The vault loomed like the mouth of a beast, its ancient gates pulled open for the first time in decades. The structure itself was carved from black stone, veins of gold running through its surface like frozen lightning. Guards in obsidian armor stood rigid on both sides, but their discipline could not smother the murmurs swelling among the gathered crowd.
From every corner of the palace, nobles, ministers, high priests, and sect disciples had assembled. Not for reverence, not even for celebration. They came to see whether the child the Emperor had raised above all others would live… or die.
Whispers curled like smoke through the air.
"Another offering to the immovable sword."
"He won't last an hour."
"A few days ago he was still chasing butterflies in the palace garden. What chance does such a child have in the vault?"
Laughter followed – thin, sharp, cutting. Others remained silent, pity in their eyes, but none dared to speak against the tide. The vault had a reputation as old as the Empire: it devoured arrogance, youth, and hope alike.
Then came the wagers.
A minister in silk robes laughed aloud, tossing a jade slip into a lacquered bowl set hastily on a stone plinth. "One hundred spirit jades... says the boy doesn't even find the sword!"
Another noble smirked, unfastening a bracelet studded with blue gems. "Two vials of lunar marrow elixir... he collapses before sunset."
"You underestimate him," sneered a third, producing a talisman that hummed faintly with fire runes. "I bet this flame seal he touches the sword… only to be rejected and cast back bleeding."
The bowl filled quickly with treasures – elixirs, talismans, beast cores, blades wrapped in silks. The betting turned into a frenzy. Voices rose, each staking pride and wealth on the child's doom.
A handful of priests lowered their heads, unwilling to join. One whispered, "It is cruelty to gamble on a child's sacrificial death."
"Cruelty?" A court disciple laughed, teeth flashing. "This is the Empire. Cruelty is the measure of truth."
The air thickened with arrogance, avarice, and mockery. Every eye turned when the boy finally stepped forward.
Kiaria–
Small shoulders, grey and white gradient robe with divine threaded by black and white pattern of designs, too large for him, his gaze steady but without malice. He did not understand the wagers, the mockery, the pity. To him, the vault was simply another task set before him, and so he walked.
The Emperor's voice cut across the assembly, sharp and cold.
"From this moment, none shall interfere. The child enters alone. If he is weak, he will perish. If he is strong, he will claim the sword. Glory or ruin – it is his to face."
The words were final. The boy stepped across the threshold.
The vault swallowed him whole.
Inside, the world shifted. What looked from outside like a narrow chamber expanded into a boundless expanse, as if an entire realm had been folded into stone. The air was thick with poison mist – invisible to the eyes of others, but sharp against his skin. Had he been any other, his lungs would have burned to ash in minutes.
But the Zhar Do Globe, silent at his side, awakened of its own accord. An unseen barrier flared around him, repelling the poison, parting the mist. It pulsed faintly, as if guiding him forward.
Kiaria pressed on.
Shadows whispered along the walls. Treasures glittered in the corners of his vision – ancient blades, jewels that sang, scrolls humming with runes. Each whispered to him, beckoned, tried to bend his path. But the Globe ignored them all, anchoring his steps toward a single destination.
Hours passed, or perhaps moments – time inside bent strangely. The mist thinned at last, and a faint glow pulsed ahead. A portal opened, no wider than his arm.
Without hesitation, the boy reached forward. The portal seized him whole.
Outside the vault, time dragged like a blade across nerves.
Ministers checked their wagers. Priests fidgeted with prayer beads. Nobles bragged louder. The visual from portal was blurred with poison mist.
"He is too long. Already the poison has him."
"Perhaps his corpse will roll back out."
"I told you – the sword has no master but itself. Even the Seven Kings failed. This boy is nothing more than kindling."
"Five hundred spirit jades," shouted one man, "that he is spat out before nightfall!"
Another slammed a jade gourd of spirit wine on the table. "A bottle of heavenly brew says he comes out mad!"
Coins, slips, treasures clinked as the betting bowl overflowed. The air reeked of arrogance.
Only Didhian, Founder of the Enlightenment Sect, remained apart. His hood cast aside, his eyes calm, unreadable. He neither mocked nor wagered. His silence cut sharper than their laughter.
Within the vault's heart.
The boy stood in a chamber unlike any before. Chains as thick as trees coiled across the ground, wrapping a sword thrust deep into stone. The blade gleamed faintly, patterns etched like rivers of light across its length. At its hilt pulsed a blue gem, alive with a will older than dynasties.
Kiaria's breath quickened. The sword's intent fell upon him like a mountain – crushing, merciless, testing. His knees threatened to buckle, but he stepped closer.
The moment his fingertips brushed the cold metal, the chains shattered. They dissolved into fragments of light and vanished.
The sword surged upward. A streak of silver lightning, it pierced straight through his chest.
Blood burst. His small body arched.
And then – the world roared.
Thunder cracked across the sky above the palace. Clouds coiled black and furious. From the storm, two lights descended: one golden, blazing like a sun; the other deep blue, cold as the abyss. They spiraled down and dove into the vault, into the boy's body.
The crowd outside gasped.
"What is happening?"
"The vault shakes–!"
"Is he alive or dead?"
Priests clutched talismans. Ministers pressed forward, eyes wide with greed and dread alike.
Inside, Kiaria collapsed into his sea of consciousness.
There, he saw himself.
A figure identical, every hair, every line – but eyes twisted, lips curved into a cruel smile except aura around them. Kiaria had golden aura while other had blue.
"I am you," the figure said. "Your heart demon. Everything you fear, everything you deny, I am."
They fought.
The first time, Kiaria lunged, blade in hand, but the heart demon met him with savage laughter. Its strikes carried not only strength but venomous hatred. Every cut split deeper than flesh – into his spiritual will itself. He fell, gasping, blood spilling across the inner sea.
The second time, he rose again. His resolve burned, but the demon's darkness swelled like a tide. Each taunt, each slash broke him further. He fought until his breath shredded, but again he collapsed, the cold water closing over him.
The demon loomed above, whispering, "You are me. There is no difference. You are nothing but hatred waiting to bloom."
For the first time, Kiaria trembled. He could no longer tell where his strength ended and the demon's began.
Then – he stopped struggling.
Breath steadied. Fingers loosened. He closed his eyes. If I must gamble my life, then let it be now. If I am nothing but shadow, then let the darkness take me.
At that moment, a snap echoed across the sea.
The Primordial Spirit appeared – unseen yet undeniable. With a single snap of his fingers, the Heart Demon shuddered, howled, and dissolved into mist. Not destroyed, not gone – only forced back, withdrawn into silence.
When Kiaria opened his eyes, the sword was in his hand.
But not one sword. Two.
The Sacred Sword had split its essence, forging a dual form for the child it acknowledged. Golden brilliance crystallized into a celestial martial spirit, while blue light condensed into a second blade.
The vault doors trembled. Priests rushed forward as the chamber quaked.
Chief High Priest cried out, his voice cracking. "What happened inside? Is he alive–?"
The doors groaned open.
Kiaria stepped out. His chest bore a scar of blood, but his eyes were steady, and in his hands gleamed the dual swords.
The crowd fell silent.
He spoke softly, but his words carried. "Do not worry. The Zhar Do Globe guided me. The sword pierced me… within, I fought my own heart demon. Twice I fell. The third time, I found what separated us. I defeated him – for now. When I awoke, the sword was mine."
Shock rippled through the assembly.
He raised the blades slightly, their glow reflecting in stunned eyes. "I am not strong enough to wield their full potential. They will grow with me. For now, I wield them in dual form. The sword spirit said only a pure-hearted child may master the Sacred Sword. Many tried. None succeeded. Until now."
For a long moment, silence crushed the crowd. Then a voice rang out.
"So that is it… Congratulations, Chief Disciple!"
It was the Seventh Brother, smiling bright as dawn. Handsome, brown-haired, his blue eyes lit like gems. He stepped forward, laughter easing the tension.
"Come, little brother. Don't let all these old men stare holes through you. Today you eat with me. My treat!"
Kiaria flushed, ducking his head. "Seventh brother, don't tease me… it feels strange when you call me that."
"Haha! Then I won't. But you're still stuck with me today."
The crowd parted for them. Yet behind the smiles, eyes glimmered with envy, jealousy, calculation. The whispers never ceased.
Far from the laughter, in the shadow of a palace tower, a man stood silent.
General Jo Berque–
The General of Eastern Province at Eastern Gate. His armor bore the scars of countless wars. His eyes burned with the memory of comrades lost. Once, Kia and him fought together, faced lot of life and death situations. Memories lingered hardships.
He watched the boy emerge from the vault, dual swords gleaming, the crowd roaring.
But his thoughts were elsewhere.
Kiasin once warned me… conspiracies are rooted deep within this palace.
His fist clenched, jaws tightened.
"Why did I forget?"
The night swallowed his words, but his resolve hardened.
He turned toward the direction of the old Kia mansion. Secrets slept there. Secrets that had to be awakened.