The small garden behind Dr. Chen's clinic was a place of tranquil beauty, filled with medicinal herbs and flowering plants that the doctor cultivated for his practice. A stone bench sat beneath an ancient willow tree, its branches swaying gently in the evening breeze. The setting sun painted everything in warm golden hues, creating an almost ethereal atmosphere.
The mysterious elder had insisted they step outside, claiming he needed fresh air to complete his recovery. Dr. Chen had reluctantly agreed, though he remained nearby, puttering among his herb beds while keeping a watchful eye on his unusual patient.
"Sit," the old man commanded gently, gesturing to the stone bench. "What I'm about to give you requires a proper setting, and this garden has the right... energy."
Wuchen obeyed, though confusion clouded his features. "Sir, I truly don't need any reward. Helping you was just—"
"The right thing to do, yes, you've said that." The elder's eyes twinkled with something that might have been amusement. "But sometimes, young Wuchen, the right thing to do creates ripples that extend far beyond our understanding. Sometimes a simple act of kindness can change the fate of the world itself."
The old man settled beside him on the bench, moving with a fluid grace that seemed to defy both his apparent age and his recent collapse. Up close, Wuchen could see that despite the wrinkles and white hair, the elder's skin possessed an almost luminous quality, and his eyes held depths that seemed to contain centuries of experience.
"Tell me," the elder continued, "what do you know of the martial world's history? Of the great legends and artifacts that shaped our realm?"
Wuchen considered the question carefully. "Only what any servant might know, sir. Stories passed down through generations, tales of legendary masters and their incredible weapons, ancient sects that could shake the heavens with their power."
"And do you believe these stories are true?"
"Some of them, perhaps. Though I imagine many have grown in the telling."
The old man nodded approvingly. "Wisdom beyond your years. Yes, legends do tend to expand like ripples in a pond. But sometimes..." He reached into his robes again, withdrawing the cloth-wrapped object. "Sometimes the truth is far more extraordinary than any legend."
With deliberate ceremony, the elder began unwrapping the object. The cloth was fine silk, midnight black and inscribed with symbols that seemed to shift and move in the fading light. As each layer fell away, Wuchen felt a strange sensation building in his chest—a warmth that spread outward from his heart to the tips of his fingers.
Finally, the last layer of cloth fell away, revealing what lay within.
It was a dagger, approximately thirty centimeters in length, with a blade that appeared to be forged from black jade or some similar dark stone. The craftsmanship was exquisite, with intricate patterns etched along the fuller and a guard shaped like the wings of some mythical creature. The handle was wrapped in dark leather that looked ancient yet perfectly preserved, and the pommel bore a single character in an archaic script that Wuchen couldn't read.
But it was more than the dagger's appearance that commanded attention. Even without any cultivation ability, Wuchen could sense something emanating from the weapon—a presence that was both magnificent and terrifying, like standing before a sleeping dragon.
"This," the elder said softly, "is not merely a weapon. It is a legacy. A responsibility. A burden and a blessing combined into one."
Wuchen stared at the dagger, transfixed. "Sir, I... I can't accept something so valuable. I'm just a servant. I have no training with weapons, no—"
"No cultivation ability," the old man finished. "Yes, I noticed that about you immediately. Do you think that makes you less worthy? Less deserving of the heavens' favor?"
The question struck deep. Wuchen's inability to cultivate was the defining failure of his life, the source of every humiliation and hardship he'd endured. "I... yes. How could it not? In this world, power is everything. Without cultivation, I'm nothing."
"Interesting." The elder extended the dagger toward him. "Take it. Hold it for just a moment."
Despite his reservations, Wuchen found himself reaching out. The moment his fingers closed around the handle, the world exploded into sensation.
It wasn't pain, exactly, nor was it pleasure. It was like being struck by lightning made of pure awareness, as if every nerve in his body had suddenly awakened after spending twenty-two years asleep. The warmth in his chest expanded into a roaring furnace, and for an instant—just an instant—Wuchen felt connected to something vast and ancient and utterly beyond human comprehension.
Visions flashed through his mind: battles that shook the earth and split the sky, a figure in black robes standing alone against armies, towers of light rising from barren wastelands, and through it all, the dagger—sometimes small and simple as it appeared now, sometimes transformed into weapons of unimaginable power.
