The Path of No Return

"A blade, once drawn, cannot be sheathed without tasting blood."

Xian Ren stood amidst the corpses, his hands steady, his breath unshaken. The blade in his grip pulsed with a strange warmth, as though it had awakened, as though it had found purpose.

The moon hung above him, an indifferent witness to his rebirth.

His tormentors lay at his feet, their lifeless eyes reflecting the cold stars. Once, they had been the gods of his world—masters who held his fate in their hands, laughing as he cowered.

Now, they were nothing.

For the first time in years, he felt free.

But freedom was an illusion.

A flicker of movement in the shadows—Xian Ren turned, blade raised, instincts honed by years of suffering.

A figure emerged from the darkness.

Elder Han.

A man of quiet cruelty, his eyes sharp, his presence suffocating. He had never dirtied his hands with punishments, yet his mere word had sealed the fate of countless nameless disciples like Xian Ren.

Now, those cold eyes studied the bodies on the ground, then shifted to the blood-drenched boy standing before them.

"You should be dead," Han murmured, voice calm, but edged with something unreadable. "Yet here you stand, bathed in sin, wielding power you were never meant to have."

Xian Ren said nothing.

Han's gaze flickered to the blade in his hand. A deep frown settled on his lips.

"The Forsaken Blade Sutra…"

Recognition. Fear. Greed.

They passed through the elder's expression like the changing winds.

Then, silence.

Han exhaled slowly, as if weighing his next words. "Kneel, and perhaps you will live. The sect has no need for disobedient dogs—but a weapon… a weapon may have its use."

A test.

One that the old Xian Ren might have failed.

But the old Xian Ren had died in the darkness, in the filth, alongside the child who once believed in mercy.

Now, only the blade remained.

His grip tightened. The weight of the sword felt lighter than the chains he had once worn.

Kneel?

He had spent his life on his knees.

Never again.

The wind howled as Xian Ren moved.

A single step.

A single stroke.

Faster than thought.

A flash of silver under the moonlight.

Blood sprayed, glistening like shattered rubies.

Elder Han staggered back, his throat gaping open, words dying on his tongue. His hands trembled as he clutched at the wound, as though he could hold back the inevitable.

His eyes, once filled with cold arrogance, now held something else.

Disbelief.

Fear.

Xian Ren met his gaze, watching as the light faded from them, and felt nothing.

The heavens had abandoned him long ago.

Why should he feel regret for cutting down a man who had never known it himself?

The body fell.

The night swallowed the sound.

And in that moment, Xian Ren knew—

There was no turning back.

The sect would hunt him. The righteous would brand him a demon.

But what did it matter?

He had no home. No ties. No gods to kneel to.

Only the path he carved with his own two hands.

And so, without hesitation, without looking back—

Xian Ren stepped into the abyss.