The dawn bell tolled, shaking the academy grounds awake.
Han Wei-Lin winced as the sound echoed through the dormitory halls. Every muscle in his body screamed from yesterday's ordeal, but he forced himself upright. His bandages clung wetly to his skin, and his ribs felt like cracked porcelain.
He moved slowly, deliberately, dressing in the plain academy robes that marked him as a first-year—an insignificant speck in the ocean of talent that filled these halls.
Outside, the training field was already alive. Students channeled qi into dazzling strikes, their blades trailing sparks, their bodies leaping like arrows across the sand. Some laughed, some shouted, all of them strong.
Wei-Lin swallowed hard. His steps dragged, but he carried himself forward.
On the Training Field
Instructor Liang, a scarred veteran whose aura radiated authority, barked orders. "Pair up! Today's drill is precision and endurance. You'll fight until you can no longer stand."
The stronger students grinned eagerly. They lived for this.
Wei-Lin, meanwhile, felt the familiar prickle of dread. His body had not yet recovered. He stood at the edge of the crowd, hoping, just once, to be overlooked.
But fate was cruel.
"Han Wei-Lin!" Liang's voice snapped like a whip. "Step forward."
Dozens of eyes turned toward him. Snickers rippled through the crowd.
"Another lesson in humiliation," someone muttered.
"Why bother? He'll collapse after one strike."
Wei-Lin clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. He wanted to vanish. Instead, he stepped forward.
"Your opponent," Liang declared, "will be Sun Jianhong."
A ripple of excitement swept the students. Jianhong was a second-year, broad-shouldered and brimming with talent. His family was noble, his cultivation already refined. A duel between him and Wei-Lin was no duel at all—it was a slaughter.
Jianhong smirked, twirling his practice spear. "Try not to cry too loudly."
Wei-Lin said nothing. He raised his wooden sword, its weight already dragging at his weak arms.
"Begin!"
Jianhong moved like a storm. His spear blurred, each thrust precise, carrying enough force to knock Wei-Lin flat.
Wei-Lin barely managed to parry the first strike. The impact jarred his bones, his ribs screaming. The second blow slammed into his guard, throwing him back. His knees buckled, his breath shallow.
"Too slow!" Jianhong barked, spear sweeping in a wide arc.
Wei-Lin ducked, barely. The wooden blade scraped his scalp, leaving his ears ringing.
The crowd laughed. "Hopeless!"
But inside, Wei-Lin's mind sharpened. Each strike, though brutal, revealed patterns. The arc of Jianhong's spear, the rhythm of his footwork, the half-second pause before his thrusts.
Pain taught faster than any lecture.
Another strike came, and this time Wei-Lin didn't block. He sidestepped clumsily, the spear grazing his shoulder instead of breaking his arm. He staggered but stayed upright.
Jianhong blinked in faint surprise.
Wei-Lin exhaled raggedly, raising his wooden sword again. His arms trembled, but his eyes were focused.
The whispers of the black blade flickered in his mind: Adapt. Endure. Rise.
For the first time, he moved not as prey but as someone desperate to learn.
The duel dragged on. Wei-Lin took blow after blow, each one leaving bruises, splitting his lip, tearing his breath from his chest. But each time he rose again. Each time, his dodges grew slightly sharper, his footing slightly steadier.
By the end, Jianhong was frowning, his smirk gone. Wei-Lin's body was battered, but his eyes still burned with stubborn light.
Instructor Liang raised a hand. "Enough."
Jianhong lowered his spear with visible irritation.
Wei-Lin collapsed to his knees, sweat dripping, his chest heaving. He had lost, yes—but not as completely as they'd expected.
Liang's gaze lingered on him, unreadable. "You're weak. But weakness is not permanent. You may yet surprise us."
Wei-Lin bowed his head, words failing him. Inside, however, something had shifted. For the first time, the laughter of his peers felt distant, less suffocating.
Meanwhile — In the Imperial Capital
The great hall of the Azure Pavilion lay in ruins. Marble pillars cracked, golden tapestries reduced to ash, courtyards flooded with blood.
At the center of the devastation sat Qin Xi, cross-legged upon the shattered throne as though it belonged to him.
Before him, the empire's finest sages knelt—those who had survived the Azure Vanguard's annihilation. Their faces were pale, their bodies trembling.
"You thought yourselves guardians," Qin Xi said softly, almost kindly. "But you guard nothing. You are children playing at war."
One sage, trembling, dared to speak. "M-Monster… even you cannot defy the heavens. The Mandate will—"
Qin Xi opened his eyes.
Reality itself buckled.
The sage's words dissolved into screams as his body unraveled—not torn by blade, not scorched by flame, but erased. His existence flickered, then vanished as if it had never been.
The hall fell silent.
Qin Xi's smile was faint. "The heavens? Tell me—who do you think writes their will?"
The survivors bowed lower, their foreheads pressed to bloodied stone.
Qin Xi rose, robes flowing like liquid flame. His gaze turned east, past mountains and rivers, toward the quiet halls of the Royal Academy.
"There is a spark," he murmured. "Fragile. Flickering. Yet irritatingly persistent. I will see how long it lasts before I extinguish it."
His words, though spoken softly, seemed to ripple through the air itself. The world bent to his voice, carrying the message to ears that were never meant to hear it.
Back at the Academy — Nightfall
Wei-Lin sat alone in the courtyard, body wrapped in bandages, breath ragged. His wooden sword lay across his knees.
The stars wheeled overhead, distant and cold.
He thought of the duel, of every mocking laugh, of every bruise that burned across his body. He thought of Wu Jian's words, of Shen Zhao's cryptic smile, of the whispers in the cavern.
Most of all, he thought of the shadow he had glimpsed last night—the suffocating presence that had brushed across the academy like a phantom hand.
He had no proof, but deep in his gut, he knew: someone out there was watching. Someone whose power dwarfed the world.
His fists tightened around the sword.
"I don't care who you are," he whispered. "I'll keep standing. Even if it breaks me."
The night wind carried faint whispers, low and hungry. Rise, or be devoured.
Wei-Lin shut his eyes. For the first time, he whispered back.
"I will rise."