The forest reeked of blood. Fallen leaves were drenched crimson, bodies sprawled where they had fallen. Yet Li Shen did not move.
He sat cross-legged beneath the dying moonlight, the shard resting in his lap.
His body was broken. Muscles torn, bones screaming, meridians damaged beyond repair. Every breath was agony. But he refused to stop.
The shard pulsed faintly, a heartbeat in the dark.
"You survived," the voice whispered. "But survival is not enough. If you wish to strike down sects, you must first learn to stand."
Li Shen clenched his fists. "Then teach me. Show me how to use your power."
The shard's glow dimmed, as though mocking him. "Power is not a gift. Power is taken. If you wish to wield me, you must earn me. Break your weakness. Sharpen yourself into an edge."
Li Shen shut his eyes. He could still feel the strength from earlier—when the shard had carried him, when its will had fused with his. But that strength had already faded. His body was heavy, frail again. Without the shard's aid, he was still a cripple.
Yet… not quite.
Deep in his core, he felt threads of energy lingering. A foreign current that hadn't existed before tonight. The shard's essence had entered him.
"Then I'll start here," he muttered.
He drew in a slow breath, forcing the foreign energy to move. His damaged meridians screamed, but he didn't stop. Sweat poured down his face, his chest heaved, but the faint current obeyed.
"Good," the shard whispered. "Guide it. Carve new paths where old ones are ruined. A blade may be reforged if the smith has fire."
Hours passed. The night grew cold. Li Shen's body shook, but he persisted.
When the first light of dawn broke through the trees, he opened his eyes. His breath misted in the air, but for the first time in years, he felt something stir within his dantian.
A spark. Fragile. But alive.
His crippled body had not been healed. His meridians were still scarred. But he had kindled a flicker of cultivation once more.
He clenched the shard tighter. His lips curled into a bitter smile. "So it begins."
Days bled into nights. Li Shen stayed in the forest, training.
He practiced guiding the shard's energy into his body, refining the wild current into something he could control. Each session tore at his flesh, leaving him gasping, but he refused to stop.
He swung the shard until his arms bled. He slashed at trees until the bark fell in strips. He stumbled, collapsed, rose again.
Sometimes, the shard's voice guided him. Cold. Sharp.
"Your stance is weak. Again."
"Do not swing. Cut."
"Every movement must kill. Every strike must end a life. The weak strike to wound. The strong strike to sever."
Li Shen obeyed.
By the third day, trees that once resisted his strikes now fell in clean slices, trunks split with frightening precision. His arms were covered in cuts, but his strikes grew steadier.
By the seventh day, he could maintain the shard's energy in his meridians for longer stretches. His crippled body, though not healed, had begun to adapt to the foreign current, like shattered steel reforged in fire.
Still, it was not enough.
He knew the assassins had been only the beginning. The Seven Peaks Sect would not ignore his survival forever. When they came, they would send stronger enemies. Cultivators beyond his reach.
And he was not ready.
On the tenth night, he knelt before the shard again.
His body trembled with exhaustion, but his eyes burned with determination.
"Tell me," he whispered. "How do I grow faster?"
The shard pulsed faintly, like laughter. "You cannot rush the whetstone. Steel sharpens slowly. But there is one path for the desperate."
Li Shen's heart thudded. "What path?"
The shard's voice grew colder, darker. "Blood. Kill to grow. Feed me. Each soul you cut will refine my edge. Each life you take will pour strength into your veins. The more you kill, the sharper we become."
Li Shen stiffened. The forest was silent around him, save for the wind. His jaw tightened. "You want me to become a butcher."
"No," the shard hissed. "I want you to become a sword. A blade does not hesitate. A blade does not weep. It cuts. That is its truth."
Li Shen closed his eyes. Memories of his clan flashed before him—their blood, their screams, the ashes left behind.
Could he do it? Could he kill without hesitation?
His hand gripped the shard tighter.
"Yes," he whispered. His voice was hoarse, but steady. "If blood is what it takes… then I'll stain my hands red. For my clan. For vengeance. For the rise of the Broken Blade."
The shard pulsed violently, almost in approval. "Then rise. Hunt. Kill. Feed. Only through slaughter will we sharpen your edge."
At dawn, Li Shen rose from his training spot. His robes were torn, his body scarred, but his eyes gleamed with purpose.
Somewhere beyond the forest, disciples of the Seven Peaks Sect roamed, searching for prey. They were stronger than him. They were better equipped. But they were also the perfect whetstone.
He sheathed the shard against his waist, its dim glow hidden beneath cloth.
"Then let's begin."
The wind carried the scent of blood still lingering in the air. For the first time since his clan's fall, Li Shen felt ready to fight.
Not just to survive.
To kill.