The night had not yet broken when Lucius was summoned.
A monk in gray robes appeared at his door, silent as a shadow, bearing a scroll sealed in molten wax. No name. No crest. Only one word burned into the paper in ancient script:
"Descend."
Lucius said nothing. He gathered his robe, fastened the Fang along his arm, and followed.
They passed through unused corridors, behind ancestral altars, and through doors that whispered as they opened. Finally, they reached a chamber built into the roots of the mountain itself—the Boneforge Meditation Hall, sealed for decades.
Lucius stepped through the threshold.
The monk bowed once and vanished.
Inside, the chamber was vast and hollow. Jagged bone-like pillars rose from floor to ceiling, etched with old runes. Pools of glowing ash pulsed faintly, casting shadows across the dark stone walls. At the center sat High Elder Rengard, cross-legged atop a dais of fossilized blackwood.
He did not look up.
"I wasn't told," Lucius said, stepping forward.
Rengard's voice was low. "You weren't meant to be."
Lucius furrowed his brow. "Then why bring me here?"
"Because the stance alone isn't enough. Your body moves, but your core is fractured. You're too strong for this temple. And yet—too unstable for the world."
Lucius stood still.
Rengard finally opened his eyes. "This place was built for one purpose: to rebuild what pain has broken. In body, in soul, in flame."
He motioned to the circle around him.
"Sit. Prepare. You'll begin the Boneforge Meditation now. And once you begin, you don't leave until your qi burns clean."
Lucius sat.
The moment he crossed the runic threshold, the air changed. It thickened—like wading through coals. The Fang tingled along his arm. His breath shortened.
He lowered himself into a meditative stance.
Around him, the glowing ash pools began to ripple.
Rengard's voice echoed through the chamber. "The Boneforge draws out all the impurities in your cultivation—emotions, trauma, imbalance, incomplete techniques, and raw power too wild to wield."
Lucius felt heat rise in his chest.
"You will not resist. You will not redirect. You will endure. And if you survive—you will become something the world will fear rightly."
The Fang ignited—without Lucius willing it.
Red flame seeped from his pores, rising like steam. Memories surged unbidden: the child in the nursery, the cultist's grin, the masked man's voice, the burning city from his dreams.
He gritted his teeth.
The bone pillars pulsed. Something ancient stirred.
The first hour was agony.
Lucius felt his qi unravel at the seams. Phantom pains struck his joints. His blood boiled—not metaphorically, but spiritually, as if the fire of the Fang now scoured every marrowed crevice of his being.
But he held firm.
He didn't scream.
The second hour tested his mind.
Visions came.
He stood atop a pile of corpses, laughing with crimson eyes. The Fang in that version of him was jagged, blade-like, alive. He swung it with no regard for life—friend, enemy, child, beast. All fell.
Lucius shook the image away.
Then came another.
His mother, faceless, reaching out from a pit of fire. Her voice cracked through the blaze. "You were born for this…"
Lucius clenched his fists. "No."
The third hour blurred time. The chamber dimmed, light fading from ash. Rengard was gone. The walls melted. Lucius stood alone, surrounded by seven mirrors.
Each held a different reflection.
In one, he was a hero, wreathed in gold light. In another, a tyrant on a throne of scorched skulls. One showed him as a monk. One, as a beast. One held no face at all.
But the last mirror—
It was empty.
Lucius approached.
And the emptiness reached for him.
He gasped, eyes snapping open.
He was back in the Boneforge, but the pain was different now.
Sharper.
More refined.
He looked down. The floor beneath him had cracked into a spiderweb. Flame still danced across his arms, but the heat was no longer erratic. It pulsed to his breath.
Rengard reappeared in the mist.
"You lasted longer than most."
Lucius exhaled, steam rising.
"I saw things."
"You always will."
Rengard knelt beside him, placing two fingers over Lucius's chest. He closed his eyes.
And nodded.
"You've passed the Boneforge threshold. Your core is stable. You can now shape qi through intent, not reaction. The Fang no longer leads you."
