The Blade Sanctuary lay at the heart of the Ozark Estate,
hidden beyond layered formations and ancient seals, heavily guarded by the family's most loyal and powerful knights from the outside .
It was neither a palace nor a hall, but something far older—an open garden of stone and earth where swords rested not as weapons, but as witnesses.
Paths of pale rock wound through the grounds, each one flanked by blades embedded deep into the soil.
Some were rusted and broken, their edges eaten by time.
Others were flawless and gleaming, untouched by age or decay.
These were not decorations.
Every sword here carried a will—fragments of intent left behind by warriors who had walked the Path of the Sword and reached its summit.
Mana lingered everywhere.
Not pressing.
Not overwhelming.
Watching.
This was the final resting place of swords that had outlived their masters—or awaited them.
Legend said the Sanctuary chose its owners. A blade would not answer simply because one was strong.
To claim a sword here, one had to accomplish something worthy of it—overcome a trial, embody a principle, or carve one's will deeply enough into the world that the blade acknowledged it.
Only then would a sword rise.
And only once a man became a Swordmaster could he plant his own blade here—leaving behind his legacy, his intent, and his story for the next generation to challenge.
At the center of the Sanctuary stood my father.
Sir Lionel Ozark.
Patriarch of the Ozark Clan.
Swordmaster.
A man with long hair carrying a faint bluish tint, and eyes that seemed capable of judging even the heavens themselves.
Behind him, half-buried in stone, stood his sword—Skadiana—upright and unmoving.
Its aura was restrained, yet unmistakable, forged through blood, discipline, and countless battles survived.
He turned as I approached.
His gaze was sharp, honed by decades of war and command, yet when it fell upon me, it softened. Not weakness—recognition. He was not looking at a prodigy. Not at a successor.
He was looking at his son.
"Sit," he said.
I lowered myself onto the stone bench before him. The air grew heavier, as if the swords themselves were listening.
Sir Deckard stopped at the edge of the Sanctuary.
Even in retirement, a High Sword Expert knew when to step no further.
My father studied me in silence.
He did not ask about my cultivation. He did not probe recklessly.
A true Swordmaster did not search for noise in mana—he searched for discrepancies.
For what should have been there, but wasn't.
"You have formed a core," he said at last.
It was not a question.
"Yes, Father."
His brows drew together, just slightly. "Yet I cannot feel mana fluctuations."
Silence stretched.
Slowly, deliberately, he extended his hand.
"Do not resist."
His mana flowed into me.
It was vast—far beyond what I remembered from my previous life at this age—yet refined to absolute perfection.
His power did not invade or overwhelm. It moved like a master craftsman's hands, tracing my meridians, circling my core, observing its structure.
Then it stopped.
My father inhaled sharply.
"This compression…" he murmured. "This concealment…"
His mana recoiled gently, as though it had brushed against something sacred—or forbidden.
"No modern mana cultivation technique does this," he said quietly.
The air shifted.
Not violently.
Not visibly.
But with unmistakable authority.
The mana within the Blade Sanctuary stilled, as though the world itself had drawn breath.
A pressure descended—not oppressive, but absolute. Ancient. Calm. Unyielding.
A presence emerged.
Not as form.
Not as sound.
But as will.
My father froze.
For the first time since birth,
Sir Lionel Ozark felt something he could not measure through cultivation—only recognize. A vast intent pressed gently against his soul, sharp as a blade yet restrained with perfect control.
His vision blurred.
And then—he understood.
A fragment of will passed through him. Not as memory, but as knowing.
He felt a battlefield drowned in blood. Felt a lone figure standing unmoved before extinction itself.
He felt the resolve of a man who had chosen humanity over ascension, who had shouldered calamity so others could live.
Not power.
Responsibility.
The will of Sir Hendricks brushed against Lionel's spirit, acknowledging him—not as an equal, but as a father standing before his child.
Lionel's breath hitched.
"…Sir Hendricks,"
he whispered hoarsely.
The name carried weight.
Reverence.
Grief.
A small will again flew inside my fathers body.
The swords embedded throughout the Sanctuary trembled faintly, their hilts humming in quiet acknowledgment.
"I see now," my father whispered. "Why fate twisted. Why my son returned."
His knees struck the stone.
Lionel Ozark—Swordmaster of the Ozark Clan—knelt.
"I failed him once," he said, voice breaking. "Failed all of them."
His hands clenched against the ground.
"I was strong," he whispered. "But strength alone was not enough."
Tears fell freely now, unrestrained, striking the stone beneath him.
"I swear," he said, pressing his forehead down, "on my sword planted here… on my blood… on my soul…"
"This time, I will protect him."
The presence lingered for a moment longer—then faded, satisfied.
The Sanctuary grew still once more.
My father rose slowly, wiping his face. The Swordmaster remained—but beneath it stood a father stripped bare.
He approached me and placed his hand gently on my head.
"Michael," he said softly, "whatever path you walk… however dark it becomes…
From now on"
"You will never walk alone."
I broke then.
I wrapped my arms around him, and tears fell like a waterfall.
For the first time since my rebirth—
I believed him.
And the Swords of the Sanctuary remained silent.