A prize Untamed

Chapter 7 – A Prize Untamed

The candle burned low, its wavering light casting long shadows across the quiet room. The faint scent of medicine lingered in the air. Outside, the wind had settled, leaving behind a stillness that felt almost unnatural.

Jian Hu opened his eyes.

Pain spread through his body, sharp yet familiar. He remained still, breathing through the discomfort, his gaze sweeping the room. It was plain, unadorned, with only a small wooden table, a single chair, and a dimly flickering lantern. His robes were stained with blood, his body weak—but the bandages were fresh, carefully wrapped.

And then, there was the man sitting by the table.

Li Xin.

He was neither watching nor ignoring him. Simply sitting there, drinking tea as though his presence was of no consequence. His long hair, loosely tied, framed an expression as calm as still water.

Jian Hu said nothing at first. He wanted to speak—perhaps of the past, of the battle that had brought him here—but the moment his eyes met Li Xin's, the words died in his throat.

The man before him was the same, yet different.

Years ago, they had stood on opposing sides, blades drawn, each strike meant to kill. Li Xin's name had once shaken the martial world, and yet here he sat, dressed like a commoner, expression indifferent, as if all of it had been nothing but an illusion.

Was it real?

Or just a carefully crafted facade?

Jian Hu's fingers twitched. His sword lay within reach, its handle cold against his palm. He didn't think. Instinct drove him—if this was truly Li Xin, if even a trace of the man he once knew remained, then he would react.

He tightened his grip, prepared to strike—

"Don't move."

Li Xin's voice cut through the silence, quiet yet firm. He had not turned around, had not even spared him a glance. "The poison hasn't been fully removed."

Jian Hu froze.

His grip loosened slightly, though his mind raced. He had barely moved, and yet—

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "So, you are still the same."

Li Xin took another sip of tea. "No." His tone remained distant. "If I were, you wouldn't be alive."

Jian Hu chuckled, though the motion sent pain lancing through his ribs. "Perhaps." He let go of the sword, letting it rest beside him. "Then tell me, why am I here?"

Li Xin placed his cup down, the soft clink echoing in the quiet room. "You were dying."

Jian Hu watched him carefully. "And you decided to save me?"

Li Xin didn't answer immediately. The candle flickered once before he finally spoke.

"You should rest. Speak less."

Jian Hu studied him for a long moment before leaning back against the pillow, exhaustion pulling at him. His body was too weak to argue, and his mind too weary to unravel the mystery of Li Xin's existence.

But one thing was certain—this man, whether changed or unchanged, was still dangerous.

And Jian Hu would find out why.

The moon hung high over the mountain peaks, casting a pale silver glow over the vast forest below. The air was thick with moisture, the scent of damp earth mingling with the faint traces of blood. Deep within the woods, hidden from wandering eyes, an old temple stood in ruin—its stone walls cracked, its once-grand statues now nothing more than broken relics of the past.

A fire burned in the center of the temple hall, casting flickering shadows against the moss-covered walls. Around it, figures in dark robes sat in silence, their faces obscured by veils and hoods. The air carried the weight of something unspoken, something restless. At the far end of the hall, a lone figure sat upon a stone throne, their presence commanding yet unreadable.

Before them, placed atop an altar, was the sword.

Its scabbard was dark, unadorned, as if to hide the overwhelming presence sealed within. The blade itself remained unseen, yet even sheathed, it emanated an aura that pressed against the air—majestic, untamed, as though it did not belong to this world.

The leader of the unknown sect leaned forward slightly, their fingers trailing over the hilt. The grip was cold beneath their touch, pulsing with a quiet resistance.

No matter how many times they had tried, the sword refused to be drawn.

The great weapon, stolen with such precision and bloodshed, remained sealed—mocking them with its silence.

A soft shuffle of footsteps echoed through the hall. A man entered, clad in travel-worn robes, his breath heavy from the journey. He stepped forward and kneeled before the leader, his head bowed low.

"Master," the informant spoke, his voice steady despite the tension in the air. "The news has spread."

A pause.

The leader lifted their gaze, studying the man before them. "How far?"

"Far enough." The informant hesitated, then added, "Too far."

The fire crackled as the words settled in the room. A few of the robed figures shifted slightly, but none spoke.

The leader let out a slow breath, neither pleased nor displeased. Their fingers tapped lightly against the stone armrest.

"Good."

The informant lifted his head slightly, uncertain. "You are not concerned?"

A faint chuckle echoed through the hall. "What is there to be concerned about?" The leader's voice was smooth, cold. "Let them chase after shadows. The world is greedy, and greed is a tide that washes away the weak."

The informant lowered his gaze again, though a flicker of unease crossed his face. He had traveled far to bring this information, and yet the master remained unbothered.

"The sword," he ventured carefully, "still remains sealed."

Silence.

A shadow passed over the leader's expression, unreadable yet filled with intent. Their fingers tightened ever so slightly over the hilt before letting go.

"It will open," they murmured. "Everything in this world has a will. And everything can be bent to serve."

The sword hummed faintly, as if in quiet defiance.

The leader's lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. "We simply have not found the right hands to break it yet."

The fire crackled louder, and in the distance, the wind howled through the ruined temple. Somewhere beyond these walls, the world was already stirring—hungry for what had been taken.

And soon, it would come for them.

The wind outside grew stronger, sweeping through the cracks in the temple walls like a whisper of something unseen. The firelight flickered, casting distorted shadows over the faces of those gathered.

The leader rose from the stone throne, their gaze lingering on the sheathed sword one last time before turning away. The weapon remained unmoved, untouched—its presence both a prize and a curse.

"Continue watching the movements in the martial world," the leader commanded, voice calm yet absolute. "The more they desire it, the more desperate they will become."

The informant bowed deeply. "Understood."

As he turned to leave, the leader glanced back at the sword, eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

"No matter how stubborn you are, everything has its moment of surrender."

The fire crackled, and in that quiet moment, the sword seemed to pulse again—an unseen force resisting, rejecting.

The leader merely smiled.

"Let them come."

The wind howled through the ruined temple, carrying the scent of distant blood.