Echoes in Frost and Stone
The wind howled like wolves as Li Shen crossed into the bitter north.
Gone were the glowing rivers and obsidian walls of the Citadel of Aetherflame. Here, the world stood frozen in time—miles of snow-blanketed wilderness, haunted pines clawing at gray skies, and the ever-present moan of the wind as if the land itself whispered laments.
Wraithbone Hollow was not on any map. It was older than ink, older than song.
It was not a place. It was a wound.
Three days into the glacial wilds, Li Shen's breath turned to shards in the air. He wrapped himself in layers of fur and ashweave, but cold pierced deeper than flesh. The Mirror Vale Blade grew heavier, resonating with the air as if the Hollow called to it.
At night, he dreamed of a white expanse where swords stood like grave markers, and a voice whispered his name—not with threat, but recognition.
He woke sweating.
And on the fifth dawn, he found it.
Wraithbone Hollow.
A crater in the ice, miles wide, ringed by blackened trees twisted in silent agony. From its depths rose broken stone pillars and fractured statues—remnants of a temple long devoured by time. Wind howled up from its maw, heavy with sorrow.
Li Shen descended.
The Grave of Heroes
The Hollow's basin was deeper than expected. With each step down the spiral path, time seemed to slow. Echoes reverberated against the stone, though he made no sound.
Then came the sword mists.
Thousands of broken blades jutted from the snow, each one humming faintly with qi. Some were rusted remnants of iron, others crystalline, others etched with forgotten runes. They were offerings. Or warnings.
A glacial monument stood in the center, carved with the sigil of the First Sword Sect—a crescent moon bisected by a downward blade.
Li Shen approached.
As he placed his palm on the frozen stone, the Mirror Vale Blade pulsed.
A voice exploded into his mind.
"Why do you disturb the bones of the oathbound?"
The snow churned.
And from it rose three specters—warriors clad in ghostlight armor, each wielding translucent weapons formed of memory and wrath. Their faces bore no malice, only sorrow.
Li Shen knew then: these were Remnant Wardens, guardians of Wraithbone Hollow.
They did not ask questions.
They attacked.
The first warden launched forward with a howl, wielding twin sabers of mist. The second raised a war-pike of light, its reach deadly. The third circled, manipulating the battlefield with wide gusts of soulwind.
Li Shen met them all.
He pivoted beneath the twin sabers, striking with Fourth Form: Tidal Reversal, catching the saber's momentum and redirecting it into the ground. He spun, swept his Ocean Soul Blade upward, and deflected the war-pike as it shot toward his chest.
But they moved as one.
This was not a duel—it was a symphony of grief and unity.
The Mirror Vale Blade shimmered.
Sixth Reflection: Memory Cuts the Moment.
A ripple of mirrored qi burst from Li Shen's blade, revealing brief images of each Warden's past—flashes of life, death, and final oaths sworn here. The images disrupted their cohesion, stalling their next strike.
Li Shen pressed the advantage.
Unnamed Flow: Mirror's Grief.
A new form. A new strike.
He moved like light through glass—multiple angles, impossible positions. Each movement was both feint and strike, illusion and force.
The Ocean Soul struck low. The Mirror Vale struck true.
One Warden fell in silence, his form vanishing in a shower of pale ash.
Another stumbled, then shattered.
The third stood firm.
Then knelt.
"You are not here to steal," he said. "You are here to remember."
And with that, the Hollow calmed.
The frozen monument before him cracked.
Light poured through.
Beneath it, buried in ice, was a stairwell spiraling downward—ancient stone slick with frost, lit by blue flame sconces that flickered to life as he passed.
Li Shen descended in silence, his heart growing heavier.
What waited below was no mere sword or secret.
It was the truth of the First Sword.
At the bottom stood a chamber of bones. Not skeletons—but swords. Thousands of them, embedded into the walls, floor, and ceiling. Each humming, each alive with memory.
In the center hovered a blade unlike any other.
Black. Thin. Curved like a crescent smile. Its edge shimmered between existence and void.
The Eidolon Blade.
It was the sword wielded by the First Swordmaster—the one who walked between realms, who forged peace between sky and stone. The one betrayed by his own disciples.
Li Shen stepped forward.
The Ocean Soul Blade and Mirror Vale Blade both vibrated in unison.
The Eidolon Blade recognized him.
And yet—
From the shadows stepped a figure cloaked in crimson silk and obsidian chain.
His face bore the mark of the Ashen Pact.
"You are not the only one who seeks the past," he said.
And he drew a blade of black fire.
The chamber lit with chaos.
This assassin—one of the Ashen Pact's Wraith Blades—was no ordinary killer. He moved with ghoststep, his blade flickering in and out of space. Each strike seared through reality, threatening to tear Li Shen apart on both physical and spiritual planes.
Li Shen answered with the Mirror Vale Blade.
Third Reflection: Echo Shards.
He split his form into three mirrored projections, each attacking from different angles. The assassin blinked between them, but Li Shen rejoined at the perfect moment, striking with Fifth Form: Ocean Heart Breaker—a downward crash of sweeping force that shattered the ground.
Still the assassin fought on.
But Li Shen had seen his master's death.
He would not fall here.
With a breath, he centered his qi.
Unnamed Unity: Mirror Tides the Abyss.
Ocean and Mirror became one.
Li Shen surged like water, cut like light. He feinted low, spun high, and struck through the flicker.
The assassin gasped—impaled by mirrored steel and ocean edge.
He fell to his knees. And smiled.
"You think you've won," he whispered. "But this… was only a delay."
And he dissolved into black ash.
VI. The Eidolon Blade Accepts
Li Shen approached the hovering blade.
It pulsed with resonance unlike any sword he'd ever touched—not elemental, not reflective, but something deeper.
Existential.
He reached forward.
Pain lanced through his arm as memories not his own poured in.
He saw the betrayal of the First Swordmaster. The war of the Nine Schools. The forging of the Hollow Council. The pact sealed not in blood—but in untruth.
And he saw one thing more.
A name.
"Li Shen."
Spoken not in awe.
But in fear.
The blade bonded.
And the Hollow shook.