Kindling Sparks

By the tenth stone, a shift. The pale flame flared, intensified, settled into a steadier rhythm. Thicker. More potent. Fifth stage of Qi Condensation. A minor step for an emperor, a monumental leap for a crippled ten-year-old. Faster reflexes. Stronger muscles. Tougher meridians. No longer teetering on collapse.

He rose, testing his body. Deep exhaustion gone, replaced by weary alertness. The cold in his arm was constant, the ache manageable, the limb usable. He needed more. He needed a sword.

The main training yard was deserted at dawn. Mist clung to the packed earth; distant forge clangs and sparrows were the only sounds. Ye Chen stood in the center, a simple hardwood practice sword held awkwardly in his left hand, his right gripping the hilt lower down for support, translucent fingers pale against the dark wood.

He closed his eyes, reaching back across millennia. The Nine Suns Sword Art. Not the world-sundering techniques, but the foundational forms. "Scorching Ember," "Rising Sun," "Mountain Root." Simple movements for strength, balance, connection.

He began. Slowly. Painfully slowly. His body was small, weak, uncoordinated. Muscles screamed. His right arm was a heavy, clumsy weight, movements stiff and lagging. The wooden sword felt like a log. He stumbled through "Flowing Stream," the graceful arc jerky and uneven.

Frustration burned. He knew these moves. Had executed them with effortless perfection. Now, worse than a raw novice. The disconnect between mind and body was maddening.

He gritted his teeth. Patience. Foundation. He slowed down further. Focused on precision. Exact wrist angle. Foot placement. Weight transfer. Ignored the burning muscles, the frozen arm's awkwardness. Visualized the qi pathways, even if his cultivation couldn't fuel them yet. Breathed, syncing with the movements.

Sweat plastered his thin shirt to his skin. He repeated "Flowing Stream." Again. And again. Each repetition slightly less clumsy. Muscle memory, buried deep, flickered awake. His left hand grew more confident. His right hand, though stiff, provided stability. The wooden sword began to feel less awkward.

He moved to "Rising Sun," an upward thrust into a defensive sweep. Balance wavered, right leg trembling. Paused, adjusted minutely, tried again. Better. The blade cut the mist with a faint whisper. Flowed into "Mountain Root," solid, grounding. Held it, feeling the earth, channeling a tiny flicker of qi into his legs for stability. The cold in his arm seemed to recede slightly, forgotten in the focus.

He wasn't the Sword Emperor. He was a boy with a stick, relearning the alphabet of violence. But with each labored repetition, a ghost of former grace emerged. Not speed. Not power. Uncanny precision. Every footfall exact. Every blade angle perfect. Every weight shift economical. Foundation rebuilt with millennia of distilled mastery. Movements slow and weak, but carrying a weight of intent, a silent promise of devastation.

Ye Chen practiced until the sun burned off the mist and his muscles trembled. Ended with "Mountain Root," breathing heavily, sweat dripping. Looked down at the practice sword, then at his pale right hand gripping it. It ached. But it had held. It had moved. Grim satisfaction warred with weariness.

"Chen'er?"

He turned. Ye Zhan stood at the yard's edge, face etched with worry, awe, and profound sadness. He'd been watching. Saw the sweat, the trembling limbs, the unnatural pallor, the sheer determination in ancient eyes. Saw the impossible precision in clumsy forms.

"Father," Ye Chen acknowledged, lowering the sword. Hoarse.

Ye Zhan approached slowly. "You... move like..." He trailed off. His gaze dropped to the sword, then to Ye Chen's exposed right arm. He sucked in a sharp breath at the translucent flesh. "By the heavens, child... your arm..."

"Is functional," Ye Chen stated flatly, tucking the arm slightly. "The salve helps. For now." He met his father's horrified gaze. "The tribute?"

Ye Zhan's expression hardened under leadership's weight. "Stripping the vaults. Melting bronze. Harvesting every herb, even immature. Mines working shifts, veins thin, ore poor. Five days... it will beggar us, Chen'er. Leave us defenseless."

Ye Chen nodded. Expected. "Feng? The traitor?"

"Gone. Vanished with his spatial talisman. Traces west... towards Scarlet Moon." Ye Zhan's fist clenched. "He warned them. About you. About... this." He gestured helplessly at the arm.

"Then they know," Ye Chen said coldly. "The escort isn't protection. Observation. Containment. Elimination once I've served my purpose or proven too dangerous."

