The world outside the secluded valley of Qinghe was nothing like the gentle, sheltered calm of the Jade Cloud Sect. Where the village was wrapped in the soft embrace of nature's quiet, the lands beyond it spoke only in harsh winds, jagged peaks, and untamed forests.
Li Shen stood at the foot of the Baiyun Mountains, his gaze fixed on the winding path that led upward, into the unknown. Behind him, the valley seemed to retreat into the mist, as if it were a dream fading with the morning light. The air here was crisp, and the wind—always present, always shifting—carried with it the scent of pine and distant earth. A momentary shiver ran through him, the instinct of someone standing on the precipice of a great change.
He glanced down at his sword. Wind's Echo.
The blade hummed softly in its scabbard, a vibration that seemed to resonate with the wind itself. Though it had only just begun to awaken, Shen felt the pull within it, a quiet stir that reminded him of the power waiting to be unlocked. His fingers grazed the hilt, and he could almost hear the distant song it had sung to him earlier—the sound of an unseen force calling him forward.
But it wasn't just the sword that called to him.
It was the question. The question that had followed him for as long as he could remember: Where had his father gone?
Li Feng, the Crimson Tempest. The master swordsman whose name had been whispered with awe and fear in every corner of the kingdom. His disappearance had never been fully explained. Some said he had fallen in battle, others claimed he had simply vanished into the mountains, seeking enlightenment. But the truth, as always, was more elusive.
Shen exhaled sharply, the cold air biting at his lungs. He turned from the mountain path and glanced back at the village one last time. His mother, an ever-present figure in his heart, had not tried to stop him. She had known the day would come when he would leave, just as she had known that he would always carry the weight of his father's legacy.
"Be safe, my son," her words echoed in his mind, though he had left them behind only hours ago.
He nodded once, a silent promise to himself and to her, before stepping onto the winding path.
The journey was not easy. The Baiyun Mountains were unforgiving, their cliffs steep and jagged, the trails narrow and winding. The higher he climbed, the more the air thinned, making each breath feel like a struggle. His body ached as the weight of his sword grew heavier with each step, yet he pressed on, for he had no choice. There was no turning back now.
By dusk, he reached the first plateau—a high, barren stretch of land that seemed to stretch endlessly before him. The moon hung low in the sky, casting a silver sheen over the jagged rocks. The wind had picked up, howling through the empty spaces like a thousand voices crying out in a language he could not understand.
It was here that he met the first test of his journey.
From the shadows of a craggy outcrop, a figure appeared. Tall, cloaked in dark robes that billowed in the wind, the figure seemed to emerge from the mountain itself, as if summoned by the very spirits that haunted this place.
Li Shen's hand went instinctively to his sword, fingers brushing the hilt.
"Do not be so quick to draw your blade, young disciple," the figure said, its voice low and gravelly, like the sound of stones scraping against each other. "I do not seek a fight, though I sense that you are eager for one."
Li Shen remained silent, his eyes narrowing as he sized up the stranger. He could feel the power radiating from the figure, an aura of authority that seemed to press against him like the weight of the mountain itself. But there was something else in the air, a sharpness, a sense of danger that prickled his skin.
"What do you want?" Li Shen asked, his voice steady but carrying the weight of a man prepared for conflict.
The figure chuckled softly, a sound that sent a chill down Shen's spine. "You are young, and yet you carry the sword of the Crimson Tempest. Tell me, boy, have you come to follow in your father's footsteps, or are you simply seeking to escape the shadow of his name?"
Shen's grip tightened on the sword, but he did not draw it. "I seek only answers."
The figure tilted its head slightly, as though studying him with ancient eyes that saw beyond the surface. "Answers, you say? Then know this: the path you walk will not be a straight one. Your father's legacy is a heavy burden, one that has twisted the fates of many before you. But you are not your father. And neither will you be."
The stranger raised one hand, and with a flick of his wrist, the wind shifted violently. Shen's cloak fluttered in the sudden gale, and his hair was whipped around his face. The air crackled with the tension of an unspoken challenge.
"You seek to awaken the sword, but do you truly understand what that means?" The figure's eyes gleamed with something dangerous, something knowing. "You are not yet ready, boy. The sword does not answer to those who simply seek power. It answers to those who understand the cost."
Li Shen stepped forward, his heart pounding. "I understand enough."
At that moment, the figure's hand dropped, and the wind stilled. For a long, tense moment, the mountain held its breath.
"You think you do," the figure said softly, as if it were speaking to itself. "Very well. You may walk the path, but remember this: the winds are fickle, and fate is cruel. You will face trials that will break you. If you are not careful, you will lose yourself."
The figure turned to leave, vanishing into the shadows of the mountain as silently as it had come. Li Shen stood alone once more, the weight of those words sinking deep into his chest.
The following days blurred together as Li Shen ascended higher into the mountains, the path growing steeper and more treacherous. He passed through dense forests where the trees seemed to close in around him, their branches heavy with snow, and across high ridges where the wind howled through the jagged peaks like a beast stalking its prey.
The journey was a test of both his physical endurance and his mental fortitude. Each night, he set up camp beneath the cold, indifferent stars, his sword at his side. Each day, he fought the mountain itself, the land that seemed to resist his every step. But it was more than the physical challenge that pressed upon him—it was the gnawing questions, the ones he could not yet answer.
What had happened to his father in the Mountains of Dying Echoes? What had he uncovered before he disappeared?
Every step forward brought him closer to the truth, but also further from the boy he had been in the valley. There were times when he found himself questioning his purpose, when the weight of the sword felt unbearable, the silence of the mountain pressing in from all sides. But each time, he would remember the words of Master Hu: The sword is a question. It asks, and the world answers.
And so, with each unanswered question, Li Shen pressed on. The mountain was relentless, but so was he.
By the time he reached the summit, the first light of dawn was breaking, spilling its pale light across the jagged peaks. The cold had settled into his bones, but the wind had died down, and the world seemed to hold its breath.
There, at the edge of the world, Li Shen could see the distant silhouette of the Mountains of Dying Echoes, dark and foreboding, their peaks shrouded in mist.
The true journey had only just begun.