parentshiftbook Chapter 67 - The Smoke of Regret
Chapter 67 - The Smoke of Regret
In the silent, grand hall of the Sword Pavilion—a place once lively with the chatter of swordsmen and warriors—there was now nothing but a haunting stillness. The cold marble floors echoed faint footsteps, subtle yet firm, as a figure moved purposefully toward a large, imposing door at the far end of the corridor.The man pushed the door open, its ancient hinges creaking softly as the wood shifted. As soon as the gap allowed air to flow through, a strong, pungent smell greeted his senses—harsh and acrid, the unmistakable odor of cigarettes. His nose wrinkled, his brows drew together into a frustrated frown, and he immediately raised his voice with irritation.
"Can’t you even open the windows?" he barked sharply, his tone both annoyed and exasperated. "This f*cking smell is making me lose my mind."
His voice bounced off the high walls of the room, disturbing the calm atmosphere. He turned to the source of the stench—toward the corner where sunlight dared not reach, in the same spot that remained unchanged for years.
There, leaning back nonchalantly on a slightly worn wooden chair, sat a man with an air of unfazed superiority. A thin trail of smoke rose from the cigarette between his fingers, curling lazily into the air. A large, unfolded newspaper rested in his lap, one corner twitching as he turned the page with a casual flick. He inhaled deeply, letting the cigarette burn just a little more, before exhaling a cloud of smoke with practiced ease.
This man was no ordinary smoker. He was the Sword Emperor—Maximus. A man who once ruled battlefields with an indomitable will and unmatched swordsmanship. Though dressed in simple clothes, his mere presence was overwhelming, carrying with it a weight that only those who had witnessed war and death could bear. His body was relaxed, but his eyes—those piercing orbs hidden behind the curtain of smoke—remained alert as ever.
As he looked up from the newspaper, a faint smile curved his lips. A smile not of mockery, but one of familiarity. His assistant—Henry—stood at the doorway, still complaining, still nagging, and still worried.
"Henry," Maximus said in a voice as calm as a silent lake. "There’s no need to nag about it. Really, there’s not much time left."
Those words, though spoken casually, struck like thunder in Henry’s heart.
The younger man froze, his mouth half-open. His hands, once animated in frustration, dropped to his sides as if he had suddenly remembered something painful. Silence fell once again, but this time, it was laden with emotion. His lips trembled ever so slightly. He looked as though he might cry any moment but held it in with great difficulty.
Maximus let out a quiet sigh, the cigarette slowly burning in his fingers.
"We can’t do anything about it," he said softly, his gaze no longer on Henry but on something distant, something unreachable. "This time... it’s inevitable."
Henry lowered his gaze, fighting back the sting behind his eyes. His voice, when he spoke, was soft, hesitant.
"Sir... are you really sure you want to accept a disciple from this year’s academy competition?" he asked carefully. "We can wait longer... wait for proper reports on their capabilities and achievements. We can recruit someone more suitable later. There’s no need to rush, is there?"
Maximus didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he chuckled—an odd sound amidst the heavy air of sorrow and worry. It was a deep laugh, the kind that came not from humor but from something instinctual, something beyond reason.
"Henry," he said, eyes now twinkling with a strange light, "I don’t know why, but I can feel it... something good is going to happen at that academy competition."
He took another drag from the cigarette, smoke rolling from his lips like mist.
"Maybe," he continued, "just maybe... I’ll find someone outstanding among them. A brilliant student. Someone worthy of inheriting my legacy."
Henry looked unconvinced. He sighed loudly, resigned to the whims of his master. "Okay... Let’s do as you say. But, please—at least consider their behavior, background, discipline, mental state, everything! You can’t just pick a random genius and expect them to carry your legacy. They need to be more than talented."
His nagging tone returned as if a dam of concern had cracked open again. But this time, Maximus didn’t interrupt. He simply smiled, letting Henry’s words fill the air.
The Sword Emperor then leaned back, allowing his head to rest against the wall. For a while, his mind drifted away—away from Henry, away from the Sword Pavilion, and back to a time long past.
In that silent drift, he remembered...
A time of warmth. Of family. Of comrades. Of laughter around a campfire. Of sword duels with friends under blooming cherry trees. A time when his hands held not only a blade but also the small, soft hands of his son—his pride, his legacy, his joy.
But now... all of it was gone.
That warmth had long faded, leaving behind nothing but the cold ache of loneliness.
"Sir?" Henry’s voice brought him back. "Are you listening?"
More nagging. More worry.
But instead of scolding or irritation, Maximus smiled again—this time, genuinely.
’Yes,’ he thought to himself with a faint sense of comfort. ’I still have my assistant, Henry.’
As his thoughts settled, the weight of the day began to press down on him. He closed his eyes, letting the tension in his body dissolve. Slowly, gradually, sleep pulled him under its gentle, deceptive current.
And once again, the same nightmare returned.
The memory that haunted him like a scar engraved into his very soul.
In the dark fog of the dreamscape, he stood there—blood on his sword, body trembling, knees bruised from battle. Before him lay the mangled body of his son, eyes wide, lips frozen mid-cry. The opponent—that devil—stood only meters away, wounded, exhausted, vulnerable.
Maximus could have ended it.
He should have ended it.
But he hesitated.
Just for a moment.
heless.
As he walked away from the training ground, muttering strategies and imagining Leo’s defeat for the hundredth time, the winds seemed to whisper around him, carrying secrets and promises into the future.
A storm was coming.
And it was being brewed by the ambition of boys turned warriors, by the guilt of fallen emperors, and by the legacy that refused to die quietly.
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Chapter 67 ends
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