Chapter Nine – Echoes of Awakening
The arena was still. The dust had yet to settle, and silence stretched long enough for every disciple to hear the echo of their own heartbeat.
Jesse Jordan stood at the center, his cracked—no, fractured—sword faintly glowing at his side. The faint jade shimmer flickered once more before dimming entirely, leaving only the broken metal and a trembling young man drenched in sweat and blood.
He could barely breathe. His ribs felt cracked, his vision swam, and yet he remained upright. The world around him felt muted, as if muffled beneath the pulse that throbbed in his ears. The sword whispered faintly still, an echo of its awakening.
Forward.
The word rippled through his mind, quiet but unrelenting.
The disciples in the stands had forgotten to jeer. For the first time since Jesse had entered the sect, the laughter that usually followed his every failure was gone. In its place was stunned disbelief.
"He… he defeated Ken Miles…" "That sword—did you see the light?" "What kind of weapon was that?"
No one dared step too close. Even the air near Jesse seemed heavy, humming faintly with residual qi.
Elder Ryn, who had overseen the trials, stood frozen on the elder's platform, his expression hard to read. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a forced calm. "The match is concluded. Ken Miles is defeated. Jesse Jordan… is the victor."
The declaration broke the silence like thunder.
Cheers erupted—not of support, but of chaos. Some disciples screamed in outrage, others in awe. Factions shouted across the stands, their loyalties dividing instantly. The Miles family disciples rose to their feet, faces twisted with fury. For them, this was not a tournament result; it was humiliation.
Jesse staggered, his legs finally giving way. The fractured sword slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the cracked tiles. A murmur ran through the crowd as he fell to one knee, blood dripping from his mouth.
"Is he still alive?" "That last strike should've drained everything he had." "He's… he's still conscious?"
Elder Morris rose from his seat among the shadows of the grandstand. His eyes gleamed with faint amusement—and something deeper. The other elders hadn't noticed, but he had seen the pulse of energy that flared from the sword. It wasn't mere qi. It was something ancient, something that shouldn't exist within mortal steel.
He turned to the sect master seated above. "This boy… should be brought before the council."
The sect master's gaze remained fixed on Jesse, his expression unreadable. "We will decide after the arena clears. For now, let him live."
Morris smiled faintly, his silver hair catching the moonlight. "As you command."
Below, healers rushed onto the field, but Jesse waved them off weakly. He had no strength to stand, but he refused to be carried like a broken thing. One of the healers hesitated, then bowed and left him a vial of clear liquid before retreating.
Jesse wiped his mouth, lifted the vial, and drank. Warmth spread through his chest, soothing the burning pain, though it couldn't mend the deeper wounds—those carved into his meridians by the awakened sword's resonance.
"Fool," he muttered to himself, a wry smirk tugging at his cracked lips. "You nearly died for pride."
Yet when he looked at the fractured sword beside him, the smirk faded, replaced by something else. Reverence… and fear.
He could still feel it breathing. Its faint hum echoed in rhythm with his heartbeat.
As he lifted it, the light pulsed once, acknowledging him. The connection was undeniable now—a bond forged through blood and defiance.
He whispered under his breath, "What are you…?"
The sword gave no answer, but he could feel the faint emotion within it—hunger.
---
That night, the sect was alive with noise.
Every hall buzzed with rumors. Disciples whispered in corridors, and even the inner courts were not spared the storm of speculation.
"He used a broken sword to defeat Ken Miles!" "No—he awakened a spirit weapon! That light wasn't natural." "Impossible. If it were a spirit weapon, the elders would've claimed it." "But the aura—didn't you feel it? Like the void itself breathing!"
By dawn, Jesse Jordan's name had spread through every courtyard, every training hall. To some, he was an upstart. To others, a blasphemy. To all, a threat.
In the secluded infirmary at the edge of the sect, Jesse sat alone, bandaged and silent. He had refused extended care, choosing the cold corner by the open window over the comfort of the disciples' quarters. The air was still heavy with medicine and moonlight.
The fractured sword rested against the wall beside him. Its once-jagged surface now bore faint lines of jade light that pulsed intermittently, like a heartbeat. Each time it pulsed, Jesse's chest ached as if their rhythms were one and the same.
