing carrying more weight, more resolve.
And in that dark, forgotten chamber, beneath the ruins of an ancient past, a boy with a wooden sword took his first true steps toward becoming something greater.
The training continued relentlessly. Hours passed, but Toby didn't stop. His arms ached, his breath came in sharp gasps, but he refused to give in. He had learned long ago that Siegfried was not one to offer kindness during training—no breaks, no words of comfort. Just commands, corrections, and the ever-present demand for more.
"You're losing your stance, Toby. Keep your balance," Siegfried warned as the boy staggered slightly after his last strike.
Toby gritted his teeth, planting his feet firmly on the stone floor. "I got it!" he snapped, adjusting his footing.
"No, you don't," Siegfried Said. "Your strikes are strong, but your stance is weak. Strength means nothing if you can't stay on your feet."
Toby exhaled sharply but nodded. "Alright. Again."
"Good. Now, try this. Block—then counter. I will call the attack. Defend as if you're facing a real opponent."
Toby's grip tightened on his wooden sword. "Got it."
"Four! Block high!"
Toby lifted his sword instinctively, imagining an incoming strike. His arms trembled slightly from the impact that wasn't there, but he held firm.
"Two! Block low, then counter!"
He swiftly brought the blade down, angling it as if to deflect an attack, then followed up with a quick retaliatory swing.
"Better. Again! Five! Side step, then strike!"
Toby shifted to the side, sweeping his wooden sword in a wide arc. The motion was clumsy, but he recovered quickly.
"Faster! If you hesitate, you're already dead!"
Toby didn't argue. He just moved. The numbers came rapidly now, each one a new command, forcing him to react without thinking. His muscles burned, his breath was ragged, but something had changed—he no longer felt like a boy swinging a wooden toy. He felt like he was fighting.
Then, Siegfried's voice came lower, steadier.
"You're improving. But you're not just training your body, Toby. You're training your mind. A true swordsman doesn't just swing his blade—he sees the battle before it happens. He feels his enemy's next move before they make it."
Toby paused, gripping his sword tightly. "How do I do that?"
Siegfried let out a slow chuckle.
"Experience, boy. And if you survive long enough… you'll understand."
Toby swallowed hard, feeling the weight of those words settle deep in his chest. He nodded once. "Then I'll keep going."
"Then let's continue. Again!"
And the training resumed, echoing through the forgotten ruins, as a boy with a wooden sword took another step closer to becoming something far greater than he had ever imagined.
Toby wiped the sweat from his forehead, shifting his grip on the wooden sword. "It's hard to think about all this... This shadow training is good, but I can't experience it properly," he admitted, frustration creeping into his voice. "If only you could actually teach me... But you're just a sword."
Siegfried chuckled, the sound deep and amused. "Hah! Just a sword, am I? And yet, here you are, listening to my every word. But I understand what you mean. Nothing replaces real combat. Instincts aren't built through drills alone—they're forged in battle."
Toby sighed. "That's what I mean! I can swing and react all I want, but I don't know what a real fight feels like. I don't know what it's like to stand in front of someone who actually wants to cut me down."
Siegfried hummed in thought before speaking. "Then let's focus on something else. Tell me, Toby—how good do you think your eyes are?"
Toby blinked. "My eyes?"
"Yes. Your ability to see. Reaction speed, perception, the ability to read an opponent's movements before they strike. The greatest swordsmen don't just rely on their strength; they see the fight before it happens."
Toby tilted his head, considering it. "I mean… I think my eyes are pretty good? I notice things when I focus. But I don't think I see the way you're talking about."
Siegfried chuckled again, this time louder. "Of course you don't. But in time, you will. My eyes were my greatest pride. I could see every attack—every motion—as if the world itself slowed for me. Reactions that seemed impossible to others were natural to me. I lived a life where nothing could surprise me… but it was also a heavy burden."
Toby's grip on his sword tightened. "A burden?"
"Yes. When you see everything, you see too much. You see the way battles will end before they even begin. You see every weakness, every flaw. You know when an enemy will fall before they even realize it themselves. And worst of all... you see when those you care about won't survive."
A silence hung between them.
Toby swallowed, suddenly unsure if he wanted that kind of sight. "That sounds... lonely."
"Hah. It was. But in the end, it was my greatest weapon. And if you train hard enough, boy… maybe one day, you'll understand what it's like to see the world the way I did."
Toby exhaled, shaking his head. "Then let's keep going. I want to get stronger, Siegfried. Even if I can't see like you yet, I'll get there."
"That's the spirit. Now, let's sharpen those eyes of yours. Training is one thing, but true perception begins with awareness. So let's begin... again."
