The Forgotten War

The words echoed in Zhao Feng's mind long after the Herald had vanished.

"You have been marked. The true hunt begins."

He stood alone in the desolate ruins, the wind howling through the crumbling stone like the voices of the long-dead. His body still pulsed with the aftershocks of battle, his Qi stirring restlessly as if sensing an unseen change within him.

Marked.

He rolled his sleeve back, inspecting his arm. No visible brand, no lingering energy—nothing. Yet, a gnawing unease settled deep in his chest. His instincts, honed from countless battles, screamed that something was different. The Void Edge technique, which had always responded to his will like an extension of his own body, now felt... off.

When he summoned it, the blade of spatial energy crackled erratically, its edges warping, shifting as though something else were influencing its form. He tightened his grip, forcing it to stabilize.

"What did that bastard do to me?"

Gritting his teeth, he dismissed the Void Edge and exhaled slowly. He had no time to dwell on uncertainty. The Herald's presence had been a warning, but one delivered without a killing blow. Whoever—or whatever—had sent them was merely watching, measuring his strength. But the next one might not be so patient.

He needed to move.

His gaze flickered toward the jagged peaks in the distance. The mountains stretched on for miles, but he wasn't wandering aimlessly. He needed information, and there was only one kind of place that held answers in a land like this.

Grave sites. War ruins. The resting places of those who had already fought and lost.

He started forward, his steps swift but cautious.

As he moved, the air itself felt heavier, as if some unseen force was pressing down upon the land. The deeper he went, the more the environment changed.

The rocks grew jagged, their edges unnaturally sharp. The trees, gnarled and twisted, bore **scorch marks—**not from any normal flame, but something far older, as if the very essence of battle had scarred them.

Then he saw it.

A faint shimmer in the air.

Zhao Feng's footsteps halted.

His hand instinctively reached for a Void Edge, but he didn't attack. Instead, he focused, his Qi pressing outward.

It wasn't a living presence.

It was a formation.

The shimmer pulsed, and before his eyes, the world shifted.

A blast of energy rippled through the air, distorting space itself. The barren mountains before him melted away, replaced by a vast, ruined battlefield.

Hundreds of skeletal remains littered the ground, their armor long since rusted, their weapons shattered. The land itself bore **deep scars—**not from time, but from ancient conflict.

Zhao Feng stepped forward cautiously. Every inch of this place was soaked in lingering battle intent. He could feel it pressing against his mind, the echoes of warriors long dead whispering of their final moments.

Then, he saw the inscriptions.

Etched into broken monoliths, carved into shattered weapons—words of warning.

"To those who remain, know this: the reckoning was not stopped. It was only delayed."

Zhao Feng's pulse quickened.

"A reckoning?"

Before he could examine further, something shifted.

A presence.

Not lingering intent—something alive.

Somewhere beyond the ruins, someone else was approaching.

Zhao Feng's body tensed as the presence drew closer. It wasn't like the lingering battle intent that haunted this ancient site—this was something alive. Something aware.

His breath slowed. He focused, extending his senses outward.

A faint ripple in the air.

Not the chaotic, suffocating presence of the Black Herald, nor the precise, razor-sharp aura of the assassin from before. This was measured, deliberate. Whoever it was, they knew he was here and were choosing to approach slowly.

He turned his gaze toward the heart of the ruins. Towering remnants of a once-mighty fortress loomed in the distance, its walls shattered, its foundations cracked. But even in ruin, it stood like a defiant warrior refusing to kneel.

If there were answers, they would be inside.

Zhao Feng moved swiftly, keeping his footfalls silent. The broken ground made stealth difficult, but he had spent years refining his movement technique. He slipped through the ruins like a wraith, his Qi suppressing his presence as much as possible.

Behind him, the presence continued its approach.

The closer it got, the clearer it became—whoever this was, they were strong.

His grip tightened. He didn't know if they were an enemy, but in a place like this, assuming otherwise was a mistake he couldn't afford.

A shadow flickered at the edge of his vision.

Zhao Feng twisted just in time.

A streak of black light cut through the air where he had been standing a moment before, slicing deep into the stone behind him.

He landed lightly on a raised platform of crumbling stone, his hand already forming a Void Edge.

His attacker stood in the open now.

Draped in flowing dark robes, their face was concealed by a half-mask of bone, polished to a mirror sheen. But it wasn't their appearance that set Zhao Feng on edge—it was the absolute stillness of their stance.

