Li Shen lay on the cold ground of the ravine, his body trembling from pain. Every breath burned, every movement sent fire racing through his ribs. The fall should have killed him, but somehow he still clung to life.
The shard pulsed faintly beside him. "Weak… broken… yet alive. That is what matters."
Li Shen forced himself onto his knees. His vision swam, but he clenched his teeth, refusing to collapse. He looked up—the ravine walls were jagged, impossibly steep. Climbing out was suicide in his current state.
So he had no choice. He would go deeper.
Dragging himself forward, he moved through the mist at the bottom. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of moss and earth. Strange whispers echoed faintly through the stone walls, as if the abyss itself had a voice.
Minutes passed. Then hours. His body screamed for rest, but he pressed on. If he stopped, if he gave in, the cold would swallow him.
And then he heard it.
A voice.
"Still alive, are you?"
Li Shen froze. His hand tightened on the shard. The voice was old, rough, and carried a weight that made the hairs on his neck rise.
"Who's there?" Li Shen rasped.
The mist shifted. A figure stepped out, slow and deliberate. An old man, hunched but tall, his eyes glowing faintly in the gloom. His robe was torn and stained, his hair long and gray, his face lined with age. But despite his frail appearance, his presence was suffocating—like standing before a mountain.
Li Shen's instincts screamed. This was no ordinary man.
"You're bleeding," the old man said, his voice calm. "And yet your eyes burn like a wolf's. Tell me, boy—why haven't you given up?"
Li Shen gritted his teeth. "Because I can't. Not until they pay."
The old man's eyes narrowed, studying him. "Ah. Hatred. I know that fire."
He stepped closer. Li Shen raised the shard, ready to strike if needed.
The old man glanced at it—and chuckled. "So, it's found a new master. Fitting."
Li Shen stiffened. "You… know this shard?"
"Know it?" The man's chuckle deepened into a low laugh. "Boy, I forged it."
The words hit Li Shen like thunder.
This broken piece of steel, the cursed blade that whispered in his mind, had been forged by this ragged old man standing before him?
The shard pulsed violently, its voice hissing. "Lies. Trickery. Don't trust him. Kill him. Drink him."
Li Shen ignored it, staring hard at the old man. "If that's true… then who are you?"
The old man's smile faded. For a long moment, silence filled the ravine. Finally, he said, "Once, they called me the Blade Saint. But that was a lifetime ago. Now, I am no one."
Blade Saint.
Li Shen had heard that name before—in whispers, in the old stories his clan elders told. A legendary swordsman, unmatched under heaven, who vanished decades ago.
And now he stood here, in the abyss.
Li Shen's grip on the shard tightened. "Why are you here?"
The old man's gaze darkened. "Because I was broken. Betrayed. Just like you. They cast me into this ravine, thinking it my grave. And so, I have lived here, waiting. Watching. Until someone worthy came."
His eyes gleamed as he studied Li Shen again. "And now you stand before me. Broken. But not defeated."
Li Shen's breath caught. Something in the old man's voice stirred him, like the flicker of a flame.
"Tell me, boy," the old man said, stepping closer. "Do you want power?"
Li Shen's heart pounded. His body screamed in pain, his blood burned with hatred. He remembered the flames, the screams of his clan, the blade shattering in his hands.
"Yes," he said, his voice low but steady. "I want the power to destroy them all."
The old man smiled—slow, sharp, dangerous.
"Good," he said. "Then rise, Broken Blade. Your training begins now."
The days blurred together.
Under the Blade Saint's cold eyes, Li Shen was pushed to his limits. His broken body was forced to heal through pain and exhaustion. The old man gave him no rest, no comfort—only commands, only trials.
"Again," the Blade Saint barked as Li Shen collapsed.
"I can't," Li Shen gasped.
"You can. Or you die."
And so Li Shen rose, again and again. His body screamed, his mind wavered, but each time, he stood.
The shard whispered constantly, urging him to kill, to drink, to feed. But under the Blade Saint's presence, its voice weakened. The old man seemed to suppress it somehow, though he never explained how.
"You rely too much on that shard," the Blade Saint said one night as Li Shen trained. "It gives strength, yes, but it will eat you alive if you let it. You must master it—or it will master you."
Li Shen clenched his fists. "Then teach me."
The old man's eyes gleamed. "Good. Then listen well. I will show you a sword style not seen in this world for decades. The style that forged empires, the style that slaughtered sects. My style."
His voice dropped, sharp as steel.
"The Broken Blade."
Under his tutelage, Li Shen learned not just to swing the shard, but to wield it with precision, with purpose. Every strike carried weight, every motion was sharpened to kill.
But the training was brutal. Days of starvation, nights of pain. The Blade Saint broke him down, stripped him of weakness, and rebuilt him stronger.
At night, when the shard whispered, Li Shen no longer trembled. He listened, but he did not obey. Slowly, he bent its voice to his will.
The old man watched, his expression unreadable. "Good. You're beginning to understand. Hatred is fuel, but discipline is the blade. Without discipline, hatred cuts only yourself."
Li Shen's eyes burned with determination. "I will not break. Not again."
The Blade Saint nodded. For the first time, there was respect in his gaze.
Weeks passed. Then months.
Li Shen's body healed, hardened, sharpened. His movements grew fluid, deadly. His eyes no longer burned only with hatred, but with cold, focused resolve.
One night, as the mist swirled through the ravine, the Blade Saint stood before him.
"You've come far," he said. "But remember this—your true enemy is not just the Seven Peaks. It is the world that let them rise. To destroy them, you must be more than a man. You must become a storm."
Li Shen's hand tightened on the shard. His reflection gleamed in its broken edge—scarred, hardened, unyielding.
"I will," he said coldly. "And when I rise, they will all fall."
The old man smiled faintly, the shadows in his eyes deep. "Good. Then your true path begins."