Lucius stood slowly, his body crackling. Every muscle felt lighter. Tighter. Aligned.
He flexed his hand.
A stream of flame formed between his fingers—and instead of a surge, it curved, folded, then collapsed into a blade-thin ribbon.
He controlled it. Completely.
"What happens now?" he asked.
Rengard's eyes gleamed faintly. "Now, you learn what it means to kill with purpose."
They returned to the temple surface.
Seris and Nael waited outside the meditation hall, flanked by three Elders.
Rengard raised his hand. "It's done. He's passed."
Nael grinned. "Took you long enough."
Seris stepped forward, studying Lucius closely. "You look different."
Lucius met her gaze. "I am."
He turned to the Elders. "What next?"
One stepped forward. Elder Elaan, silver-robed, eyes like stormglass.
"Now comes the trial. Not of strength—but of lineage."
Lucius narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"
Elaan lifted a scroll and held it up.
"This was recovered from the crypts below the Inner Sanctum. It belonged to your bloodline."
Lucius felt the Fang react instantly. It shivered—not in hunger, but in recognition.
Rengard took the scroll. "This… this predates even the Heaven Destroyer."
Lucius's breath caught. "Then who does it belong to?"
Rengard opened the scroll.
And the name blazed across it in jagged ink: Klaigos.
The Sword Demon.
All eyes turned to Lucius.
But he didn't flinch.
Something in him stirred—not fear. Not awe. Memory.
Seris stepped back. "The legends say Klaigos was the first to fracture heaven with a sword. That he carved technique from the screams of war itself."
Rengard stared at Lucius. "If you're truly descended from him… then your power doesn't end with the Fang. It begins with the sword."
Lucius felt something twist in his gut.
A distant echo.
Seven Blades. Seven Steps. Seven Worlds…
He looked down at his hand, where flame still danced.
"I want to read the scroll."
Elder Elaan handed it to him.
"You'll do more than read it," she said.
"You'll inherit it."
Lucius held the scroll as though it weighed a mountain.
Though no heavier than parchment, it seemed to thrum with history—and not the kind written in books or chiseled into walls. This was a legacy of carnage. Of skill so pure it had carved its mark into the bones of cultivators long dead.
He unrolled it slowly.
There were no elegant brush strokes. No intricate diagrams like those in the First Kill Stance. Instead, the scroll was painted in jagged slashes of ink, each stroke mimicking a sword's path. The first few lines were unreadable—until his fingers brushed them.
Then the ink shimmered and rearranged itself, responding to his bloodline like a lock recognizing its key.
Nael stepped forward. "It's alive?"
"No," Elder Elaan murmured. "It's… bound. To his line."
Lucius read aloud the header as it revealed itself:
"The Seven Demonic Sword Arts of Klaigos."
The scroll spoke with voice, not word—visions flooding into his mind as he read:
—A battlefield soaked in red where a man danced alone with a broken blade…—A sword strike so swift it split not air, but sound itself…—A final scream echoing across the ruins of heaven…—A whisper: Only those who sever mercy can draw the first art.
Lucius staggered back, jaw clenched. The scroll curled closed, as if satisfied.
Seris touched his arm. "What did you see?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Then: "A gate. A path made of swords. And a choice that ends with blood."
Nael gave a low whistle. "Sounds like your kind of walk."
Rengard nodded gravely. "The Sword Demon's legacy was too dangerous to be taught. It was buried. You being able to read it means the sect has no choice but to let you walk its path."
Elder Elaan turned, her robe billowing. "You'll begin your trial tomorrow at the Ashfall Grounds."
Lucius glanced at her. "Alone?"
"No," she said. "Against an opponent chosen by the scroll itself."
The Fang twitched, excited.
Lucius exhaled slowly. This wasn't just a new art. This was a new war.
And deep inside, something—someone—grinned with teeth that had not smiled in ages.
Klaigos.
The Sword Demon's will had awakened.
[End of Chapter 14]