Chapter 15 - Acknowledgement

Han Mei's face softened with relief, her tense shoulders finally easing, as if a great weight had been lifted from her heart. She let out a hearty laugh, her joy evident.

"Good! This is wonderful news! At last, we can breathe a little easier. But, Zhen'er, you must remain within the school for the next few days. Shuiyue and I will investigate the site where everything unfolded, we must uncover the truth behind what happened."

Jin Shuiyue nodded in agreement. "The Mayor's Mansion has already taken action. They have stationed a large number of men around the school's perimeter. It's clear they intend to keep a close watch on you. Leaving the city unnoticed in the coming days will be impossible."

Han Zhen's expression remained calm, though a flicker of impatience stirred within him. The surveillance of the Mayor's forces came as no surprise, given the recent events, such a response was inevitable.

After some time, Han Zhen returned to his quarters within the martial arts hall. His mother, wise and cautious, had assigned trusted people to guard his residence, ensuring his safety during these uncertain times.

With the necessary precautions in place, Han Mei and Jin Shuiyue left the martial arts hall, to begin their investigation.

Time was slipping away like sand through clenched fingers. Only a few days remained. If the truth was not uncovered within that narrow window, Han Zhen would be handed over to the Mayor's Mansion, where a fate worse than death awaited him, banishment to the dreaded Ancient Demon-Sealing Burial Grounds.

Even though he had now embarked on the path of cultivation, his strength was still far from enough to contend with the horrors lurking within that accursed place.

The Burial Grounds were not merely a prison; they were a graveyard of the forgotten, a land where even experienced cultivators perished without a trace.

Upon returning to his quarters, Han Zhen wasted no time in cleansing himself of the dust and remnants of the day.

The wounds he had sustained from his earlier confrontation had already faded, his newly awakened Divine Body working in silence, mending his injuries with an efficiency that defied common understanding.

Dressing in a fresh set of robes, he felt a subtle yet undeniable shift within himself, not just in his body, but in his very essence.

Stepping before the mirror, Han Zhen paused, his gaze locking onto his reflection.

The young man staring back at him was both familiar and unfamiliar.

Dark hair, deep eyes, and a sharp jawline. His expression was composed, yet within those calm features lingered a trace of something else, subtle surprise, perhaps even dissatisfaction.

In his past life, he had been revered not only for his peerless swordsmanship but also for an appearance that had left countless admirers spellbound. Women had swooned, men had envied,his beauty had been as much a weapon as the sword he wielded.

But the face before him now… It was ordinary.

Not unpleasant, yet lacking the brilliance he had once possessed. The refined sharpness, the ethereal allure is gone.

For a fleeting moment, a pang of disappointment coursed through him.

This was his face in this life. A face that belonged to Han Zhen, not to the sword sovereign he had once been.

His thoughts drifted to Han Mei.

His mother's presence had always been a constant, her weary yet gentle gaze, her wrinkly hands worn by years of sacrifice. A strong woman, hardened by life's trials. And yet, as Han Zhen studied his own features, he realized something.

He bore no resemblance to her.

Not a single trace.

That left only one possibility, his father. A man he had never known, a shadow whose existence had always been an unspoken mystery.

What had he looked like? What kind of man had he been?

The question settled deep in his mind, refusing to fade. He knew there would likely never be an answer. Yet, standing before the mirror, staring into a face that felt both his own and a stranger's, he couldn't shake the feeling that this mystery was not one so easily ignored.

He delved into the fragments of his current life's memories, searching for even the faintest trace of his father's identity. Yet, there was nothing, no name, no image, not even a passing mention. It was as if the man had never existed.

As a child, he had often asked his mother, Han Mei, about him. Each time, she had deftly evaded the question, either redirecting the conversation or offering vague, meaningless words. Over time, Han Zhen had learned not to press further.

His mother bore her own burdens, and some wounds, no matter how many years passed, never truly healed.

With a quiet breath, Han Zhen set aside those thoughts. The mystery of his father could wait. There were more pressing matters at hand.

His gaze shifted toward the weapon rack standing in the corner of the room.

Though his body had once been frail, unable to cultivate or wield martial techniques, his identity as the son of the Iron Sword School's master had ensured that he grew up surrounded by weapons.

His mother had long envisioned him as a swordsman, one who would inherit the school's legacy. That expectation had been placed upon him before he had ever dreamed of stepping onto the martial path.

Stepping forward, Han Zhen reached out, his fingers grazing the cool metal of a sheathed sword.

Without hesitation, he lifted it from its resting place.

The hilt fit perfectly in his grip, as though it had been waiting for him all along.

With a steady motion, he unsheathed the blade, and at once, the room was filled with a cold, radiant gleam.

The three-foot-long weapon shimmered under the dim light, its polished surface exuding an ethereal glow.

This was no ordinary sword, it was a middle-grade, earthly-level weapon.

In the hierarchy of the cultivation world, weapons were divided into four great levels: Celestial, Spiritual, Mystic, and Earthly.

Each level was further refined into four ranks, low, medium, high, and peak. While an earthly-level weapon was far from the pinnacle of craftsmanship, it was still a fine blade, one that would be considered valuable in many places.

For someone like Han Zhen, who had spent most of his life unable to cultivate, wielding such a weapon had once been nothing more than a distant dream.

Yet now, as he held it in his grasp, he felt the undeniable weight of reality pressing down upon him, his mother's expectations, his family's legacy, the path that had been laid before him.

But then, something unexpected happened.

A faint ripple stirred in the air.

The blade trembled lightly, as if awakening from slumber. A soft, high-pitched hum resonated through the chamber, carrying a sense of recognition, of acknowledgment.

Han Zhen's eyes flickered with surprise.

Ordinarily, a spiritual weapon required time to form a bond with its wielder, and to attune itself through practice and nourishment. Yet this sword… it responded to him instantly, as though it had been waiting for his touch.