Chapter 4: The Whispering Blade
The Linh Huyen Sect's outer disciple quarters were abuzz with rumor.
"Did you hear? Tham Duong blocked Tien Hoa's strikes without even drawing his sword."
"No way. He's just a new recruit!"
"Lan Ca herself spoke to him."
By the third week, Tham Duong had become a mystery. He didn't boast, didn't spar publicly, and barely spoke—but somehow, his name lingered on every lip.
And while the sect gossiped, Duong trained in silence.
Each night, beneath the moon's glow, he cultivated.
The Void Serpent Sutra was unlike any manual the outer sect offered. Most disciples took weeks to advance a single layer. Duong? He moved like a silent blade through fog.
By the end of the third week, he reached Qi Condensation – Fifth Layer.
With this foundation, I could have become inner sect in months… in my past life. Now, I need to move faster.
But there was one problem: he lacked a proper weapon.
The iron training sword provided to new disciples was blunt, unbalanced, and filled with imperfections. The Void Serpent Sutra demanded precision—each swing a channel for purified Qi. A dull weapon would only hinder him.
He needed a true spiritual weapon.
But outer disciples couldn't simply ask for one.
He needed to earn it.
The answer came in the form of a whispered invitation.
One night, a slip of paper slid beneath his door. No sender. No seal.
Only a line of text, written in elegant brushwork:
"Midnight. Old armory. South cliff. Come alone."
A trap? Possibly.
But Duong felt the call of fate.
The old armory lay forgotten at the edge of the sect's southern cliffs. Once used to store weapons during a great sect war, it had long since been sealed, deemed "cursed" by the elders.
But Duong remembered.
In his past life, an elder had once spoken of it in a drunken stupor:
"There's a blade inside... sealed since the Demon Siege. They say it whispers to those who touch it."
Now, standing before its rusted gates, Duong exhaled slowly.
The door creaked open at his touch.
Inside, cobwebs danced in the windless dark. Racks of old weapons stood crooked and empty, their contents long looted or decayed.
But at the center of the room, embedded in a black stone pedestal, was a single sword.
Its hilt was wrapped in faded red cloth. The blade shimmered faintly with a pale violet hue, despite the darkness.
As Duong approached, a voice entered his mind.
"Another seeks power..."
He froze.
The voice was cold, genderless, and impossibly old.
"You are not the first."
He didn't speak aloud. He focused inward, directing his thoughts.
"Who are you?"
"I am the one who devours regret. The Whispering Blade. The others were weak. Will you be different?"
He reached forward.
The moment his fingers touched the hilt, pain lanced through his palm. Blood spilled, seeping into the blade.
The sword trembled.
Visions flooded his mind—wars fought on floating islands, beasts larger than mountains, cultivators with wings of flame and shadow clashing in the sky.
He fell to one knee.
The voice spoke again.
"Prove yourself. Show me your truth."
Suddenly, the world shifted.
Duong was no longer in the armory.
He stood atop a battlefield of black sand. The sky burned with crimson fire, and the air reeked of blood and ash.
Before him stood a figure—himself, but older. Eyes filled with despair. His past life.
"You failed," the older Duong said. "You trusted the wrong people. You died weak, alone."
Duong clenched his fists. "I came back. I will change it all."
The vision laughed. "You're still afraid."
I am. But fear is not failure.
Duong summoned his will. Qi surged.
The battlefield rippled. The older version of himself charged, blade raised.
Duong didn't retreat.
He met the strike head-on.
Steel clashed.
Time slowed.
With a roar, he drove his sword through the illusion's chest.
The vision shattered into a million silver shards.
He awoke in the armory, gasping.
The blade now lay across his lap, its surface gleaming with new light.
The voice was quiet now, almost respectful.
"You carry pain. But you carry purpose. I will follow you… for now."
Duong nodded, wrapping the blade in cloth.
This sword… it's alive. A fragment of will. And it accepted me.
He had no doubt: this was a spirit weapon, possibly even a sentient one.
He would name it later.
For now, he returned to his quarters, blade hidden beneath his robe.
The next morning, the Outer Sect Elders announced the coming Tri-Monthly Combat Trials.
Disciples would be ranked based on performance. The top ten would be eligible for early advancement—or even inner sect recommendation.
Most outer disciples trained for years before qualifying.
Tham Duong had been here one month.
But he stepped forward without hesitation.
"I wish to register," he said.
The elder raised a brow. "You're… Tham Duong?"
Whispers erupted.
"Is he serious?"
"He doesn't even spar publicly."
"Just a frog in a well."
But Elder Hac frowned.
His aura… it's calm, but deep. Like a pond hiding a serpent.
"You may register," Hac said. "But be warned. The top ten are not kind."
Duong bowed. "I understand."
That night, as he trained in a secluded forest clearing, someone approached.
Lan Ca.
She wore a plain robe, her long hair tied back. No guards.
She watched him silently as he finished a movement, sweat trailing down his temple.
"You've improved," she said.
"I've been working hard."
"No. This is beyond hard work."
She stepped closer.
"You're not like the others. You don't think like them. You don't fight like them."
He said nothing.
"Where did you get that blade?"
His eyes narrowed.
"You saw it."
She smirked. "I have good eyes."
A pause.
Then she stepped back.
"I'll be watching the tournament," she said. "Don't disappoint me."
As she left, Duong gripped his blade tightly.
I've only just begun. The trials… they'll be the first test. Not just of strength, but of will.
This time, I won't be crushed. I will rise. For my mother, for my past self, and for the future I was denied.
And in the forest stillness, his sword hummed in agreement.