The sun rose slowly over Sky-Splitting Peak, gilding the jagged cliffs with crimson light. Disciples poured into the courtyards for morning drills, their shouts and blade arcs rising like a tide. Yet beneath the thunder of practice, a quieter storm spread — the storm of whispers.
"Xu Tian is cursed.""His blade cuts luck itself.""Did you hear? Assassins came, and they all stumbled like fools.""No ordinary Dao… this is heresy."
Each murmur was a thread, weaving through the sect until they became a net cast over his name.
Xu Tian heard them all. As he stood among the rows of disciples, practicing his sword forms, he could feel their gazes upon him. Admiration and awe, yes — but also suspicion, envy, and fear.
His blade traced arcs of pure simplicity, each stroke steady, unhurried. To the eye, he seemed the very image of a diligent disciple. But inwardly, he was listening, memorizing, weaving those whispers into a map of enemies yet unseen.
That morning, Elder Ming arrived on the training ground. His stern eyes swept across the rows of disciples before settling briefly on Xu Tian.
"Today," he barked, "you will spar in rotating pairs. Control your edge. A sword that cannot be restrained is no sword at all."
Disciples bowed, and the sparring began. Steel clashed, feet thundered against stone, qi surged faintly as youths tested their strength.
When Xu Tian's turn came, he faced a thin youth with sharp eyes, a disciple from a minor clan. At first the bout seemed ordinary — strikes exchanged, parries made. But as the duel dragged on, the youth's blade grew strangely reckless. His eyes gleamed with something more than ambition.
Xu Tian's instincts screamed.
The strike that came next was not controlled, not restrained — it aimed for his throat with killing intent.
Gasps rang out from the watching crowd.
Xu Tian's body flowed backward, his sword flashing in a single, clean arc. Steel rang, and the attacker's blade flew from his grasp, shattering against the stone floor.
Elder Ming's roar shook the air. "Fool! Do you dare attempt murder on the training ground?"
The youth fell to his knees, trembling. "I-I lost control, Elder, I swear!"
But Xu Tian's eyes lingered upon him. He had seen it — not loss of control, but deliberate intent. The strike had been meant to kill.
Later, as disciples dispersed, Zhou Wei hurried to Tian's side. His face was pale, his voice low.
"Tian-ge… it's spreading too fast. They say you use a cursed Dao to twist battles. That anyone who faces you loses more than a duel — they lose their luck, their fortune, their future. Some say Heaven itself rejects you."
Xu Tian's expression was calm. "And what do you say, Zhou Wei?"
Wei hesitated, then bowed his head. "I say… I trust you."
Tian smiled faintly. "Then trust me further — whispers are weapons. Let them cut where they may. I will forge them into armor."
That evening, within the inner halls of the sect, a gathering took place.
The Supreme Elder sat at the head, his eyes sharp as blades. Around him knelt several clan elders, their robes heavy with authority.
One spoke first. "Supreme Elder, the boy grows too quickly. Already ranked among the top ten. Already feared for his… unnatural Dao."
Another snarled. "If we allow this, he will eclipse our own disciples. The sect will rally around him."
The Supreme Elder raised his hand, silencing them.
"Good," he said coldly. "Let him rise. Let him taste glory. A tree that grows too tall invites the axe. When he shines brightest, Heaven will send its tribulation, and we shall merely… step aside."
A cruel silence followed.
Back in his courtyard, Xu Tian sat with the Fragments of the Ninth Sky spread before him. He traced the faded characters again and again, each stroke like a whisper from his father.
"To cut destiny is to invite Heaven's wrath. Yet only by severing destiny may one walk beyond it."
His fingers tightened on the parchment. His father had known. The path was no gift — it was a challenge thrown against Heaven itself.
Footsteps approached. Lady Xue entered quietly, her face weary but resolute.
"Tian'er," she whispered. "The sect closes its net around you. Already, false rumors spread faster than truth. Soon, even allies will hesitate to stand by your side. Do not confront them openly. Hide your edge. Bide your time."
Xu Tian bowed his head respectfully. "Mother, I hear your counsel."
But when she left, his gaze turned to the fractured sky beyond the courtyard. His eyes gleamed with calm defiance.
Hide? Perhaps. But only until the day my blade must cut not merely flesh, not merely fate — but Heaven itself.
Elsewhere, in the shadows beyond the sect walls, Bai Heng knelt once more before his clan elder.
"He grows stronger," Heng spat bitterly. "Even assassins failed. Even in training, he turns strikes aside as if fate itself betrays his foes."
The elder's eyes narrowed. "Then we must strike not his body, but his name. Spread the whispers deeper. Let every disciple fear him, resent him. Isolate him. Alone, even the sharpest blade rusts."
Bai Heng bowed, hatred burning in his eyes.
"Yes, Elder. I will see his brilliance turn to shadow."
That night, Xu Tian sat alone beneath the pines. The wind stirred, carrying faint echoes of swords clashing across the mountains. His hand rested lightly upon his blade.
He closed his eyes. Threads shimmered faintly in his mind's eye — threads of fortune, of whispers, of schemes unseen. Each one tugged at him, seeking to bind.
His lips curved into the faintest of smiles.
"Whisper. Plot. Scheme. All you weave are threads."
His sword hummed softly, the sound like a promise.
"And threads… can be cut."