The wind howled through the cliffs as Tikshn and Lian Xue descended from the Sword Tomb, their cloaks heavy with frost, their silence heavier still. Behind them lay an ancient vault broken open, and in Tikshn's hand—a blade that had once ended his family.
Its silver edge glimmered with a quiet resolve, but it was not peace that followed them. No, word was already racing across Murim like wildfire lit with old grudges.
---
Two days later, far to the east, a bell rang across the mountain stronghold of the **Fivefold Lotus Sect**.
The master of records—a blind man whose memory was said to be sharper than any blade—raised his head.
"It has been unsealed," he whispered. "The Tomb of Severed Vows."
Within hours, messages were dispatched.
To the Flame Court in the southern dunes.
To the Iron Teeth Monks in the north.
And to a man who hadn't drawn his sword in two decades—**Master Jinrai of the Crimson Sky Pavilion**.
Each note bore the same two characters:
**"Tikshn lives."**
---
Elsewhere, Tikshn sat at a dying fire beneath a cedar tree.
He did not sleep. The silver sword rested beside him, unsheathed. Even in stillness, it demanded awareness—like a predator waiting for weakness.
Lian Xue brought him water from a mountain stream and sat quietly across from him. Her crimson robes were worn now, frayed at the sleeves.
They had not spoken of the blade since leaving the tomb.
Tikshn finally broke the silence.
"The man who killed them… my family… was known only as the Hollow Fang."
Lian nodded. "An exile from the Heaven-Rending Order. They said he mastered a style that devoured its wielder."
"He didn't die in the tomb. He gave up his sword willingly."
That fact haunted Tikshn more than anything. Why would such a monster surrender his blade? Had it been guilt? Madness? Or had he known someone else would one day carry it?
Someone like Tikshn.
---
That night, they were ambushed.
A volley of throwing knives whistled from the trees. Tikshn moved before the first blade landed. His new sword blurred through the dark, and five shadows fell before Lian even drew breath.
"Scouts," she said.
"Hired," Tikshn replied. "Mercenaries from the Eastern Flow Guild."
Lian frowned. "That means someone wants you tracked."
He nodded. "Then let them come."
She didn't smile. "They will."
---
At dawn, Tikshn climbed alone to a ridge overlooking the valley below. Clouds moved slow and heavy across the sky, and from afar he saw lights—lanterns bobbing like fireflies at the base of the mountains.
Caravans. Martial envoys. Hunters.
The sects had begun to move.
He did not fear them.
But he knew what they brought: the hierarchy he'd rejected, the doctrine of bloodlines, the tyranny of inheritance.
He had seen what that world did to those without power.
It let them burn.
Now they came not only to reclaim the sword, but to judge him for surviving.
He turned from the ridge.
If they wanted him—they would have to meet him on his terms.
---
That evening, Tikshn and Lian descended into a town built on stilts over a mist-laced lake. Fishermen watched warily as they entered. A market square bustled, but tension hung in the air like rain about to fall.
A boy ran past with a wooden sword.
Tikshn paused.
"You like swords?" he asked, kneeling.
The boy nodded. "One day I'll be strong enough to protect my mother."
Tikshn didn't smile. He only placed a hand on the boy's shoulder.
"Then don't let anyone tell you you're not worthy."
As they walked away, Lian glanced at him. "You saw yourself in him."
"I saw what I lost."
---
That night, a shadow entered the inn.
Not a warrior. Not an assassin.
A woman in white.
She carried no sword. Her eyes were veiled. But Tikshn stood the moment she entered. The air around her bent.
"**Disciple of Hollow Fang,**" she said. "You carry the silver sorrow. You do not deserve it."
Lian reached for her blade.
Tikshn stopped her.
He stepped forward.
"I am no disciple," he said. "Only a survivor."
The woman raised her hand—and the air behind her shimmered. A dozen figures emerged, cloaked in ash-gray, each with blades drawn. The **Ash Circle**—a forgotten sect of blade-seekers who worshipped destruction as purity.
"You have two choices," she said. "Return the sword. Or bleed for it."
Tikshn looked around the tavern. The boy with the wooden sword was watching from a crack in the wall.
He looked down at his own blade.
And drew it.
"I don't bleed for the past," he said. "I carve the future."
---
The first strike tore through the room like thunder.