They didn't move like a warrior ready for battle.

They moved like a predator that had already won.

Zhao Feng said nothing. He had no intention of wasting breath on conversation.

The masked figure tilted their head slightly, as if studying him.

Then, they spoke.

"You're surprisingly composed."

Their voice was calm, detached. Neither male nor female—just cold.

Zhao Feng kept his stance, muscles coiled like a drawn bowstring.

"You attacked first."

"A test."

The figure slowly stepped forward. The way they moved… it was unnatural. There was no wasted motion, no hesitation. Every step was perfectly placed, as if they had walked this exact battlefield a thousand times before.

"I am not your enemy. Not yet."

Zhao Feng didn't relax.

The figure stopped a few paces away, their head tilting again.

"The Black Herald marked you."

At those words, Zhao Feng's fingers twitched slightly.

A chuckle. A dry, humorless sound.

"You don't even realize what that means, do you?"

Zhao Feng remained silent.

The figure reached up, removing their mask.

The face beneath was young. Too young. Far too young.

Yet, their eyes… they were old. Ancient. As if they had seen things that no mortal should.

"I am Yao Shen," they said. "A Seeker of the Forgotten War."

Zhao Feng frowned. That title… He had never heard it before.

But before he could speak, Yao Shen continued.

"You are in danger. The mark placed upon you is not a mere warning. It is a claim."

Zhao Feng's eyes narrowed. "Claim?"

Yao Shen nodded. "Those who are marked cannot run. They cannot hide. You will be hunted. And when the time comes, you will either be taken—"

Their gaze sharpened.

"—or destroyed."

The wind howled through the ruins, kicking up clouds of dust and debris. Zhao Feng processed the words carefully.

Taken… or destroyed.

His fists clenched.

The Black Herald had said the true hunt would begin. But they hadn't attacked seriously. They had left him alive. Why?

Yao Shen watched him, then sighed.

"I see it now. You don't trust me. Good."

They turned away slightly, gazing at the fortress ruins.

"If you want answers, they are inside. But so is something else."

Zhao Feng didn't ask. He already knew the answer.

A test. A gatekeeper. A final trial before the truth.

Yao Shen's expression was unreadable. "I will not help you fight. But I will watch. If you survive… then we will speak again."

Then, without another word, they stepped back and vanished into the shadows.

Zhao Feng took a slow breath, centering himself.

He had no choice but to move forward.

And whatever was waiting inside… he would face it alone.

The ruins loomed before him, massive and unyielding even in their broken state.

Zhao Feng stepped forward, his breath slow, controlled. His every muscle was coiled, ready.

Yao Shen had vanished into the shadows, leaving him with only a cryptic warning.

If you survive… we will speak again.

He had no doubts now—whatever lay inside this fortress would be a trial. A test.

And in this place, failure meant death.

The entrance was a shattered archway, its once-grand pillars reduced to jagged remnants. The air inside was thick, heavy with something unseen but undeniably present.

Lingering battle intent.

Zhao Feng had felt this before—traces of warriors who had fought and died, their last moments forever imprinted onto the world itself.

He stepped through.

Instantly, the world shifted.

The ruinous silence vanished.

Instead, he was there.

Not in the present, but in the past.

The sky burned a deep crimson, and the ground trembled under the weight of countless warriors locked in battle. The fortress was whole—no cracks, no broken walls. A stronghold at its peak.

And it was under siege.

Zhao Feng's heart pounded as ghostly figures clashed before him, their weapons screaming through the air. None acknowledged him.

He wasn't truly here.

This was a memory.

A memory so powerful it had survived the death of an entire era.

Zhao Feng moved forward cautiously, weaving through the chaotic battlefield. The warriors fought with reckless fury, their techniques brutal yet precise. Qi clashed against Qi, lighting up the sky with searing arcs of energy.

Then, above it all, he saw it.

A colossal figure loomed at the heart of the battlefield.

It wasn't human.

It wasn't anything he had ever seen before.

A shifting, amorphous shape, draped in shadows so deep they devoured the light around them. Its limbs—if they could be called that—moved like writhing tendrils, striking down warriors with devastating force.

The warriors fought desperately, but it was clear—they were losing.

Zhao Feng's gaze sharpened.

This was no ordinary war.

This was the war.

The war Yao Shen had hinted at. The Forgotten War.

But before he could take another step, a deafening roar shattered the illusion.

The vision cracked and collapsed.