And with that, the training continued—only this time, Toby wasn't just swinging his sword. He was learning to see.
Toby rushed through the streets of Salthbridge, his wooden sword still in hand, his body aching from the relentless training. But despite his exhaustion, a grin stretched across his face. His mind was alive with new thoughts, new ideas—new dreams. Siegfried's words echoed in his head, fueling his excitement.
By the time he reached home, the sky had turned a soft shade of orange, the last light of the day fading into the horizon. The scent of warm food filled the air as he stepped inside.
His mother was in the middle of setting the dinner table when she looked up and smiled. "Welcome back, Toby. How was your day?"
Toby laughed, practically bursting with energy despite his fatigue. "It was amazing! I learned so much today. I wish I could just... just skip a few years ahead! I want to be older already! I want to see the world! There are so many places out there, so many things I haven't seen yet!"
His mother chuckled, shaking her head as she placed a steaming bowl on the table. "Oh my, my little Toby is in such a hurry to grow up, hmm?"
Toby plopped down in his chair, nodding eagerly. "Of course! The more I learn, the more I realize how much is out there! There are knights, adventurers, ruins, kingdoms, and battles! I don't want to just hear about them—I want to be there! I want to wield a real sword, go on real adventures, and—"
His mother sighed, cutting him off with a gentle but firm voice. "And have you considered what that really means, Toby?"
Toby blinked, his excitement faltering slightly. "What do you mean?"
She sat down across from him, her warm eyes studying his face carefully. "You dream of adventure, of battles, of wielding a sword... but adventure isn't just about excitement, my love. It's about danger, about hardship. It means long roads, uncertain days, and fighting not just with your sword, but with your heart and mind. Have you thought about that?"
Toby hesitated, gripping his spoon tightly. "I... I guess I haven't thought about it that much. But..." He looked up, determination shining in his young eyes. "That's why I'm training. So I can face those things! I know it won't be easy, but if I don't try, then what's the point?"
His mother's expression softened as she reached across the table, cupping his cheek. "You have your father's spirit, you know? He was just like you. Always looking to the horizon, always seeking something greater."
Toby's eyes widened. "Dad was like that too?"
She nodded. "He never wanted to be caged by a simple life. He wanted to explore, to protect, to fight for something bigger than himself. And he did. But..." She trailed off, her fingers gently brushing against Toby's cheek before pulling away. "He also understood the cost of that life. I just hope that when your time comes, you will understand it too."
Toby sat in silence for a moment before finally nodding. "I will, Mom. I promise."*
His mother smiled, though there was something bittersweet in her eyes. "Then let's eat, before your food gets cold. A future adventurer still needs his strength, doesn't he?"
Toby grinned, grabbing his spoon. "That's right! And I'll need all the strength I can get!"
And with that, they ate together, the warmth of home filling the air—though in Toby's heart, his dreams were already carrying him far beyond the walls of their little house in Salthbridge.
Since that day, Toby fell into a steady rhythm—one that became as natural to him as breathing.
Every morning, he would wake up early, eat a quick breakfast, and rush off toward the ruins, his wooden sword strapped to his back. There, in the depths of the forgotten structure, he would train under Siegfried's watchful guidance. The numbers, the movements, the relentless repetition—it all became second nature.
Step. Swing. Block. Counter.
Day after day, he pushed himself harder. His body ached, his muscles burned, but he never stopped. Every bruise, every mistake, every moment of exhaustion only fueled him further. He was growing stronger—he could feel it.
And when the sun began to set, Toby would return home, tired but fulfilled. His mother would always be waiting, a warm meal ready on the table. No matter how exhausted he was, she would greet him with the same gentle smile.
"Welcome back, Toby. How was your training today?"
"Amazing!" he would say, beaming despite his aching limbs. "I learned something new! _____ says my stance is improving!"
His mother would listen patiently as he excitedly recounted every detail of his lessons. She would laugh at his enthusiasm, ruffle his hair, and remind him not to push himself too hard.
Then the next day would come, and he would do it all over again.
Train. Return home. Rest. Repeat.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months.
And with each passing day, Toby grew—not just in strength, but in discipline, in determination. The boy who once only dreamed of adventure was now preparing for it.
And yet, deep in the ruins, Siegfried watched him with something unreadable in his unseen gaze.
"You're improving faster than I expected, boy… but I wonder…"
There was something about Toby—something different. Siegfried had trained many in his time, but there was something unique about the way this boy learned, the way he absorbed everything like a sponge.
"Just what kind of swordsman will you become?"
And so, the training continued—day after day, step by step, bringing Toby ever closer to the path that awaited him. A path that would soon change his life forever.