The infirmary reeked of herbs and ash. Lanterns flickered against the wooden partitions, casting long shadows over the wounded. Every cough, every groan, every chime of ceramic bowls scraped against Han Wei-Lin's skull.
He lay on a thin cot, arms wrapped in stiff bandages, ribs aching with every breath. His body bore the memory of Zhi-Hao's strikes: his wrist throbbed where the blade had nearly severed tendons, his shoulder pulsed with heat where the strike had cracked bone.
When he closed his eyes, he saw it again—Zhi-Hao's sword flashing like lightning, his own clumsy stance, his own trembling knees. The moment steel had cut through the air toward his throat—then the desperate sidestep that had spared him, skin split but life intact.
His heart hammered faster. He gritted his teeth, forcing his breath to slow. He had survived—but survival felt like mockery.
The partition scraped open. A boy stepped inside, robes crisp and posture sharp, eyes glinting with the cold amusement of a hawk.
"Not bad," the boy said, folding his arms. "Most crumble before Liang Zhi-Hao in seconds. You… at least gave him a warm-up."
Wei-Lin forced himself upright, ignoring the pain. "And who are you supposed to be?"
"Wu Jian," the boy replied. His voice carried the weight of recognition. Murmurs from other partitions followed, whispers of Top Ten, the strategist, untouchable Wu Jian.
Wei-Lin narrowed his eyes. "Why are you here?"
Jian's smirk widened slightly. "Curiosity. You're not skilled enough to stand against Zhi-Hao. Yet you lasted. Which means something else kept you alive." He leaned closer, eyes sharp. "What are you hiding?"
Wei-Lin tensed. "Nothing."
Before Jian could respond, the infirmary doors slammed open. Cold wind swept in, killing every conversation. Healers froze mid-motion, students fell silent.
A tall man entered—robes of black silk embroidered with golden fire, his steps slow but crushing. His presence made the air heavier, pressing down on lungs and bones alike.
Master Shen Zhao.
The head instructor's gaze moved like a blade through the room. For one terrifying heartbeat, it locked on Wei-Lin. The boy felt his blood still, his soul bared.
"You," Shen Zhao commanded the healers, his voice rolling like thunder. "Leave us."
Within moments, the infirmary emptied. Even Wu Jian bowed and slipped out, though his gaze lingered.
Shen Zhao approached. His eyes were ancient, measuring, unblinking. "Han Wei-Lin. You stood against Zhi-Hao."
Wei-Lin's throat was dry. "…I endured."
The master's gaze sharpened. "No. You were guided. Something stirred in you." He leaned close, the air thick with his pressure. "A spark."
Wei-Lin's chest constricted. "I don't understand."
Shen Zhao's lips curved faintly. "You will." He turned, robes flaring like storm clouds. "The academy tests strength, yes. But it also tests destiny. Many are talented. Few are chosen."
Before Wei-Lin could speak, Shen Zhao was gone.
Silence fell. His words hung heavier than any wound. Chosen… destiny… a spark.
Wei-Lin lay back, staring at the rafters, heart racing. The words repeated endlessly. Chosen? Him?
That night, sleep refused him. The infirmary grew still, students' breaths rising and falling in shallow rhythm. Yet Wei-Lin's eyes stayed open.
Then—
A whisper.
At first he thought it was a dream. A faint hiss, like wind curling through cracks. But it grew louder, curling around his ears, seeping into his chest.
He sat up, scanning the room. Everyone slept soundly. The whisper persisted. Come.
Wei-Lin's pulse quickened. He rose, bare feet pressing against cold stone, and followed the sound.
It led him to the far wall. His fingers brushed the surface—and the stone shifted, a faint seam glowing blue.
The whisper surged, commanding. Come.
Wei-Lin pressed harder. The wall cracked open, revealing a spiraling passage, damp air rushing out. Without thinking, he stepped inside.
The descent felt endless. His breaths grew shallow, his legs trembling, the whispers tugging him deeper.
Finally, the passage opened into a cavern lit by eerie blue flames. Stalactites hung like teeth, shadows dancing wildly against the walls. At the center stood a stone altar, cracked with age.
Upon it rested a blade.
Obsidian black, liquid shadows rippling across its surface, edges jagged like broken glass. The whispers screamed now, a thousand voices clawing at his mind.
Wei-Lin staggered forward, clutching his head. His vision blurred—images surged into him: mountains shattering, oceans boiling, skies splitting. He saw armies burning, rivers of corpses, and through it all, a figure cloaked in both shadow and light—Qin Xi.
His chest felt as if it were being split open. His legs buckled, but something forced him toward the altar. His hand trembled above the hilt.
Take me.
The voice boomed inside his skull, drowning every other thought. You are weak. Fragile. Forgotten. But take me—and rise. Refuse, and you will rot in mediocrity.
The cavern shook violently. Flames lashed upward. Rocks split as phantom figures poured from the walls—armored warriors with hollow eyes, blades dripping black fire.
Wei-Lin gasped, stumbling back as they lunged. The first swung its sword—Wei-Lin barely ducked, the edge carving sparks from the stone. Another slammed into him, claws raking across his chest. Pain shot through him, real and sharp.
He swung blindly, his fists useless. A phantom's blade cut into his arm—blood spattered the altar.
The whispers roared louder. Take me, and fight!
Wei-Lin screamed, dropping to his knees. His hand hovered inches from the hilt. He could feel the heat, the pulse of power, the intoxicating promise. His body demanded he grab it—his mind screamed not to.
He clenched his teeth, slamming his fist against the stone instead. "NO!"
The cavern convulsed. The phantoms shattered like glass, blue fire flaring before vanishing. Silence crashed down.
Wei-Lin collapsed against the altar, chest heaving, sweat soaking his robes. His blood dripped onto the stone, steaming against its surface.
For a long moment, nothing moved. Then—footsteps.
Lantern light spilled across the cavern. A tall figure emerged from the passage, expression calm but sharp.
Wu Jian.
He lifted the lantern higher, gaze flicking from Wei-Lin's trembling form to the obsidian blade.
"So," Jian said quietly, "you found it."
Wei-Lin froze. "…You knew?"
Jian's smirk was thin, unreadable. "The academy hides many secrets. That blade is the greatest of them. Dangerous… and tempting."
The flames guttered. Shadows writhed across the walls.
Wei-Lin's pulse thundered. For the first time, he understood—this was no mere academy. He had stepped into something far older, far deadlier.
And Wu Jian—was he friend, or rival?