He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. The Ninefold Void Sutra whispered through his mind, guiding his qi into steady motion. Pain receded, but exhaustion lingered.
A soft knock broke the silence.
Jesse's eyes snapped open. "Who is it?"
The door slid open slightly, revealing a familiar face—Daisy Mellon.
She entered quietly, her steps light, her presence soft against the chill air. In her hands was a small tray with folded cloth and a bowl of warm broth. Without asking, she set it down beside him.
"You shouldn't be sitting up yet," she said softly. "Your body hasn't even—"
"I'm fine." Jesse's tone was curt, though not unkind. "You shouldn't be here. It's late."
Her gaze lingered on his pale face. "And yet you're awake, staring at that sword as if it might vanish."
Jesse said nothing.
Daisy sighed. "The sect is in uproar. Ken's family is demanding answers. Some elders say the sword belongs to the sect, not you."
His eyes flicked up at that. "It's mine."
"I know." Her voice was firm, unexpected in its conviction. "That's why I came. I thought you should hear it from someone before they summon you."
"Summon me?"
She nodded. "Tomorrow. The Grand Council will decide your fate."
The words hung heavy in the air.
Jesse looked down at the fractured sword, tracing a finger along the cool metal. "So it begins."
Daisy studied him for a long moment. His expression was calm, but beneath it she saw the storm—fear, defiance, resolve. He had always been alone, always pushed to the edge. And now that the world finally looked at him, it wanted to tear him apart.
She reached into her sleeve and placed something on the table beside him—a small talisman etched with faint silver runes.
"It's for protection," she said. "It won't stop a blade, but it can dull a killing intent. If they try to strike you down before the council, this will buy you a heartbeat."
Jesse stared at the charm, then at her. "Why are you helping me?"
Her eyes softened. "Because no one else will."
For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Jesse inclined his head slightly. "Thank you."
She smiled faintly, then turned to leave. At the door, she paused. "Don't let them see you kneel, Jesse. No matter what they say."
The door slid shut behind her.
---
Later that night, Jesse found himself in the abandoned courtyard once more.
The moon hung low, casting silver light over the shattered stones. The wind was cold, carrying with it the scent of rain. He stood at the center where it had all begun—the same place he had found the jade slip, where the legacy of the void had first touched his soul.
He raised the fractured sword before him. The jade crack pulsed faintly, responding to his qi.
"You've awakened," Jesse murmured. "And now the world wants to chain you."
The sword hummed, as if in quiet agreement.
He exhaled, the breath fogging in the night air. "Then let them come. I've been broken before. I won't break again."
The whisper returned, clearer than ever now.
Forward… into the void…
The words vibrated through his chest, resonating with his heartbeat. For a moment, he thought he saw something flicker within the sword's crack—an image, a shadow of a figure cloaked in starlight, the same one he had seen when the jade slip first chose him.
But when he blinked, it was gone.
He sheathed the blade slowly, turning toward the far end of the courtyard—where another shadow waited.
"Elder Morris," Jesse said quietly.
The old man stepped from the darkness, his silver hair catching the moonlight. His gaze lingered on Jesse for a long moment, unreadable. "You should be resting."
"You knew they would summon me," Jesse said. It wasn't a question.
Morris nodded. "Of course. You've drawn too much light. The sect is not kind to those who rise too fast."
Jesse's fingers tightened on the sword's hilt. "Will they take it from me?"
"They will try," Morris said simply. "The question is whether you will let them."
Jesse met his gaze. "And if I refuse?"
Morris smiled faintly. "Then you will walk a path from which there is no return."
The silence between them stretched like drawn steel.
Finally, the elder's expression softened. "Still… I would not have it any other way. You have the look of one who has already chosen his road. Remember, Jordan—power is not given. It is seized, paid for in blood and defiance."
He turned, his cloak whispering in the wind. "Tomorrow, they will test your will. Whether you stand or fall will decide everything that follows."
"Why tell me this?" Jesse asked. "You could have let me die like the rest."
Morris paused, glancing back with a faint smile. "Because once, long ago, I was you."
Then he was gone, his presence melting into the night.
Jesse stood there for a long while, staring at the stars beyond the clouds. His hand rested on the sword's hilt, the jade crack pulsing faintly beneath his touch.
Tomorrow, the council would judge him.
But Jesse Jordan had already made his choice.