The Jade Sword Mountain Range stretched like a silver dragon across the horizon, peaks rising jagged and sharp, pierced by drifting clouds. Ancient pines clung stubbornly to sheer cliffs, their roots winding through stone as if holding the mountains together by sheer will.
A chill wind swept down from the peaks, carrying the faint scent of wild herbs and the lingering aura of Sword Qi.
Zhou Yu tightened the strap of his satchel and adjusted the simple iron sword slung across his back. He paused at a rocky outcrop, his eyes tracing the path ahead. Below lay the ruins of the Heavenly Sword Sect, a place once renowned across the Eastern Sky Continent as the pinnacle of sword cultivation.
Now, it was nothing more than jagged stone and overgrown vines — the once-glorious sect had been reduced to a ghost of its former self.
Crumbled towers leaned precariously, and statues of sword saints lay toppled and fractured. The Sword Dao Stele, the sect's heart, had been shattered, its pieces scattered like fallen stars across the courtyard.
A few remaining fragments glimmered faintly with residual Sword Qi, though it was chaotic and fragmented, barely enough to be recognized by even an untrained eye.
Zhou Yu descended carefully along the winding path that led to the main hall. Loose stones and fallen branches crunched underfoot, each step echoing against the silent mountains. Even the wind seemed subdued, as if wary of disturbing the ruins' fragile equilibrium.
Despite the decay, Zhou Yu felt it — a faint vibration in the air, a whisper of power that stirred in his dantian. Sword Qi.
He crouched beside a broken pillar and pressed a hand to the cold stone. A shiver ran up his spine. It was faint, unstable, but unmistakable. His pulse quickened. "The sect… it's alive," he murmured to himself. "In some way…"
The Beast Taming Ridge, which had once echoed with the cries of soaring spiritual beasts, was silent. Nesting platforms were empty, claws scratched into rocks without purpose, and a faint aura of sorrow hung over the area.
The Sky-Piercing Sword Falcon, the sect's legendary guardian, was nowhere in sight. Yet Zhou Yu felt that it had not truly vanished. Its essence lingered, hidden somewhere in the mountains, like a slumbering shadow waiting to awaken.
He continued into the main hall. The once-grand structure had collapsed in parts; broken wooden beams jutted at odd angles, shattered tiles littered the floor, and patches of wild grass had taken root among the rubble.
Light filtered through the gaps in the ceiling, casting long streaks across the dust-filled air. Amid the decay, Zhou Yu saw a faint glow around a cracked altar at the hall's center. Residual Sword Qi swirled there, chaotic yet persistent, like water trapped in a fractured vase.
Tentatively, Zhou Yu knelt and placed his hand on the altar. Instantly, a shiver coursed through his body, climbing his meridians and setting his blood ablaze.
Images flashed across his vision: a towering figure in silver robes, a sword of light cleaving the sky, and a voice that whispered like wind through bamboo:
"The Sword waits… the heir shall awaken it…"
Zhou Yu staggered back, gasping. The voice was gone, leaving only the faint hum of energy in his dantian. He sank to the floor, sweat dampening his brow.
For the first time, he understood what people meant by the presence of a sword spirit — it was not just power. It was awareness, will, and destiny.
Steeling himself, Zhou Yu drew the simple iron sword from his back. The blade was ordinary, far from the legendary weapons of sect disciples. Yet as he held it, the faint Sword Qi around the altar seemed to react, curling toward him like a living stream.
Outside, the wind swept through the mountains again. A sharp cry echoed from above — distant, but unmistakable. The piercing call of a falcon. Somewhere among the peaks, the Sky-Piercing Sword Falcon watched, its golden eyes reflecting the light of the dying sun.
Zhou Yu rose and surveyed the ruined sect. Beyond the main hall, shattered dormitories and abandoned practice grounds stretched across the mountain. A faint haze of spiritual energy lingered over the Spirit Field, and weeds had begun to reclaim the Forge Hall.
The Grand Sword Formation that had once protected the sect was dormant, dormant yet not destroyed, like a heartbeat waiting to be revived.
His mind turned to the sect's history. The Heavenly Sword Sect had once been founded by Tian Jian, a Primordial Immortal Sword Saint. It had reached its peak centuries ago, rivaling even the great sects of the Central Heaven Domain.
But after the Great Cataclysm, it had fallen into ruin. Many of its disciples were lost, the stele shattered, the spiritual veins weakened, and the guardian falcon vanished. Now, Zhou Yu stood as the first living soul to tread these ruins in decades.
"I… I will rebuild it," he whispered, his voice steady despite the weight of the task. "I will awaken the Sword Spirit, restore the sect, and reclaim its glory. No matter how long it takes."
He knelt once more at the altar. Drawing in a deep breath, he felt the residual Sword Qi in the air, chaotic but responsive. "Body… Qi… sword… I'll start with the basics," he murmured. He closed his eyes and began to circulate the faint energy in his dantian, feeling it stir, falter, and finally align — the first spark of cultivation awakening within him.
Hours passed unnoticed. The wind rose and fell, shadows lengthened, and the mountains grew colder as the sun dipped below the horizon. Yet in the ruins of the Heavenly Sword Sect, a single young swordsman sat cross-legged, blood and sweat mingling with the dust of the centuries, as a fragment of a Primordial Sword Spirit stirred within him, whispering of destiny, trials, and a future that would shake the Boundless Heaven Domain.
The journey had begun.