The warriors vanished, their cries silenced. The burning sky flickered back to the cold, moonlit night.

And in their place…

Something stood before him.

A guardian of the past. A remnant.

It wasn't a ghost, nor was it fully alive. A being left behind by the battle itself—its form wreathed in flickering embers of forgotten Qi.

Its body was fractured, jagged like shattered glass forced into the shape of a warrior. Its blade, a massive cleaver, radiated an aura of ancient power.

It did not speak.

It only moved.

And Zhao Feng had no choice but to fight.

His body reacted on instinct, Void Edge forming in his grip as he dodged the first strike.

BOOM!

The cleaver slammed into the ground where he had stood, the impact shattering the stone floor. Dust and debris shot into the air.

Zhao Feng twisted, lashing out with his Void Edge. The compressed blade of spatial Qi slashed through the remnant's torso.

But it didn't falter.

The wound sealed almost instantly, embers flickering through the cracks before solidifying once more.

Zhao Feng's eyes narrowed. Regeneration.

Not just physical, but spiritual.

This thing wasn't bound by mortal rules. It had existed for centuries, feeding on the lingering battle intent of this place.

And it would not die easily.

The remnant lunged again, cleaver arcing through the air like a falling star. Zhao Feng dodged, but even the wind pressure of the strike tore at his clothes, slicing shallow cuts across his arms.

Too fast. Too strong.

He couldn't drag this fight out.

His Qi surged, and he changed his approach.

If this thing healed from physical wounds, then he needed an attack that didn't leave one.

An attack that erased instead of cut.

He flicked his wrist, forming a new Void Edge.

But this time, he didn't release it.

He compressed it.

More. More.

Until the blade trembled violently, its edges warping, space itself distorting around it.

The remnant charged.

Zhao Feng stepped forward.

And struck.

The blade didn't cut.

It didn't impact.

It simply erased.

For a fraction of a second, the remnant's torso ceased to exist.

And this time, it did not heal.

The fractured warrior staggered, its massive cleaver wavering in its grip. Where Zhao Feng's Void Edge had struck, there was nothing—just an empty void where its torso had been. The embers that once flickered through its wounds did not return.

Zhao Feng's breath came in slow, measured draws. It worked.

But the remnant was not finished.

Despite its missing core, its blade rose one final time, its jagged edges gleaming under the pale moonlight. It wasn't regenerating—but it refused to fall.

Zhao Feng's eyes narrowed. Lingering will.

This thing had fought in a war that shattered civilizations. It had been left behind as a fragment of something greater. Even if its body was destroyed, its will remained.

Zhao Feng knew what he had to do.

He steadied his stance, Void Edge humming in his grip. The remnants of his attack still crackled in the air, distorting space in thin, wavering lines. He channeled his Qi once more, pushing it to the very edge of control.

Then, he stepped forward.

One clean strike.

His blade passed through the remnant's head in a whisper of air.

Silence.

For a brief moment, the warrior stood motionless.

Then, the embers within it died.

The cleaver fell from its grip, shattering into dust before it hit the ground. The remnant's form crumbled, dissolving into fading wisps of energy.

And then, all was still.

Zhao Feng exhaled slowly. It was over.

He glanced around the ruined battlefield. The air still thrummed with the weight of ancient conflicts, but the oppressive energy had lessened. The fortress no longer felt suffocating.

But something else had changed.

Where the remnant had fallen, something remained.

A small, flickering wisp of golden light.

Zhao Feng frowned, stepping closer. The energy it radiated was strange—neither hostile nor welcoming. It simply… existed.

He reached out.

The moment his fingers brushed against it, a sudden shockwave pulsed through him.

His mind was no longer in the present.

Visions.

They crashed into him all at once—fragments of a time long forgotten.

A warrior standing atop a mountain of corpses, his blade dripping with golden fire.

A city consumed by shadows, its people screaming in the dark.

A throne, empty, waiting.

And finally… a voice.

"The cycle has begun anew."

Then, the visions were gone.

Zhao Feng stumbled back, his breath unsteady. His heart pounded against his ribs. What was that?

His gaze snapped back to the golden wisp—only to see it sink into his palm, vanishing without a trace.

A strange warmth pulsed through his veins.

His Qi stirred. Changed.

He clenched his fist, feeling the remnants of the foreign energy lingering beneath his skin. It wasn't hostile. It wasn't hurting him.

But it had marked him.

He didn't understand the full meaning yet. But he knew one thing for certain.

This trial was only the beginning.