The Weight of a Name

"A man with no name cannot be chained. A blade with no master cannot be sheathed."

The scent of blood still clung to the wind.

Xian Ren walked deeper into the forest, his steps steady, his breath even. The first hunters were dead, but more would come. They always did.

His fingers brushed the hilt of his sword.

The Forsaken Blade Sutra—his mother's last gift, a technique the world had feared enough to erase. Now, that same fear would be turned against them.

But power alone was not enough.

Not yet.

A name carried weight in the world of cultivators. It could summon allies or call forth executioners.

And he had no name.

Not one that mattered.

A dog in the slums. A servant in a sect. A ghost of the past.

But he had lived when he should have died. He had killed when he should have been afraid.

Now, he needed a name that would not be forgotten.

Night fell.

A fire crackled before him, its glow licking at the darkness. The forest stretched endless and quiet, the shadows watching, waiting.

Xian Ren sat with his blade across his lap. His mother had once told him that a sword was not just metal—it was a reflection of the soul.

Then what was his?

A shattered thing. A weapon without an oath.

His fingers tightened around the hilt.

A name.

A purpose.

The world had cast him aside, thinking he would vanish.

Instead, he would carve himself into its history.

He had no sect. No lineage. No family.

But he had a sword.

And soon, that would be enough.

The wind howled, carrying his whisper into the night.

"Xian Ren. The Forsaken Blade."

The first step toward legend had begun.