Riven sat still with his back against a large boulder, his body still warm from leftover anger and his breathing not yet steady. Riftmaker lay on the ground beside him, its blade catching a faint glimmer of moonlight, but no reflection of victory shone there. Only his own shadow appeared, blurred and weary.

‘Do you understand?’

The words echoed inside him again, like a whisper that refused to leave.

He tried to grasp them, to search for meaning among his memories, his experiences, and the scars he carried.

Understand?

What was he supposed to understand?

Himself? The world? His sword? Or the helplessness he had always hidden behind strength?

He remembered his dream, the figure of that man who felt so much like him and yet so unfamiliar. The man’s gaze was steady, as if he knew something no one else did. One swing, and the world split apart. Yet the motion had looked ordinary.

Riven tried to find logic behind it.

“Was it a technique?” he thought. “Or was it magic? Or perhaps the sword itself was something special?”

But deep inside, he knew the answer was none of those.

The problem was not the weapon. Not his strength.

The problem was that he did not understand.

And that was what frustrated him most.

He gripped his hair, bowing his head as if hoping that understanding would suddenly emerge from the noise in his mind. But all he found was chaos—doubts, questions, and the voice of himself uncertain of everything.

“What do you mean by ‘understand’?” he whispered into the night wind.

There was no reply.

He tried to think of it in simple terms. The times he had to calm Melly when she was a child. The times he had to accept his mistakes. The moment he decided to help Ashtoria.

Was that what it meant to understand?

Not through strength, but through empathy?

Yet doubt crept back in. He was not sure. It all felt too vague, too abstract. And Riven hated things that could not be measured.

All he knew was that when he saw the slash in his dream, something inside him had split as well.

But here, in the waking world, his sword could not do the same.

He let out a long breath.

“I don’t know,” he murmured, honest with himself.

The boulder loomed before him, solid and silent. The world itself stayed still, as if waiting, but offering no answers.

And Riven sat there, a young man searching for the meaning of a single word in a world that never gave him guidance.

The night grew darker.

And he still had no answer.

As Riven lingered before the unbroken stone, his thoughts drowning in the riddle of those words, he suddenly heard a faint sound.

From beyond the thinning shadows of the forest ahead, something appeared.

Something massive.

Riven froze.

In the distance, slipping between the brush and trees, a figure emerged, moving fast like the wind. Moonlight swept across its fur, silver and cold. Its body was long and lean, yet corded with muscle. Its paws struck the earth with a speed that made the ground tremble.

An adult white tiger.

Not an ordinary one.

Its size was twice that of any predator in the wild. Its eyes glowed pale blue, like light from another world. Its breath came out in mist, and each step pressed the grass flat as if the weight itself bent the earth.

Riven did not move.

The tiger fixed its gaze on him even as it ran. That piercing look carried more than animal instinct. There was awareness in it. As though the beast knew who he was. As though its arrival was no accident.

And then, without warning, it turned its charge toward him.

Riven immediately lifted his sword, dropping low into the stance he had drilled into himself. His eyes sharpened. Not with fear, but with focus.

Riftmaker gleamed faintly under the moon, and the night air suddenly felt sharp as a blade. Time seemed to slow, each second stretching as the first clash drew near.

Riven drew a deep breath, letting the cold air fill his tense lungs. The tiger’s steps thundered closer, vibrations running through the ground into his legs. A low rumble filled his ears, not from the beast, but from his own heart, racing yet steady.

He did not retreat.

Instead, he closed his eyes for a brief moment, and in the darkness behind his lids, he recalled a woman with crimson hair standing before him. Calm, confident, and unhesitant as she raised her sword.

He opened his eyes.

His left hand steadied Riftmaker’s base. His right hand gripped the hilt above it, but his thumb and forefinger stayed loose. His stance was firm, shoulders relaxed, eyes locked on the space between the beast’s eyes.

Strange.

There was no fear.

Though he knew the creature could tear a man apart in a single leap, panic did not rise in him. There was no urge to run.

Only clarity.

The world narrowed to one point, one moment. Himself and the tiger. Blade and claw. Breath and time.

‘If I cannot understand the stone and fail to cut it, then now, I will understand myself.’

The tiger closed in, now only meters away. Its breath roared, sending clouds of vapor into the air. Its mouth opened, revealing long, deadly fangs.

Riven shifted his footing, turned his waist slightly, and tucked his elbow closer.

His mind was empty. Not the emptiness of panic, but the stillness of water before it is broken by a stone.

One final breath.

Then the white tiger leapt, a bound full of power and certainty. The air itself seemed to tear under the weight of its flight. Its claws stretched forward, its fangs bared, ready to shred.

At that instant, Riven also moved.

He did not leap or retreat. He slid half a step to the side, just enough to slip past the direct path of its claws. His feet dug into the ground, his waist turned, and Riftmaker swung.

It was not a rough strike. Not a blow of brute force.

It was smooth. Calm. Yet sharp as an unshakable will.

Shrrkk—

The world fell silent for that single moment.

Then a faint hum rang out, like a snapped string in the sky.

The tiger’s body sailed past Riven, brushing his left side at full speed, then landed several meters behind. Its claws tore the earth, leaving deep marks. Its breath came heavy, its muscles rigid.

Riven stood with his back to the beast, his blade still held horizontally in the air, not yet lowered.

Silence.

Then something flowed.

Blood began to drip from the tiger’s shoulder, then its neck. The wound was faint but undeniable.

The beast raised its head toward the night sky. Moonlight caught its eyes, their glow dimming.

One step back.

Another.

And then its body sank to the ground.

Riven remained still. His chest rose and fell slowly. At last, he lowered Riftmaker to his side, its edge now stained with red.

He did not turn.

Not from fear, but because he already knew.

He knew the strike had landed.

Not because he was stronger. Not because his technique was flawless.

But because, for a moment, he truly understood.

Not the stone. Not the beast. But himself. His swing, his gaze, his intent. All aligned in one straight line.

And that line, for the first time, cut the world.

He closed his eyes, holding onto that sensation. It was not triumph. It was clarity.

When he opened them again, the night was still dark.

But within him, something had begun to burn. Small, faint, but unyielding.

An understanding not yet complete, but enough to move forward.

Enough to try again.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep