Chapter 9
They reached the monastery by accident.
It wasn't on the map.
There was no road.
Just an unnatural stillness in the air that made Rui's skin crawl.
"Do you feel that?" he asked, scanning the treeline.
Yan Zhi nodded. "Too quiet. Even the wind feels like it's listening."
They crept forward through the mist, stepping over roots and half-sunken stones, until the forest simply ended—like the trees had been burned away but hadn't fallen.
In the clearing stood the monastery.
Old.
Twisted.
Half-buried in ash, with statues that leaned too far and windows that were sealed shut with black wax. Vines curled around the pillars like veins around a dying limb.
"This place wasn't abandoned," Yan Zhi said softly. "It was buried."
Rui's pulse flickered in warning.
Something inside the monastery… recognized him.
And it wanted him to come in.
The doors opened on their own.
Heavy oak. No creak. Just that soundless invitation of places that remember things they shouldn't.
Inside, it smelled like dust and old fire.
No footsteps echoed.
Just their breathing.
On the far wall, someone had scrawled in blood:
"Only the unchosen may wield it."
Yan Zhi read it, then looked at Rui. "You've been called that before."
He nodded. "By the flame. By the heir. Even the dreams."
"So what exactly is 'it'?"
Rui stepped deeper into the hallway.
"I guess we're about to find out."
The monastery wasn't big, but every hall branched where it shouldn't. Doors led to stairs that looped back to the same floor. Rooms shifted when you blinked too long.
Rui clenched his fists. "It's alive."
"Then don't piss it off," Yan Zhi muttered, drawing a blade.
They followed the blood.
That was the only pattern that stayed the same—smears on the floor, on the walls, even handprints against the ceilings. Not fresh, but not dry either. As if they never aged.
Rui stopped in front of a massive iron door sealed by seven black nails.
"This is it," he said.
"How do you know?"
"I don't," he said. "But my pulse does."
He pressed a palm against the door.
The nails burst into blue flame—one by one—until the door unlatched and groaned open.
Inside: a single stone platform.
And floating above it…
A sword.
It didn't glow.
Didn't hum.
Didn't look like anything special.
Just an old black-bladed sword with a dragon etched into its hilt. Dustless. Waiting.
But the moment Rui stepped forward, his knees buckled.
The pulse in his chest raged like a second heartbeat.
"This is wrong," Yan Zhi said. "It feels wrong."
"It feels alive," Rui corrected.
The sword whispered in his mind—not words, but memory.
Flashes of another man holding it. Burning cities. Ripping open the sky.
A Dragon Heir gone mad.
Rui staggered back.
But the sword floated toward him.
Drawn to his blood.
"No," he muttered. "I'm not like them."
The sword hovered inches from his chest.
Then dropped at his feet.
He didn't touch it.
Not yet.
He turned to Yan Zhi. "I think it chooses you if you've been rejected by everything else."
"Which you have," she said quietly.
Rui picked it up.
The blade flared with dark fire.
Suddenly, a bell rang outside the monastery.
Loud. Endless.
A signal.
Then came the screams.
Rui and Yan Zhi raced to the entrance—and saw the trees burning.
Men in silver robes rushed from all sides—masked, tattooed, wielding branded chains.
"The Reclaimers," Yan Zhi hissed.
"Who the hell are they?"
"Fanatics. Ex-scholars. They collect artifacts… and people."
"Why?"
"To rewrite the world. And because they believe Dragon Pulse is a curse only they can purify."
Rui looked down at the sword. "Guess I'm on their list."
The Reclaimers didn't speak as they attacked.
Three rushed at Rui.
He blocked one with the black sword. It vibrated in his hand like it had been waiting for blood.
He parried left, ducked low, then slashed across the nearest man's chest. The blade didn't cut skin—it cut spirit.
The man dropped dead, his eyes blank.
Yan Zhi spun into the second attacker, slicing his hamstrings before finishing with a throat stab.
But more poured in.
Ten. Then fifteen.
"Too many!" she yelled.
Rui reached deeper.
The pulse roared back.
He raised the blade.
It drank the fire from his veins and spat it out in a wave of blue flame.
Five men dropped instantly, their bodies burned from the inside.
But Rui collapsed to one knee.
The sword took too much.
He gasped, chest heaving.
More attackers closed in.
Yan Zhi grabbed his shoulder. "You need to stop using that."
"I can't."
"You'll die."
"I'd rather die fighting than get chained."
She helped him up.
Together, they ran through the back of the monastery.
Hallways twisted again—trying to trap them.
But the sword lit the way. Not like a torch—more like a compass. Every time they took the wrong turn, it grew heavier.
Finally, they burst into the forest again.
Trees cracked behind them.
A Reclaimer caught Yan Zhi's cloak.
She spun—stabbed—missed.
He raised his blade.
Rui turned—
And threw the sword.
It spun through the air, end over end, and embedded itself in the man's chest.
He screamed—then exploded in light.
Ash drifted down like snow.
Yan Zhi looked at him, stunned.
"You threw it."
He nodded.
"I don't know why," he said. "But it felt… right."
They retrieved the sword in silence.
Neither spoke of what it did.
That night, by a cold fire, Rui stared at the weapon.
"I don't think this is a gift," he said.
Yan Zhi didn't argue.
"I think," he continued, "this is a test."
She glanced at him. "Then what happens when you fail?"
Rui didn't answer.
Because the sword pulsed once in his lap, and he saw something:
Himself. Covered in blood. Standing over Yan Zhi's body. Smiling.
l
And in that terrifying moment, Rui asked himself:
What if the real enemy… is the weapon I'm becoming?