The storm that had begun in the Sword Tomb did not end with the parting of its mist. It followed Tikshn and his companions like a silent omen, threading itself into the marrow of the land. As they made their way westward, the mountains fell behind them, replaced by dense forests and the ruins of forgotten outposts. But the further they journeyed, the more apparent it became: their path was not unobserved.
They reached the edge of an abandoned village by dusk. Moss overtook roofs, doors creaked in the wind, and shattered tiles whispered tales of battles long past. Master Ryujin gestured toward a collapsed house near the well.
"We rest here."
Alia, though quiet, had grown sturdier. She helped build the fire and gathered roots under Ryujin's guidance. Tikshn stood by the doorway, watching the treeline. His instincts prickled. Something stirred. Not yet hostile—but waiting.
That night, as flames danced low, Ryujin broke the silence.
"They will come soon. The Grand Sects. The lesser clans. The hidden blades. You've awakened echoes none could ignore."
Tikshn nodded. "Let them come. I no longer run."
Alia looked between them. "Why would they care about us?"
Ryujin smiled grimly. "Because you walked into the Sword Tomb and lived. Because your name now travels faster than any sword strike. And because you, Tikshn, are not supposed to exist."
He tossed something small to Tikshn. A sealed parchment.
"Found this in the Monastery ruins. Burned edges, but the seal's intact. Your family name."
Tikshn froze. His hand trembled as he opened it.
The letter was from his father—written long before the massacre. A plea to a noble sect for aid. For protection. For a chance at dignity.
They never replied.
Tikshn folded the parchment with shaking fingers. In that silence, memories surged—not just of death, but of powerlessness. His father kneeling before a tax collector. His mother selling their last heirloom. His brother hiding wounds so others wouldn't worry. And Ailari… always smiling, always defiant, even as the flames took her.
"They knew," Tikshn said. "They saw what would happen and let it."
Ryujin nodded. "The strong only protect their own. That is the law of this broken Murim."
---
At dawn, Tikshn left the village to scout. What he found was worse than what he expected.
A procession.
Dozens of cloaked figures. Banners of the Jade Viper Sect fluttered behind them—one of the Seven Grand Sects. At their head marched a man clad in sea-green robes, his aura sharp as coiled steel. His name was Lord Veyren—The Whisper Fang.
He didn't come for parley.
He came to erase.
---
Tikshn returned and gave no warning. He simply said, "They're here."
Ryujin drew his blade. "We can't face them head-on. Not all of them."
Tikshn crouched beside Alia. "There's an escape path under the well. Take it."
She shook her head. "I'm not leaving."
"You must survive. You're the future."
"Then let the future fight too."
Tikshn stared into her eyes and saw himself—before the fire, before the screams. He nodded.
"Then fight from the shadows. Strike only when needed. I'll face the front."
Ryujin placed a hand on his shoulder. "You can't fight an army."
"I don't need to. I only need to cut their will."
---
Lord Veyren approached with three elite disciples, each one a cultivator of fearsome repute. Villagers watched from the shadows. The Jade Viper Sect always made a spectacle of their executions.
"You are Tikshn," Veyren said, voice calm. "The sword that should not have been."
Tikshn stood alone in the street, Silver Sorrow in hand.
"I am the sword they tried to bury."
Veyren smirked. "Do you know how many begged for our protection over the years? We gave it. To those worthy. You were not."
Tikshn's eyes narrowed. "You weighed our lives and found them lacking. Now I weigh yours."
The first disciple moved—quick as a falcon, blade flashing.
Tikshn parried, stepped in, and broke his wrist with a twist. The second came from the left. A blur of strikes met an unbreakable wall. Tikshn sidestepped, disarmed, and slammed the hilt into her temple.
The third never reached him.
Alia's blade flashed from a rooftop, catching him across the ribs. He screamed and fell.
Veyren finally drew his own sword. A thin, gleaming needle.
"You're better than they said. But you've not faced me."
Their duel was a dance of death. Veyren's strikes were precise, emotionless. Tikshn's were raw, forged from pain and tempered by will. Silver Sorrow chipped; Tikshn bled. But he didn't fall.
He remembered the Sword Tomb.
He remembered the spirit's words.
He remembered Ailari's smile.
With a sudden pivot, he feinted low, then drove the pommel into Veyren's ribs. The jade blade sliced his arm, but Tikshn didn't stop. He slammed Silver Sorrow against Veyren's guard—again and again—until the needle snapped.
Veyren staggered.
"What are you?" he gasped.
"The sword that remembers."
Tikshn raised his blade.
Veyren turned and ran.
He let him go.
---
When the dust settled, the remaining Viper disciples scattered. The villagers emerged slowly, unsure. Ryujin sat on a broken wall, clutching a wound.
Alia stood beside Tikshn. "You let him go."
"He'll spread the word," Tikshn replied. "That we are not powerless."
And for the first time in years, Tik
shn looked toward the future.
Not with dread.
But with resolve.