Simon and his mother spoke about how best to use the money he had stolen, and his mother wanted to use it sparingly due to the fear of not being able to obtain more money in the future and the fear of people noticing the sudden change in their living conditions.
However, Simon rejected his mother’s suggestions and told her that he wanted her to buy more food for the two of them.
First of all, he did not like the way she looked—how malnourished she was, and how hungry he himself usually felt.
Eating once every two days was terrible, and with his growing body, even eating twice a day did not cut it for him.
With the money he stole, he wanted both himself and his mother to be eating three times a day.
His mother argued that such reckless spending was foolish, but when Simon told her that he needed nutrients to develop a healthy body—at least enough to become a capable warrior in the future—she eventually agreed.
Simon knew that his mother wished for him to become an extraordinary warrior, but she did not harbor unrealistic dreams like hoping he would become a powerful warrior in a minor clan—or, even more absurdly, one of the six major clans.
Using his mother’s modest dreams as justification to obtain better food, she complied. Though she asked how they were going to get money in the future, Simon replied with a nonchalant expression that he would steal from the rich in their tribe.
That night, both he and his mother slept, though their minds were filled with a million thoughts.
Time passed, and four years later, Simon, now fifteen years old, stood behind his house with a wooden sword in his hand.
His eyes were closed as he held the sword steady, its tip an inch from his nose.
In front of him was a wooden tree riddled with scars and cuts, and a moment later, a leaf drifted down before him.
His eyes snapped open, and he swung his sword at the leaf with lightning speed.
However, the scene where the leaf was split in two did not occur. Instead, the leaf merely fluttered away as Simon’s wooden sword brushed against it.
Simon’s lips twitched repeatedly before he let out a sigh.
"It seems I still have much more training to do with the sword."
He lowered his stance and examined the wooden sword in his hand.
"I thought that with my knowledge and experience, I would be able to master the sword quickly, but it seems it’ll still take time with this body... Besides, it’s only been a year since I started training with a sword, and—"
He turned the wooden sword to the side. Seeing its rough edges and crude craftsmanship, he could not help but sigh again.
With such a poorly made sword, hoping to cut a leaf at his current strength was extremely difficult.
Difficult? Yes.
Impossible? No.
One reason it took so long for him to begin sword training was because obtaining a sword was immensely difficult in their tribe.
Unlike Earth, where trees were abundant, in their tribe—where water was scarce and precious—trees were exceedingly rare, which made wood extremely valuable.
Nobody sold wooden swords in their tribe, and swords made of metal or bone were far too expensive for him to buy.
Well... it wasn’t that he didn’t have the money. Buying a bone or metal sword would attract unwanted attention and suspicion.
People would begin asking questions about how he acquired the money, and he didn’t want that—at least not while he was still so weak.
As for how he eventually obtained a wooden sword?
He stole a large piece of wood from one of the richer demons in the tribe—along with a small stash of their wealth.
He crafted the sword himself, and because of his current body and the lack of proper tools, the result was rather... disappointing.
"Oh well. I guess I’ll just keep practicing with this sword until I get a better one."
Simon shrugged and began walking back toward his house. But as he approached, two demon patrol officers appeared from around the corner.
"Trargon. Aroth." He greeted them with a nod and a smile.
"Blackmoon. It seems you’re getting better and better with the sword. I’m sure the Tribal Chief will be pleased—you’ll definitely become a talented hunter in the future," Trargon said with a smile as he patted Simon’s shoulder.
"I can’t wait for your coming of age. It’s in a week, right?" Aroth said as he glanced at the wooden sword in Simon’s hand, then at the tree riddled with scars. The demon shook his head, a hint of pity in his eyes.
Simon noticed Aroth’s expression but didn’t mind. He knew the pity stemmed from being born in a minor, declining tribe. If he had been born into one of the six major tribes, he would have had far more opportunities to grow stronger.
"Yes. I’ll be sixteen in a week, and by then, I’ll finally be able to become a warrior," Simon replied, pulling Aroth out of his thoughts.
Aroth blinked, then smiled.
"Not only me—many people are waiting for your coming of age. Almost everyone in the village is curious about what grade of bloodline you’ll have and what chaos affinity you’ll awaken. Even the Tribal Chief is hopeful."
Simon merely smiled, keeping his thoughts to himself.
"We have great hope in you, Blackmoon. Your talent with the sword is frightening. You might be the one who changes the fate of our tribe for the better," Trargon said as he patted Simon’s shoulder once more before turning to leave.
Just as they were about to depart, Aroth stopped and turned back toward Simon.
"Oh, right—I almost forgot. I heard rumors that a big shot is coming to our tribe. Probably a merchant, or maybe someone from a minor clan. I don’t know for sure, but they should arrive by tomorrow morning. Just thought you should know."
Simon’s eyes flickered slightly at this information before he nodded.
"Thank you."