Then, as quickly as it had begun, the sensation faded, leaving Wuchen gasping and trembling on the stone bench.
"Fascinating," the elder murmured, studying Wuchen's reaction with intense interest. "Even more promising than I hoped."
"What... what was that?" Wuchen managed to ask, his voice shaking.
"Recognition," the old man replied simply. "The blade acknowledges you, young Wuchen. That is exceedingly rare, and entirely beyond my ability to control or predict."
Wuchen looked down at the dagger in his hands. It appeared perfectly ordinary now, showing no signs of the incredible energy he'd felt moments before. "I don't understand. What is this weapon? Why are you giving it to me?"
The elder was quiet for a long moment, his eyes distant as if seeing events from long ago. "A thousand years past, there lived a cultivator of such incredible talent that he surpassed all who came before. He was brilliant, powerful, and utterly convinced of his own righteousness. In his arrogance, he sought to create the ultimate weapon—a blade that would make its wielder invincible."
"He succeeded?" Wuchen asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.
"He succeeded too well. The weapon he created was indeed supreme, but it came with a will of its own and appetites that could not be satisfied. It drove him to madness, and through him, brought about tragedies that scarred the martial world for generations."
The old man's voice grew heavy with remembered sorrow. "Eventually, the combined effort of every righteous sect in the realm was required to defeat him and seal away his creation. The weapon was hidden, its very existence erased from history, and it was hoped that it would never again see the light of day."
"But you have it now," Wuchen observed.
"I was one of those who participated in its sealing. The burden of guarding it fell to me, and I have carried that responsibility for centuries." The elder's eyes fixed on Wuchen with startling intensity. "But I am old, and my time grows short. More importantly, I have come to believe that perhaps the weapon was not inherently evil—perhaps it was corrupted by the darkness in its wielder's heart."
"You think I could... purify it somehow?"
"I think," the old man said carefully, "that you possess something exceedingly rare in this world: a pure heart. You helped a stranger at personal cost with no expectation of reward. You show no signs of the ambition and greed that consume most cultivators. And most tellingly, the weapon responded to you in a way I have never seen."
Wuchen examined the dagger again, trying to reconcile its mundane appearance with the incredible story he'd just heard. "But I have no cultivation. How could I possibly wield such a weapon?"
The elder smiled—the first truly warm expression Wuchen had seen from him. "Ah, but that is the weapon's greatest secret, and perhaps its greatest blessing. This blade... it does not require cultivation. In fact, it actively rejects those who possess internal energy. Its power can only be wielded by one who is completely ordinary in terms of martial ability."
The words hit Wuchen like a physical blow. "You mean..."
"Your inability to cultivate, which you see as your greatest weakness, is actually the one qualification that makes you suitable to wield this blade. What others would consider a curse, the heavens may have intended as a blessing."
For a moment, Wuchen couldn't speak. The idea that his lifelong shame might actually be a form of divine providence was too enormous to grasp immediately.
"I still don't understand why you're trusting me with this," he finally managed.
"Because," the elder said, rising from the bench with fluid grace, "I have spent centuries waiting for someone exactly like you. Someone with the strength to remain good despite suffering, the wisdom to help others without thought of reward, and the humility to question their own worthiness."
He placed a weathered hand on Wuchen's shoulder. "This blade has slept for a thousand years, waiting for the right wielder. I believe that wielder is you, Li Wuchen. But remember this warning: never seek to learn cultivation. Never attempt to gather internal energy. The moment you do, the blade will abandon you forever."
"I... I don't know what to say."
"Say you'll accept the responsibility. Say you'll use this power only for good, to protect the innocent and uphold justice in a world that sorely needs both."
Wuchen looked down at the dagger one more time, feeling the weight of destiny settling on his shoulders. "I accept," he whispered.
The old man smiled and began to fade, becoming translucent like morning mist. "Remember, young Wuchen—sometimes the weakest become the strongest, and sometimes the last become first. Trust in yourself, and trust in the blade. Your journey begins now."
With those words, he vanished completely, leaving only the scent of mountain flowers and the dagger in Wuchen's trembling hands.