The wind howled through the charred remnants of what was once the village of Linhe. Ash still clung to the skeletons of homes, and the scorched earth whispered of blood and sorrow. Tianming stood at the edge of the blackened field, his spirit no longer dormant, his blade fully awakened.
His hand trembled as he grasped the hilt of the Heavenbreaker. It pulsed with warmth, like a heartbeat, ancient and aware. It had chosen him — not just for his blood, but for his will.
"You are the last," a voice echoed in his mind. The same voice from the altar, from the dream, from the blade itself. "The blood of the forsaken flows in you still."
He saw the village not as ruins, but as it was — alive in memory. Children laughing. Lanterns swaying in twilight. Then came the fire. The riders. The screams.
And the masked warrior.
The spirit within the Heavenbreaker spoke again, more clearly this time. "Rise, Tianming. What was taken can be reclaimed. But only if you are willing to become what they fear."
He rose.
From this moment, his past was no longer a wound — it
was a weapon.