The wind whispered through the skeletal remains of the village, carrying with it the stench of smoldering wood and the iron tang of dried blood. The fires had long since died, but the smoke still clung to the air like the memory of screams.
Beneath a half-burned altar stone, a boy stirred.
Tiksn opened his eyes to a world already lost to him. His breath caught; the pain in his side was sharp, but not fatal. Around him, the silence screamed. Everyone was gone—his master, the villagers, even the stray dogs. All that remained was ruin and a single sword, half-buried in the ashes.
He crawled toward it.
The hilt was warm, as if it remembered the hand of its previous wielder. Tikshn didn't know swordsmanship. He barely knew how to read. But he knew hunger. He knew cold. And now, he knew vengeance.
Above him, the ancient peaks of the Murim mountains loomed—home to wandering warriors, hermit clans, and deathless sects. Legends spoke of secret arts and immortal techniques, of blades that could split the sky. But for Tikshn, there was only the path ahead: the way of the sword.
And he would walk it alone.