Vern stepped onto the training ground, the early mist still clinging to the earth like faded dreams. In his hand rested the Black Wind Sword — a silent blade, black as the void, yet gleaming with a faint, ominous sheen like starlight hidden behind storm clouds.
He drew it slowly from its sheath. Not a sound escaped — not the hiss of steel, not the ring of metal — only silence, thick and reverent. The sword, though deadly, felt sacred. Alive.
Then, without a word, Vern moved.
His body flowed like water, but every step was rooted like a mountain. The sword danced with him — or perhaps he danced with the sword. Each swing carved the wind, each motion weaved silence and storm together. The training ground, once ordinary, became a stage for something ethereal.
There was no anger, no fury. Only grace.
It was as if the sword knew him. Responded to his thoughts before he could act. The Black Wind Sword moved not as a weapon, but as a part of him — his breath, his pulse, his shadow.
For a moment, the world around him seemed to vanish. No trees. No sky. Just the rhythm of feet against earth, and a sword that whispered secrets only Vern could hear.
And in that dance, the bond between man and blade deepened — not forged in blood, but in silence, beauty, and the unspoken language of the wind.
When Vern's final step landed and the Black Wind Sword came to rest at his side, silence returned to the training ground—not empty, but full. The stillness felt sacred, as though even the wind bowed in reverence.
Vern stood quietly, his breath calm, his gaze distant. But something had changed. The world around him… it shimmered.
The leaves on the trees seemed greener, the clouds softer in their drifting. The sun above felt warmer—not harsh, but embracing. Even the scent of the air carried a strange clarity, like a forgotten memory brushed gently across his senses.
He stood not in the same world, but a different one—a world unveiled only through the dance of the sword.
And it wasn't the first time.
Even in his past life, whenever he wielded a sword with true intent, the world bent and shifted around him. As if, through the sword, he peeled away the false layers of reality and stepped into something deeper, more honest. More alive.
Watching from a distance, Azum felt rooted in place, his heart stirred and breath held. His eyes were wide—not from fear, but awe.
He had seen countless sword dances. He had watched generals drill armies, masters display divine techniques, and madmen carve beauty from blood.
But this… this was different.
There was no name for the sword technique Vern used. It didn't follow the rigid forms of the major schools, nor did it boast the flare of celestial styles. Yet it was beautiful. Strikingly beautiful.
And within that beauty, Azum sensed something else—ruthlessness. Not cruelty, but inevitability. The kind of silent power that does not shout, does not boast, but simply is—like a blade already drawn across the throat before the opponent knew they were fighting.
Azum took a slow breath, barely able to whisper.
"…What kind of sword dance was that?"
But Vern is standing silent. He simply closed his eyes, feeling the world around him, letting the wind pass by the edge of his blade, like an old friend greeting a returned soul.
… he felt it.
A pulse deep within his being. A vibration, not of the body, but of the soul. Like a silent drumbeat echoing in the void of his inner world. The air around him seemed to draw inward, spiraling into his core, pulled by an invisible thread of destiny.
Yes.
This was the moment.
He could feel the foundation of this body aligning—the broken pathways of essence beginning to tremble, preparing to awaken. The First Node Core—the cornerstone of cultivation—was calling to be formed.
In his past life, this moment had come late. Hesitant. Unclear. But now, with the Black Wind Sword resonating in his hand, and memories from lifetimes echoing through his bones, it was certain.
He slowly opened his eyes.
"…Azum," Vern said quietly, his tone calm, but weighted. "If I—if a direct descendant—chooses to learn a martial art outside the clan's inheritance… will there be a problem?"
Azum blinked, still slightly dazed from witnessing the beauty of the sword dance. But the weight of Vern's words pulled him back to reality.
He straightened and answered with seriousness.
"There will be very much problem, Young Master."
He hesitated, then added with a sigh, "In our Wind Blossom Clan, every direct bloodline member is expected to inherit the clan's martial path. If you wish to cultivate or practice any other martial arts, especially in place of the clan's techniques… you must first gain approval."
"Approval?" Vern asked, his voice low.
Azum nodded. "Yes. You would have to present your chosen martial art to the Patriarch and the Twelve Elders. They will examine its origin, its intent, and most importantly—whether it threatens or contradicts the clan's essence."
"Even if it suits me better?"
"Even then." Azum's tone turned grim. "Especially then. The clan sees deviation from its core arts as a form of rebellion. In the past, there were those who sought their own path… and they were punished, some even exiled."
Vern looked down at the Black Wind Sword, its edge silent but shimmering faintly under the sky.
He knew the truth.
This sword, and the path it whispered to him, did not belong to the Wind Blossom Clan.
It was his own.
Vern lowered his gaze, thoughtful, the edge of the Black Wind Sword gleaming softly beside him like a silent witness to his decision.
"I have to find a way," he thought.
This clan… the Wind Blossom Clan, it possessed vast resources—ancient manuals, refined techniques, cultivation elixirs, spirit veins, and sacred grounds. In his past life, he had wandered without support, struggling alone against the tides of fate. But not this time.
He needed what they had.
But he wouldn't let them shackle him with tradition.
"If I walk a path completely foreign, they will fear it. Reject it. But… what if I take their foundation—mimic it—yet let it evolve into something else entirely?"
A small smile flickered on his lips.
"A sword art… that looks like theirs. Feels like theirs. But flows differently."
A martial art not confined to one principle—but like the wind itself, able to shift and adapt. A sword art that could flow like water, strike like lightning, vanish like mist, and pierce like the coldest steel.
A martial path that didn't just climb one peak—but stood at a crossroad of many mountains.
"A martial art," Vern whispered to himself, "that doesn't follow one way… but opens many."
Azum raised an eyebrow. "Young Master?"
Vern turned to him, eyes calm but sharp. "There's no problem, Azum. I'll show the clan what they want to see… and walk the path I need to walk."
Azum didn't fully understand, but he nodded slowly. "As long as you don't abandon the clan's teachings entirely, the elders will not object. Blend your style well, and they may even praise your… innovation."
Vern turned back to the sword in his hand, raising it gently.
Wind Blossom Sword Style, they called it—graceful, light, dancing like the spring breeze. He could mimic its surface.
But within, he would forge something new. A living style. A Martial path with endless doors.