Wei Qingzhao did not sleep like other men.
He meditated.
Half-kneeling, blade upright in front of him, breath buried deep in the lower dantian. His scars itched in the cold — reminders of battles earned, not survived.
Beneath the snow-lit cliffs of Qingwu's outer training grounds, he opened his eyes.
And something was missing.
Not a sound.
Not a scent.
A presence.
The air felt lighter — like someone had stolen gravity.
He stood.
Within moments, the temperature shifted.
From across the courtyard, two junior disciples approached cautiously.
"Senior Wei—"
"Where is Elder Han?" he asked flatly.
"He… he hasn't returned from his journey south."
Qingzhao's brow furrowed.
South? Toward the border sects… toward Kaifeng.
"And Yun Shou?"
"Gone, too."
His silence struck them like a blade drawn mid-step.
That night, Wei Qingzhao climbed the inner tower — the place reserved for observation, rarely used now except in ritual. He lit no lantern.
And there, in the dark—
A man waited.
Seated casually. Hands folded. Eyes shut.
No footsteps. No breath heard.
Qingzhao's instincts did not scream.
They held still, like prey unsure if it had already been seen.
The man opened his eyes.
And spoke as if they'd never met, yet always known.
"You must be Wei Qingzhao."
"And you," Qingzhao said, "must be trespassing."
The man stood.
He wore robes with no insignia. Black thread stitching.
His arms were wrapped in faded cloth. His fingers bore no nails — severed, cleanly.
And his eyes—
Cold. Clear.
Not mad.
Erased.
"I came to see the one who hates Lián Kaifeng most," the man said.
Qingzhao's grip tightened on his sheathed sword.
"Say his name again."
"You don't know what he is," the man said.
"But I do. Because I used to be what he should have been."
He stepped closer.
Not threatening — just inevitable.
"They called me something, once. Before the Pavilion fell."
"What name?" Qingzhao asked.
"None worth remembering," he replied.
"But the world gave me a title after I lived through the form I wasn't meant to finish."
"The Severed One," Qingzhao said.
The man smiled.
"Then you've heard of me."
Qingzhao didn't speak.
He drew his blade — quietly, precisely — the edge gleaming faintly in the dark.
"Leave this place," he said, "or I'll give you something new to sever."
The Severed One didn't flinch.
He turned.
And pointed toward the sky.
"He's waking. The boy with the false name."
"Kaifeng?"
"Xún Jian," the man whispered.
"The last heir of the original blade. I know what he carries."
"And what is that?"
The Severed One looked at him.
"A voice that can end sects."
In a blur, Qingzhao moved.
Steel met air.
The tower exploded in splinters.
But the Severed One was already gone.
No flash step. No technique.
Just absence — like he'd been edited out of the world.
Only one thing remained:
A folded piece of cloth.
Inside: a mark burned into silk.
A broken circle, jagged in the center — the ancient crest of a sect erased before Qingwu's founding.
The mark of the Xún bloodline.
And beneath it, five words, stitched in barely visible thread:
"He will remember. You won't."
Wei Qingzhao stood amid the ruin.
Not confused.
Not afraid.
Just angry.
Because in his heart, he knew:
"Kaifeng isn't running anymore.
He's becoming."
End of Chapter 9