Blood ran down the hilt of his blade, dripping into the cracks of the stone floor. The grand hall of the Valeheart Clan, once filled with banners of honor, was drowned in firelight and screams.
Arion Vale staggered forward, his vision blurring. The sword in his hand—his father's heirloom—was broken in two, its jagged edge glowing faintly with the last trace of his qi. He had once been called the Sword Saint of Valdrake, revered, feared, untouchable. But now… now he was a cripple, betrayed by the very brothers who had sworn loyalty to him.
"Pathetic," sneered Darius Drakar, the traitor who had orchestrated it all. His black armor glistened with blood, none of it his own. "This is what becomes of legends. Forgotten. Broken. A dog with its teeth torn out."
Arion tried to answer, but his throat filled with copper. He fell to one knee. Around him lay the bodies of his clan—the Valehearts, the swordsmen who had followed him into every battle. Their corpses littered the hall like discarded shields. His sister, his closest disciples, even the boy who used to carry his scabbard… all gone.
The fire roared louder.
And through the haze, he saw Rowan Greaves, the brother he trusted most, standing at Darius's side. Rowan would not meet his gaze. That silence hurt more than any wound.
"So this is how it ends," Arion muttered, his lips cracking. "Not on the battlefield… not before gods or demons… but by the knives of cowards."
Darius chuckled, stepping closer, his blade still clean. He hadn't even needed to fight. "No. This is how a new era begins. With your corpse as its foundation."
The enemy swordsmen advanced. Arion tried to lift his weapon again, but the broken sword trembled, heavy as lead. His qi was gone. His strength was gone. His legacy was ashes.
For the first time in decades, fear clawed at him. Not fear of death—but of dying without meaning. Of leaving his clan's name to rot in shame.
If only… if only I had one more chance.
As he collapsed onto the stone, the shattered blade pressed against his chest, he whispered to the flames, "Let me rise once more. Let me change this fate…"
The sword pulsed. For the briefest moment, a cold light surged from the crack, piercing through his failing heart. His last breath froze in his lungs. The hall, the fire, the traitors—all dissolved into shadow.
---
Arion woke to the sound of rain.
His eyes snapped open. He wasn't lying in a burning hall, but in a narrow wooden room lit by a single oil lamp. The ceiling beams were cracked, familiar in a way that made his heart stop. He knew this room. It was the quarters he had lived in… fifteen years ago, when he had first joined the Valeheart training halls as a youth.
He sat upright, drenched in sweat. His hand flew to his chest, expecting the mortal wound. Nothing. Only steady breath and pounding heartbeat.
"No… this can't…" he whispered.
He stumbled to the warped mirror in the corner. The face that stared back was not the scarred, weary visage of the fallen Sword Saint. It was younger. His hair darker, his skin unlined by war. His eyes held fire, not despair.
His body shook. This was not illusion. This was not dream. He had returned—dragged backward through time.
"Regression…" he muttered, the word foreign yet instinctive. "The heavens answered…"
He staggered back, clutching the wooden table to steady himself. His mind raced. If this was truly fifteen years ago, then the great betrayal of the Valehearts had not yet happened. His sister still lived. His disciples were still training in the courtyards. Even Rowan… Rowan had not yet sold his loyalty to the Drakar Clan.
Arion's heart pounded harder. This was his chance. His chance to mend what was broken.
But then reality struck him like a blade. He was weak again. His body was still that of his youth, years before his first breakthrough into the Spirit Tier. He had no qi reserves, no tempered body. The enemies he remembered—Darius, the Drakars, the Thornshade assassins—they were far beyond this version of him.
He clenched his fists until his nails dug into flesh. "I have nothing… no strength… not even the full sword."
The image of the shattered blade returned to him. His clan's heirloom, once whole, had broken on the night of betrayal. But now—perhaps it still existed, unbroken, waiting in the vault. The thought ignited something in him. If he could reclaim it, reforging it shard by shard, he could rebuild everything.
A knock came at the door.
"Arion?" A soft, familiar voice. His sister. Elandra Vale.
His throat tightened. He hadn't heard that voice in over a decade. In the future, she had died defending him, her blood staining the steps of the hall. But here, she lived. Alive. Smiling, perhaps, just outside this door.
He almost collapsed again. His knees threatened to give way.
"Arion, are you awake? You're late for morning drills again. If Master catches you—"
Her voice carried the same playful reprimand as it had when they were children.
Arion closed his eyes, a single tear slipping free. Not this time. I won't let you die for me again.
"I'm coming," he managed, his voice rough.
As footsteps retreated down the hall, Arion drew a deep breath and steadied his shaking hands.
Regression had given him another chance—but it had also cursed him. He bore knowledge of wars, betrayals, and deaths no one else could imagine. He knew who would stand with him and who would turn traitor.
But knowledge was not strength. Not yet.
He needed power. He needed allies. He needed time.
He stared at his hands—smooth, unscarred, trembling with inexperience. The body of a boy. The mind of a broken warrior.
"This time," he whispered, clenching his fists. "This time, I will not fall. Even if I must crawl through hell, I will rise again. Even if my sword breaks a thousand times, I will forge it anew."
Outside, the rain poured harder. Thunder shook the heavens, as if in answer to his vow.
And so began the second life of Arion Vale—the man who would rise from the ashes of betrayal, bearing the name of the Broken Sword.