Chapter 5 – The Sword Beneath the Dust
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Three days passed in the Radiant Judgment Sect, and Kael found himself adjusting faster than expected.
Training. Breathing. Absorbing.
Yet something still tugged at his spirit.
He had advanced steadily through Body Refinement, already anchoring his breath into his limbs. But every time he exhaled, a pattern emerged — unintentional, rhythmic, and alien.
Like his very essence was remembering.
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On the fourth day, the disciples were given rare time off.
"Market day," Samuel said, stretching. "They let outer sect members visit the bazaar once a week. Training gear, food, scrolls, and weird junk."
Kael, curious, tagged along.
The market was alive with energy — hawkers yelling, disciples bartering, swords clanging on racks, and old cultivators laughing as they sold "ancient" pills of questionable age.
"Fake," Mike said, pointing at a glowing talisman.
"Also fake," Jay Jay grinned. "That's a cooking seal. I use it to keep fish warm."
Kael wandered alone for a moment, drawn to the quieter corner of the market — to a stall covered in dust and cobwebs. A hunched old man stood behind it, seemingly asleep.
A broken wooden sign read:
Relics of Forgotten Flame – One Spirit Coin Each
Kael's eyes fell on a sheathed sword buried beneath rusted ornaments. Its hilt was plain, its blade hidden — but it called to him.
He reached for it.
The moment his fingers touched the grip, a cold current shot up his arm.
"Ah… a child of Genesis," a voice whispered in his mind.
Kael froze.
The old man cracked one eye open. "You really want that junk? One coin, boy."
Still dazed, Kael paid. The old man smirked and shut his eyes again.
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That night, Kael unsheathed the sword in his room.
It was chipped. The edge was dull. But the second he held it properly—
Whooom.
His spirit sea trembled.
The voice returned.
> "You channel breath through your bones, your stance shifts unconsciously, your strikes match a long-lost style... I was forged for it."
Kael sat down cross-legged.
"Who are you?"
> "I am Tsarvane, Sword of the World's Dawn. My last wielder died atop the Tree of Eternal Mana, sealing a rift between realms. You... you carry his echo."
Kael's heart pounded.
> "You do not need to rush. The first realm is not a sprint — it is a purging. Cleanse the body, banish the rot, or your foundation will crack when you try to ascend."
> "You've already advanced to the third stage, but you can go deeper — purify each marrow line. Be reborn."
Then silence.
Kael placed the sword beside his bed, his mind spinning.
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The next morning, the sect hosted the First Outer Trial — a combat ring meant to test physical prowess before disciples were allowed to begin Channel Opening techniques.
Kael and his friends stood near the registration stone, watching matches unfold.
"Damn," Jay Jay muttered. "Did you see that earth-pulse technique?"
Kael was lost in thought when a familiar, irritating voice echoed across the arena.
"Well, well, if it isn't the waterfall boy."
Kael turned.
Rean, dressed in red-trimmed robes and a smug grin, approached with two new lackeys.
He had bruises on his cheek — clearly from a recent loss — and he wanted to pay it forward.
"Looks like outer sect life didn't make you any less pathetic."
Kael stepped forward. "Weren't you the one face-first in the mud last time?"
Rean's eyes twitched.
"I'm challenging you. Trial grounds, three breaths from now."
"Denied," said a cold voice nearby.
A girl in white and green robes stepped between them — long black hair tied with silver thread, a jade ornament on her forehead, and an aura as crisp as winter.
Kael blinked.
She looked… out of place here. Noble. Refined.
"Fighting without ranking permission is against regulation," she said.
"Who are you?" Rean snapped.
"I'm Yu Meilan, daughter of Peak Elder Yu," she replied coolly. "And if you're looking for a real opponent, fight someone who won't embarrass you by existing."
Rean turned red.
Meilan ignored him and glanced once — just once — at Kael.
Their eyes met for a heartbeat.
And then she turned and left.
---
Later that night, Kael returned to his barracks, where Tsarvane pulsed faintly beside his bed.
"She… didn't even say anything," Kael muttered.
> "Not yet," Tsarvane's voice echoed faintly.
"But she carries the will of frost. And frost meets flame in time."
Kael smiled faintly. "That's poetic. You always like that?"
> "I was forged in an age when poetry kept the dead sane."
He looked at the scroll again — the Four Realms Before Flight — and added a small note at the bottom, written in his own hand:
"The Body is not a cage. It is a crucible."
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