In The Eyes of Truth

I...
 
I've always wanted to be someone strong.
 
Someone like the characters from the books I read—heroes who defied impossible odds, who stood tall even when the world crumbled around them. They wielded swords as if they were extensions of their souls, cast spells that tore through the heavens, or simply persevered through the pain of life with unyielding resolve.
 
Strong enough to face my fears.
Strong enough to survive in this cruel, miserable world.
 
But more than strength, I wanted to help. I wanted to protect others, to be a pillar for those who couldn't stand on their own. Someone who mattered.
 
I remember a dream I had not long ago—a dream where I became a squire, living in the shadow of knights, training every day to earn my place among them. It wasn't just a dream; it felt more like a memory, vivid and alive.
 
In that dream, I spent every morning rising with the sun, my body aching from the previous day's training. The sound of a wooden sword striking straw filled my ears. Over and over, I swung, each motion slower and heavier than the last as my energy drained away.
 
I swung my sword.
 
Swung.
 
And swung again.
 
Blisters formed on my hands, breaking open and hardening into callouses. My grip on the sword became tighter, more instinctive, as I learned to feel its weight, its balance, as if it were an extension of my arm.
 
The days were harsh. My muscles screamed in protest with every strike, and my body ached so deeply that even the smallest movement became agony. But I kept going, because that's what squires did.
 
One morning, as the birds chirped softly and the trees swayed gently in the breeze, the silence was broken.
 
"Winter is coming!" the butler shouted from the manor steps, his voice echoing across the courtyard.
 
The chill in the air confirmed his words. It was getting colder. My stiff wooden bed creaked beneath me as I sat up, rubbing the soreness from my eyes. The morning sun was weak, its warmth barely piercing the cold stone walls of the small barracks where I slept.
 
I stretched, feeling the pull of tight muscles and the ache of overused joints. After changing into my worn training clothes, I reached for my sword. It wasn't much to look at—a battered old blade with a dulled edge, its hilt wrapped in fraying leather—but it was mine. It felt familiar, like an old friend, and I held it tightly as I stepped into the training yard.
 
The ground was firm beneath my feet, the frost from the night before lingering on the grass. I took a deep breath of the cold morning air and began my routine.
 
I trained.
 

I swung my sword at the dummy with everything I had, imagining it as an enemy on the battlefield. Each strike was deliberate, fueled by a desire to grow stronger, to prove myself.
 
In my mind, the training dummy became a soldier from the opposing side. I envisioned arrows flying through the air, the clash of metal on metal, and the cries of warriors locked in desperate combat. I could almost smell the metallic tang of blood and feel the vibrations of each impact.
 
Again, I swung my sword. The motion became smoother, more controlled. I imagined myself as a veteran knight, weathered by years of battle, my strikes precise and lethal.
 
And then, I imagined more.
 
I was a grandmaster, my aura radiating strength and wisdom, every swing of my blade carrying the weight of countless battles won.
 
Time slipped away unnoticed. Hours passed as the sun climbed higher, then began its slow descent toward the horizon. My body grew heavier with each passing minute, and my breath came in ragged gasps.
 
I gasped for air.
 
I gasped.
 
And gasped again.
 
Sweat poured down my body, soaking my clothes as I finally collapsed onto the cold ground. The grass beneath me was damp and chilled, but I barely felt it. My chest heaved, my lungs desperate for oxygen, as exhaustion overtook me.
 
And then, something strange happened.
 
I felt it—an energy coursing through my body, surging into every muscle and bone. It was as if I were being torn apart and rebuilt, piece by piece. My muscles burned, as if they were being shredded and regenerated all at once.
 
The pain was unbearable, a searing agony that left me writhing on the ground.
 
I shouted. I screamed as the sensation intensified, every nerve in my body alight with fire.
 
...
 
And then, I woke up.
 
I opened my eyes to the sight of my bedroom ceiling—a plain white surface with a small crack running along the corner.
 
The familiar walls of my room came into view, painted a dull yellow that had faded with time. There were no decorations, no posters or paintings to liven the space. Just the same bland walls I saw every day.
 
The dream was gone, replaced by the cold reality of my life.
 
My door creaked open, and my parents stepped in, their faces etched with concern.
 
"What's wrong?" my mother asked, her voice soft and worried.
 
"It's nothing," I replied. "Just a dream."
 
I forced a smile, hoping to ease their concern, but inside, I felt anything but fine. The dream had been so vivid, so real. Every sensation, every emotion had felt like something I had lived through, not imagined.
 
Even as I reassured them, I couldn't shake the memory of the squire's determination. His relentless drive to protect the manor, to prove his worth—it felt like a piece of me that had been buried deep within, waiting to resurface.
 
I glanced at the clock. It was already 7 a.m.
 
With a sigh, I pushed myself out of bed and grabbed a towel. The warm water from the shower offered some comfort, washing away the tension in my muscles, but it couldn't erase the lingering feelings from the dream.
 
As I got dressed and headed to school, the squire's emotions stayed with me, nagging at the edges of my mind. It was as if he were whispering to me, urging me to remember something I had long forgotten.
 
By the time I arrived at school, I had managed to push most of the thoughts aside. I walked into my classroom and took my usual seat at the back corner, near the window. The sunlight streamed through the glass, casting a soft glow on the desk in front of me.
 
I reached into my backpack and pulled out a book, flipping it open to where I had last left off. It was a story about a dragon that craved connection and affection, a creature misunderstood and feared by the world around it.
 
The words drew me in, pulling me away from reality.
 
Ring!
 
Ring!!
 
Ring!!!
 
The sharp chime of the bell startled me, signaling the start of class. The teacher entered the room, their voice cutting through the chatter of my classmates.
 
"There's a new transfer student joining us today," the teacher announced, a hint of excitement in their tone.
 
I barely paid attention. New students came and went all the time, and I had no interest in them. I returned to my book, eager to escape back into the world of the dragon.
 
But then, something unexpected happened.
 
As the transfer student walked into the room, I felt it. A strange sensation, like a jolt of electricity running through my body.
 
I looked up, and for a brief moment, time seemed to stop.
 
There was something about them, something I couldn't explain.
 
A tingling sensation coursed through me, unfamiliar and overwhelming.