The dojo was my refuge, perched high above the bustling world I left behind. Years of relentless training had made me infamous—the “Stormblade,” whose skill was whispered of in awe and fear. My name carried weight, a legacy forged in solitude.

One morning, as the sun painted the sky in gold, a figure appeared at the gate. A young man, no older than twenty, stood with a sword strapped to his back. His confident gaze met mine as he bowed low.

“I am Arin,” he said. “I seek to learn from you.”

I studied him, unimpressed. Many...