Ye Zhan looked like he wanted to deny it. The truth was stark. "You can't go. Its a death sentence.

"I must," Ye Chen interrupted, tone brooking no argument. "Only path forward. Only chance for answers... power... before they come." He looked towards the compound, frantic activity – hammers, mine shouts – a grim counterpoint to birdsong. "But I won't leave you defenseless. Not completely."

He spent the next hours in the library and Pill Hall. Drafted lists. Formulas. Diagrams. Summoned loyal artisans and alchemists. Issued chillingly clear instructions. Designed traps: pressure-plates triggering Frostbloom powder blasts (crude paralytic); tripwires linked to caustic Spirit Well sediment vials; camouflaged pits with toxin-infused stakes; early-warning talismans using spirit stone scraps. Vicious, practical.

He also drafted a simplified, improved Spring Dew Elixir formula – less potent than his, but far superior to Elder Hong's. Entrusted it to a wide-eyed but loyal senior disciple under Ye Zhan.

"These are... vicious, Chen'er," Ye Zhan murmured, revulsion and reluctant admiration on his face as he looked over trap designs.

"Survival isn't courteous, Father," Ye Chen replied flatly. He coated thin spirit-wood needles with concentrated Silverspine residue from Feng's vial – a parting gift. "They expect cowed sheep, bled dry. Give them wolves hiding in thorns. Make them pay for every step."

The days blurred. A grueling cycle: Sacrifice Spirit Stones to pacify the void for brief, intense cultivation sessions, pushing deeper into the fifth stage of Qi Condensation. Relentless sword practice – footwork, evasion, pinpoint thrusts and deflections within his limits. Overseeing frantic preparations – refining traps, brewing toxins, antidotes. Applying Frostbloom salve, watching with cold detachment as the translucency crept no further, held at bay. Little sleep, fueled by desperation and dwindling elixir. The void core, a silent, hungry presence, sated only by sacrificial stones, its cold a counterpoint to his resolve.

Dawn, fifth day. Ye Chen stood at the main gate. Simple, sturdy travel clothes. His father's robe draped over his shoulders, hiding the arm. A small pack held supplies, salve, few Spirit Stones, toxins, antidotes.

Before him: two new Scarlet Moon envoys. Leaner, harder. Flinty eyes. Sixth stage of foundation building. Blood-red robes drank the dawn light. Behind them, a plain, enclosed carriage drawn by scaled Spirit Draught Horses. Looked like a prison wagon.

The tribute – sacks of ore, crates of herbs, bundles of low-grade stones – was loaded onto a separate cart under impassive gazes. The clan watched from the walls, faces grim. Ye Zhan stood beside him, hand heavy on his good shoulder. Xiao Mei clung to her father's leg, eyes wide, fearful, clutching a clumsily woven wildflower bracelet.

"Be careful, Chen-gege," she whispered, tears welling.

Ye Chen looked down. The ancient ice thawed a fraction. He knelt stiffly, ignoring his arm's protest. Took the bracelet with his left hand. "I will, Xiao Mei. Guard the furnace smell for me, alright? Keep it burning." He ruffled her hair, the gesture alien yet necessary. The eternal pill furnace scent home. He slipped the bracelet onto his left wrist, bright flowers stark against pale skin.

He stood, meeting his father's eyes. Fear. Pride. Crushing hope. Unspoken. "Five days' head start on the tribute cart," Ye Zhan stated, Clan Lord asserting. "As agreed."

One envoy, a scar bisecting his eyebrow, gave a curt nod. "Cart follows. The asset moves now. In the carriage." Flinty eyes fixed on Ye Chen.

Ye Chen didn't flinch. Gave his father one last, firm nod. A promise. A vow. Then, without looking back, he walked towards the carriage. Steps steady. Small frame unnervingly erect. The void's chill radiated faintly beneath the robe. The envoys shifted minutely, hands drifting closer to sword hilts.

He climbed into the dark interior. The door slammed shut with finality. Oiled leather. Dust. Outside: whip crack, horse grunt, rumble of wheels on stone as the carriage lurched forward.

Moving. Towards the Black Vale. Towards the void's source and the Devourer. Towards enemies in escort's guise. He sat in gloom, faint light striping his face. Flexed his right hand inside the sleeve. Deep ache. Persistent cold. Touched the wildflower bracelet on his left wrist.

The path into darkness had begun. Ye Chen, the fallen emperor in a child's broken shell, sat in the belly of the beast, eyes wide open, a tiny spark of defiance against an encroaching void.