Chapter 10
The sword hadn't pulsed again.
Not since the vision.
Not since Rui saw himself standing over Yan Zhi's corpse—smiling like it meant nothing.
Now it hung at his side, wrapped in dark cloth, as if pretending to be silent would make it less dangerous.
It didn't.
He could still feel the echo of it in his blood. Not power. Not pride.
Hunger.
They moved west through the Yoruin Flats, a stretch of wind-scoured plains riddled with jagged rocks and burnt trees.
Yan Zhi kept her pace brisk, scouting twenty feet ahead, blades drawn but silent. She hadn't asked about the vision.
But Rui knew she saw the look on his face.
She always did.
By noon, the wind shifted. Carried a stench.
Metal. Smoke. And something bitter beneath it.
They climbed a rise and saw it:
A town. Or what was left of one.
Smoke curled from collapsed roofs. Blood streaked the dirt. Houses were torn open like they'd been clawed apart by something massive and wild.
And in the center of the square…
Bodies.
Arranged in a spiral.
Dozens.
Old, young. Burned, frozen. All still.
And every one of them had the same mark seared into their chest: a dragon with an open mouth, swallowing its own tail.
Yan Zhi stopped walking.
"This was done by another heir," she said flatly.
Rui nodded.
"No monks. No mercenaries. This was personal."
A slow clap echoed across the square.
They turned.
A man stood on the edge of the spiral—barefoot, shirtless, robes torn open to reveal tattoos coiling across his skin like living ink. He had a grin that didn't reach his eyes.
"You made it," he said.
Rui stepped forward. "Who are you?"
"You don't remember?" The man tilted his head. "You should. We trained together. Back when loyalty still meant something."
Something in Rui's chest twisted.
"Jin."
"Ah," the man—Jin—spread his arms. "So you do remember. That's good. Makes this less awkward."
"You were... gone," Rui said. "Disappeared after the cliff trials."
Jin laughed. "No, no. They didn't let me disappear. They buried me alive and branded my core."
Yan Zhi whispered, "Another heir?"
Rui's mouth was dry. "He wasn't one before. The pulse must've come after."
"Wrong again," Jin said. "I had the pulse long before you. I just knew better than to use it. Until they tried to erase me."
He knelt and dragged a finger through the blood spiral.
"I let it burn slow. Just like they did."
Rui drew the sword.
It groaned in his hand—like it recognized Jin. Like it hated him.
Jin's grin widened.
"You found it. The unworthy blade."
He took a step forward. "That sword doesn't kill me, Rui. It completes me."
Yan Zhi shifted her stance. "He's stalling."
"No," Rui said. "He's baiting me."
"Good," Jin replied. "Because you came all this way for a fight, didn't you? Not peace. Not redemption. Just to prove you're not the monster we both know you're becoming."
Rui's jaw tightened. "You don't know who I am."
Jin's eyes darkened.
"I know exactly who you are," he said. "Because I was you before you were."
He attacked without warning.
No drawn weapon.
Just pure, surging pulse-force, raw and brutal.
Rui raised his sword to block.
The impact knocked him ten feet back, heels dragging through dirt, shoulder burning.
Jin laughed. "You're not using your pulse? What's wrong—afraid it'll eat you alive?"
Rui charged forward, blade sweeping in a low arc.
Jin ducked under, planted a foot in Rui's gut, and sent him sprawling.
Yan Zhi closed the gap fast—blades slicing.
Jin caught one with bare fingers, redirected the second, and slammed a palm into her ribs.
She dropped, gasping.
"Always with a protector," Jin mocked. "You hide behind her, Rui? Like a scared little disciple?"
Rui forced himself to stand.
"This isn't a spar."
"No," Jin said, his voice sharper now. "It's a test."
He raised both hands, and fire ignited along his forearms—not blue, not red, but sickly gold, flickering like dying stars.
"I've killed seven sect leaders," Jin said calmly. "Broke their bones, took their techniques. You think I can't kill you?"
"I'm not them."
"No," he said. "You're worse."
Rui released his pulse.
Not all of it. Just enough.
Blue flame licked across his arms. His feet dug into the earth.
He spun toward Jin, blade arcing in a full crescent.
Jin blocked with his bare arm—and laughed when the steel sparked against his skin.
Rui ducked, feinted, slashed again—this time catching Jin across the chest.
Blood sprayed.
Jin staggered—but his smile didn't fade.
"That's it," he hissed. "Bleed me. Make it mean something."
He surged forward again, fists blazing.
Rui parried left, ducked a punch, slammed his elbow into Jin's jaw—and felt it crack.
Jin stumbled.
Rui lifted the sword.
"End it," the blade whispered.
But he hesitated.
Jin's head snapped up.
"I knew it," he growled. "You still think there's something worth saving."
He grabbed Rui's wrist—hard.
"You think you can be the hero. The chosen one. The pulse-bearer who walks away clean."
His eyes flared gold.
"Let me prove you wrong."
He drove his head into Rui's nose—hard.
Rui fell back, blinded.
Jin leapt on him.
And then—Yan Zhi tackled him off.
They rolled, struggling.
She drove a dagger into his thigh.
He backhanded her across the face.
She screamed—but didn't fall.
"Rui!" she shouted. "You hesitate again, we die!"
Rui stood, face bloody.
Jin rose too—limping now, one hand pressed to his wound.
The flames around his arms flickered.
"I wanted you to join me," he said to Rui. "We could've taken it all. The temples. The thrones. The pulse. But you—" he spat blood. "You still cling to the lie of balance."
"No," Rui said quietly. "I cling to the people who still believe in me."
Jin sneered.
"Then they'll burn with you."
He raised both arms.
The sky darkened.
From above, a golden spear of flame formed—massive, radiant, howling like it was alive.
He threw it.
Straight at Rui.
Rui didn't move.
Didn't brace.
He stepped into the fire.
And met it.
The pulse within him howled—but he didn't surrender to it.
He shaped it.
Bend.
Flow.
Rise.
Heaven-Cracking Step.
He vanished—reappeared above Jin—spun mid-air—
And drove the sword down.
Jin blocked with both arms.
Steel met flesh.
Bone cracked.
And Jin fell.
Silence.
The fire went out.
Rui stood over him, sword still raised.
Jin coughed.
Then laughed.
"Still hesitating," he whispered. "You should've ended it."
Rui looked down at him.
"I'm not you."
"No," Jin said. "But you will be."
His eyes glowed once more.
Then he slammed his palm into his own chest—and detonated.
The explosion hit like a tidal wave.
Rui flew backward—crashed into a tree—blacked out.
When he came to, the town was dust.
Jin was gone.
No body.
No trace.
Just ash.
And the echo of his voice in the wind:
You will break. One way or another.
Rui sat in the ruins, blood in his mouth, vision spinning—and asked himself:
If everyone who carries the pulse ends up falling… what makes me any different?