The world, which had slowed to a crawl, snapped back into brutal motion. Jin Wei's wooden sword cut through the damp air with a dull whistle, a brown arc aimed squarely at Jin Mu's temple.
Jin Mu didn't move. Not from courage, but from emptiness. The time to dodge was long past. The will to fight had never existed. He simply stood there, a boy in the rain, the epicenter of an ancient grief he could not comprehend.
…How fleeting… like a cherry blossom in a hailstorm… the voice whispered in his mind. It carried no power, no anger. Only a cold, melancholic observation, as if watching a dust mote fall in a boundless universe.
THWACK.
The blunt sound of wood meeting bone was muted by the rain.
But the pain Jin Mu expected never came. Instead, the moment the tip of the sword touched his temple, a bizarre sensation passed through him. It was not strength, not spiritual energy, but a wave of cold, dense sorrow that flowed out from the jade pendant, through his body, and into Jin Wei at the point of contact.
For Jin Wei, the world turned inside out.
One second, he was the predator, savoring his game. The next, a sorrow that was not his own swallowed him whole. It was an alien and horrifying grief—a sorrow that tasted of rust and ozone, of memories of burning skies and the final, lonely cry of a dragon falling from heaven. His knees buckled. The wooden sword slipped from his suddenly trembling grasp, falling into the mud with a pathetic splash.
"What…" a choked gasp escaped his throat. His eyes, once full of mockery, were now wide with a primal terror he could not understand. He wasn't looking at Jin Mu, the useless trash. He was looking at an abyss—a void that stared back with eyes that had watched stars die.
His two followers, who had been snickering moments before, fell silent. They felt the cold ripple of that emotion, an aura so chilling it made the hairs on their arms stand on end. Their laughter died in their throats, replaced by a suffocating dread. They saw their arrogant friend trembling uncontrollably, his face ashen as if he had just seen a ghost.
"Jin Wei, what's wrong?" one of them asked, his voice shaking.
Jin Wei didn't answer. He stumbled back, one step, then two, his eyes never leaving the silent Jin Mu. He raised a trembling hand as if to ward off the sight before him. Then, without another word, he turned and ran. He didn't run with dignity; he fled. A panicked, scrambling flight, slipping and sliding in the mud, desperate to escape the feeling that was crushing his soul.
His two followers exchanged a terrified, confused glance, then broke into a sprint after their leader.
In an instant, the outer yard was silent again. There was only Jin Mu and the ceaseless rain, washing away the mud and the hate.
Jin Mu slowly raised a hand, touching his temple. There was no bruise. No pain. Only a strange, lingering coldness against his skin. He stared in the direction the bullies had fled, then at his own hands, then at the jade pendant hidden beneath his robes. Confusion was an ocean drowning his thoughts.
He had done nothing. He was no stronger, no faster. He was still Jin Mu, the boy with the sealed Spirit Gate. And yet, something had happened. Something had answered his despair.
Without another word, he picked up his bucket, which now felt strangely lighter, and continued on his way. Each step was different. The mud was the same, the stench was the same, but the silence around him had changed. It was no longer the silence of neglect, but a silence pregnant with an unseen presence.
That night, in his small, dilapidated shack at the far edge of the clan compound, Jin Mu sat on his straw pallet. He took out the jade pendant. In the dim, flickering light of a small oil lamp, it looked perfectly ordinary—a pale green stone, smooth with age.
"Who are you?" he whispered into the empty room.
The silence answered him for a long time. He almost thought he had imagined it all, a hallucination born of a blow to the head.
Then, the voice returned, not in his ears, but directly in his consciousness. It was soft, weary, and as old as time itself.
…I am not a 'who.' I am a 'what.' An echo… a testament. I once had a name. They called me Tianli zhi Tan—Heaven's Lament.…
Jin Mu frowned. "Heaven's Lament? Are you… a sword spirit?" He had heard tales of legendary weapons that held their own consciousness.
…I am the will that lingered in the steel. The sword itself is dust, scattered across millennia. All that remains is its sorrow. My sorrow.… The voice paused. …I slept in an endless quiet, until I felt you. Your despair… your hopelessness… it was so pure, so absolute. It stirred me from my long slumber.…
"So… what happened earlier?" Jin Mu asked, his heart hammering in his chest. "With Jin Wei?"
…I did nothing to him. I merely let him… taste a single drop from the ocean of your despair. And a single grain of dust from mine. For a soul so shallow and vain, it was more than enough to break him.…
Jin Mu stared at the pendant in his hand. This power… it wasn't a power to break rocks or cleave steel. It was a power to break minds. A power born from suffering.
…You are an empty vessel, boy. And I am an endless vintage of sorrow. Together, perhaps we can do more than simply survive.…
For the first time in his life, Jin Mu felt something other than emptiness inside him. It was not hope. It was not joy. It was something darker, heavier, and far more potent: a purpose.