Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra Chapter 30: Old man once again

As I struggled to focus, a voice cut through my training. "You….."

I froze, the voice piercing through the fog of my concentration. It sounded familiar as if I had heard it recently. I turned to see the source of the voice, and there, standing a few feet away, was the old man I had shared my als with at the training camp.

He looked at with a mixture of curiosity and concern, his weathered face illuminated by the moonlight. "What are you doing out here, boy?" he asked, his voice gentle but firm.

I wiped the sweat from my brow, trying to catch my breath. "Training," I replied simply, feeling the weight of my exhaustion settle in.

"I see."

The old man's eyes roved over , scrutinizing every inch of my form with a discerning gaze. His eyes lingered on my right eye, a faint flicker of recognition and concern crossing his face. I knew why. It was the scar—new and still raw—that marred the skin just below my eye, a cruel reminder of my encounter with the 'Knight of the Wind.'

"That scar," he said softly, his voice tinged with a mix of pity and curiosity. "It's new."

I nodded, my jaw tightening. "A gift from the 'Knight of the Wind.'"

The old man's eyes were narrowed slightly as if he had not understood what I ant. It was understandable, as that na was a nickna that I gave to that knight. Sothing that was personal to .

Still, he shook his head slowly. "It seems you have had your fair share of the battlefield."

Hearing him say this, I did not answer. There was no need to tell anything, as it was not important.

"But pushing yourself like that will not help you remove your pain." Yet, there was a small sense of gentleness there. Sothing that I did not quite understand was the reason why.

I remained silent, my gaze fixed on the old man as he studied . His concern was palpable, but I wasn't in the mood for a heart-to-heart. Not now, not ever. The battlefield had taught to keep my feelings buried deep where they couldn't be used against .

The old man sighed, sensing my reluctance to speak. "Sotis," he said, his voice low and gentle, "to get rid of the fire inside you, you need to share it with soone else."

I stiffened at his words, a flicker of annoyance crossing my face. "I don't need to share anything," I replied, my voice cold and detached. "I just need to train."

I raised my spear once more, resuming my practice with a renewed intensity. The rhythmic movents of the weapon were a familiar comfort, a way to drown out the noise in my head. But even as I trained, I could feel the old man's eyes on , his presence a quiet reminder of the words he had spoken.

He shook his head slowly, watching with a mixture of pity and understanding. "Training is important, boy, but it's not everything. You can't carry all that pain alone. It's too heavy a burden."

I ignored him, focusing on the precise movents of my spear. Each thrust and parry was a way to channel my frustration, my anger, and my pain.

I didn't need his pity or his advice.

No. I did not pity anyone in this world.

This world that had been cruel to , not once, not twice, but countless tis, and all the people who had watched everything without standing beside .

And when I just found sowhere that I had felt like I belonged, it was gone once again.

At this point, if I had not understood it, I would just be a dumb fuck.

'I am all alone.'

That was what all that was about. Nothing more, nothing less.

So, there was no need for pity or anything.

The old man remained silent for a while, just standing there, his presence a steady, unyielding force. Finally, he spoke again, his voice soft but firm. "You remind of soone I knew long ago. He, too, thought he could handle everything on his own, that he didn't need anyone's help. But he was wrong."

I paused, my grip on the spear tightening. It reminded of the first day that we had t. Though it was brief, he had told a story like this at that ti, too.

His words cut through the haze of my concentration, stirring sothing deep inside .

"Do you know why he was wrong, kid?"

"Don't ask ."

The old man persisted, his tone gentle yet insistent. "Do you know why?"

There was sothing in his manner of speaking that made it hard for to refuse. Despite my desire to push him away, I found myself answering. "Is it because he was not able to carry the burden alone?"

The old man shook his head slowly, a faint smile on his lips. "No, it wasn't that. The reason he was wrong was that the more he thought he needed to do everything alone, the more he made the whole world around him about only himself. His world beca only about him; he always thought the world was there to get to him. Everyone always wanted to go against him."

I frowned, trying to make sense of his words. "What does that an?"

"It ans," the old man continued, "that in the process of doing so, he blinded himself. He blinded himself to the misfortune of others, and there were other people like him. People who were struggling, suffering, and fighting their own battles. But he couldn't see that because he was too focused on his own pain and his own struggles."

I tightened my grip on the spear, his words resonating uncomfortably within . "So you're saying that by trying to handle everything alone, he beca selfish?"

The old man nodded. "Yes, in a way. He beca so consud by his own burdens that he couldn't see the bigger picture. He couldn't see that there were others who could share the load, who could understand and support him. And in isolating himself, he lost sight of the connections that could have given his life more aning."

I frowned at the old man's words, trying to digest the implications. His eyes, though weathered and tired, bore into mine with an intensity that made it hard to look away.

"I don't need anyone's help," I muttered, my voice barely audible. "I've managed on my own this long."

The old man chuckled softly, the sound of a low rumble that seed to vibrate through the air. "Oh, you think you've managed, do you? Survived, perhaps. But have you truly lived, boy?"

His words grated on my nerves, and I couldn't help but snap back. "What would you know about it? You don't know anything about ."

"Don't I?" he replied, a sly smile playing on his lips. "I've seen many like you, convinced that their pain is unique, that no one else could possibly understand. But pain, my boy, is the most universal of all experiences."

I clenched my jaw, my grip on the spear tightening. "I don't need a lecture," I said through gritted teeth. "I just need to get stronger."

"Ah, strength," the old man mused, his eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. "Tell , do you think strength is rely about muscle and skill? About swinging a spear until your arms ache and your body is drenched in sweat?"

I didn't answer, but my silence seed to amuse him.

"Strength, true strength, cos from understanding," he continued. "Understanding your own limits and the limits of others. Understanding that sotis, the greatest strength is in allowing yourself to be vulnerable."

I scoffed at that, unable to hide my disdain. "Vulnerability is weakness."

"Is it now?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Tell , who is stronger: the one who hides their wounds and suffers in silence, or the one who bears their scars and seeks the support they need to heal?"

I turned away, unwilling to et his gaze. His words were hitting too close to ho, stirring feelings I didn't want to acknowledge. "I don't have ti for this."

It was annoying to the point where I was even considering leaving this place. I ca here to get rid of the useless thoughts that were accompanying my head, and now I was t with a lecture instead.

'Annoying. But why am I even staying here?'

I asked myself as I grabbed the spear in my hand. Now that I thought about it, was there a need for to stand here?

'But, why should I leave? It is not like I did anything wrong.'

For so reason, the fact that I tried to change places made feel like I was escaping from the old man's words.

And that was annoying.

"….." Thus, without replying, I decided to grab my spear and continued. But, this ti, I focused more on my core and technique rather than mindlessly swinging.

Until the mont I heard the old man say,

"Spear is not a weapon for you."

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