The cavern's air was heavy with silence. Wu Jian's lantern swayed faintly, throwing fractured light over the cracked altar. The black blade pulsed with faint ripples, as if alive, still whispering in the edges of Han Wei-Lin's mind.
"You shouldn't be here," Wu Jian said, his voice calm but sharp. "That sword has destroyed stronger men than you."
Wei-Lin's breathing was ragged. His hand trembled near his side, still aching where phantom claws had torn his flesh. "I didn't… I didn't take it."
"That's the only reason you're still alive." Jian stepped closer, studying the boy with narrowed eyes. "Most who hear its whispers can't resist. They seize the blade, and it consumes them within days."
Wei-Lin swallowed hard. The memory of the whispers, the intoxicating promise of strength, still scraped his ears. "Then why keep it here? Why let anyone find it?"
Jian smirked faintly. "Because temptation reveals truth. Those who break are discarded. Those who endure…" He let the words hang, eyes glinting. "…become interesting."
Wei-Lin's chest tightened. He had survived the phantoms, but barely. If this was a test, it felt less like training and more like cruel fate.
Before he could respond, the cavern shook. Dust cascaded from the ceiling, the altar vibrating under his palms. The whispers flared again, violent, frantic. He comes… he comes…
Jian's expression sharpened. He blew out the lantern, plunging them into darkness. "Not a word. Follow me."
The two slipped back through the passage, the cavern's shadows writhing as though alive.
—— Elsewhere — On the Eastern Frontier—
The sky split with light.
An army of elite cultivators — known as the Azure Vanguard, the empire's spearhead against chaos — had formed ranks atop a ruined plain. Their leader, Commander Bai Rong, stood with a gleaming halberd, aura blazing with silver fire. Behind him, a hundred warriors raised weapons, qi roaring like a storm.
Their target was a lone figure standing calmly among the corpses of their fallen scouts.
Qin Xi.
He wore plain robes of deep crimson, unadorned save for a thin golden clasp at his throat. His hair fell loose, and his hands were folded casually behind his back. His eyes — cold, depthless — regarded the vanguard with faint amusement.
"You are the empire's proudest defenders?" His voice carried without effort, rippling across the field. "How disappointing."
Commander Bai Rong raised his halberd high. "Qin Xi! Your crimes against the empire end today. By the will of the heavens, we will cut you down!"
A hundred voices roared as one, qi flaring bright enough to sear the clouds. The earth trembled beneath the force.
Qin Xi tilted his head. "So noisy."
He lifted a single hand.
The vanguard surged forward — blades cloaked in flame, arrows streaking light, talismans exploding with thunder. The plain became a storm of power, every strike aimed to crush him utterly.
Qin Xi flicked his fingers.
The storm stopped.
Every arrow froze midair. Every blade halted inches from his body, as if the world itself had obeyed his will. Flames hung still, lightning paused mid-strike.
The warriors' eyes widened.
Then, with a lazy wave of his hand, Qin Xi reversed it all.
Blades turned in their masters' hands, talismans detonated against the chests that had unleashed them, arrows ripped backward into the throats of their archers.
In a heartbeat, half the vanguard lay broken on the ground, lifeless eyes staring skyward.
Commander Bai Rong roared, qi exploding into a pillar of silver fire. He leapt, halberd blazing, pouring every ounce of cultivation into a single earth-shaking strike.
Qin Xi caught the weapon between two fingers.
The silver flames sputtered and died.
"Pathetic," Qin Xi whispered.
He snapped the halberd like dry wood and pressed a single finger against Bai Rong's chest. The commander convulsed, eyes wide with terror, before his body collapsed into dust, scattering on the wind.
The battlefield fell silent. The few surviving vanguard staggered back, trembling. Their weapons shook, their auras flickered.
Qin Xi glanced at them, his expression one of faint boredom. "Leave. Carry my message. Tell your masters the world belongs to me now."
None dared move. Then one fled, then another, until the field was empty save for corpses and the lone figure standing amid them, untouched.
Qin Xi closed his eyes briefly, tilting his head as though listening to something distant. A faint smile curved his lips.
"Yes… the spark has appeared."
Back at the Academy
Wei-Lin stumbled from the hidden passage, lungs burning as he reentered the infirmary. His wounds had reopened, bandages soaked red. He collapsed against his cot, forcing his breathing to steady.
Wu Jian stood at the doorway, silhouetted in moonlight. His eyes were sharp, calculating.
"You'll play it off, won't you?" Jian murmured. "Act as if nothing happened. But I saw how that blade reacted to you. I'll be watching, Han Wei-Lin. Very closely."
He vanished into the shadows before Wei-Lin could answer.
Wei-Lin stared at the ceiling, exhaustion dragging at his limbs. But inside, unease coiled tighter than ever.
The whispers of the blade. The shadows in the cavern. Shen Zhao's words about destiny.
And somewhere beyond these walls, an unknown figure named, Qin Xi had crushed heroes like insects. Wei-Lin did not know his name, but he felt it, deep in his bones: this was the storm he was walking into.
He clenched his fists weakly. His body was broken, his strength still laughable. But he could not stop.
Not when destiny itself was watching.
Wei-Lin lay still, staring at the faint cracks in the ceiling above his cot. The academy's noises had dulled for the night — footsteps in distant corridors, muffled laughter from dormitories, the rustle of leaves outside the window. Life went on as if nothing had changed.
But within him, everything had.
He could still feel the shadows of the cavern crawling under his skin, the phantom claws raking his ribs, the intoxicating pull of the black blade. It had whispered his name, not anyone else's. Why him? He was no chosen heir, no genius, no warrior with a shining destiny.
And yet, for the first time, he wondered if his weakness itself was part of the design. If fate had left him nothing so that he might someday seize everything.
He clenched his fists, knuckles whitening.
"I don't know what you want from me," he muttered into the dark. "But I won't run. Not anymore."
The words trembled, half oath, half plea.
Outside, the wind shifted. Clouds drifted across the moon, and for a heartbeat, Wei-Lin swore he saw a shadow move across the courtyard — tall, imperious, its presence heavy enough to choke breath. It vanished in an instant, leaving only silence.
Wei-Lin's pulse raced. His thoughts clawed back to the cavern, to Shen Zhao's tales, to the whispers that said a storm was coming. Somewhere out there was an enemy who could unmake armies with a glance. An enemy who could bend the very rules of existence.
And one day… he would have to stand against him.
He shut his eyes, willing sleep to come. It did not.
For in his mind's eye, the black blade pulsed again, its whispers soft and hungry:
Rise, or be devoured.