The courtyard held its breath.
The tower loomed as they approached.
Inside, the air felt thick—not with heat or magic, but with every abandoned goal, every unfinished vow, every whispered regret never voiced aloud.
On the inner walls of the tower, swords were embedded—thousands of them—each bearing a **name** carved into the hilt.
Some names Orion recognized.
Some were his own.
> "Wait…" he breathed. "Why is *my* name here?"
Meilin pointed to a blade directly in front of them.
It was small. Uneven. Rushed.
The kind of sword someone might forge in a dream they didn't believe in.
> "That," she said softly, "is every time you gave up."
---
Suddenly, the blades began to ring.
One by one, they shimmered and glowed, each releasing a memory—not of what *happened*, but what Orion had feared might happen.
Him failing the entrance exam.
Him letting Meilin die in the mist.
Him turning into the very tyrant he stood against.
Each blade bore a **version of him that never came to be**, and yet lived here—in this realm, this tower of failure, this tomb of doubt.
And then, from the center of the tower—
A figure stood.
Tall. Clad in mirrored armor.
Its face?
Orion's.
---
But not *him.*
Not truly.
This was the embodiment of **unbelief.** The one who never tried. The one who surrendered early. The *Chosen Mistake* who accepted being a fluke and never fought against it.
It stepped forward.
And spoke.
> "You are not meant to carry divine power.
> You are an echo. A copy.
> A child who caught lightning and mistook it for destiny."
Orion's hand went to the compass in his coat.
But its needle spun wildly, glyphs blinking incoherently.
> "You don't know where to go," the Mirror mocked. "Because you don't know *who you are.*"
---
Orion's breath came short.
He looked to Meilin—but she was frozen, as if sealed by the weight of the realm.
No allies.
No guidance.
Only himself.
The Mirror raised its sword—longer than his, etched with the glyph for **failure.**
Orion drew his own blade. Small. Imperfect.
Forged from scraps in the Ashen Reeds. Marked with **玄疑问合承** — Mystery, Doubt, Ask, Unite, Bear.
The Mirror laughed.
> "You think glyphs can protect you from what you really are?"
"No," Orion said, lowering his sword slightly.
> "They remind me of what I've survived."
---
The Mirror attacked.
Every blow struck with the weight of everything Orion had ever doubted.
His sword shattered on the third block.
But he didn't fall.
Instead, he caught the broken hilt in both hands.
And *stepped forward.*
The Mirror lunged again.
This time, Orion didn't dodge.
He moved through the blade—letting it pass beside his ribs—until he was inside its guard.
He pressed the broken hilt to the Mirror's chest.
And whispered one word:
> "承."
The glyph for *bearing.*
The blade dissolved.
The Mirror cracked.
And then—
Shattered.
---
Silence returned.
The tower quaked.
And every sword embedded in its walls began to melt.
One final glyph rose from the floor, etching itself in golden fire:
> **真** (*zhēn*) — *Truth.*
It carved into Orion's forearm, completing the sixth mark.
Meilin unfroze. Her eyes wide.
"You… did it."
Orion nodded.
"No. I *chose* it."
---
Outside the tower, the sky began to shift.
Above them, the Four Realms pulsed as one.
Mystery. Silence. Memory. Void.
And across them all—his name.
**Xuán Yí.** 玄疑.
**Orion Jiang.**
No longer a mistake.
But a question *only he* could answer.
As Orion emerged from the Realm of the Hollow Blades, a stillness settled over the world—not the stillness of peace, but of **completion.**
The path behind him dissolved.
The Four Realms pulsed in resonance—each one leaving a glyph on his soul.
Above, the sky fractured like glass, and a staircase of golden light spiraled down from the heavens.
Meilin turned to him, eyes glowing softly.
> "You've passed the Trials of the Four Realms."
Orion didn't respond.
Instead, he looked at the six glyphs that now burned across his forearms:
1. **玄** (*xuán*) — Mystery
2. **疑** (*yí*) — Doubt
3. **问** (*wèn*) — Ask
4. **合** (*hé*) — Unite
5. **承** (*chéng*) — Bear
6. **真** (*zhēn*) — Truth
They pulsed in sequence—forming a sentence not yet complete.
One word remained.
And above them, at the summit of the golden stairway, it waited.
---
The stairway led to a platform suspended between the Four Realms, a liminal space known only in ancient prophecy:
> **The Platform of the Forsaken Truth.**
No maps led here. No Guardian trained here.
Only those who had walked all four trials and returned with their mind intact were permitted to *see* this place, let alone stand upon it.
It was made of starlight and scars, and in the center stood a monolithic statue—half-destroyed, one wing broken, face eroded by time.
But Orion recognized it instantly.
**The Guardian Who Was Never Chosen.**
---
A voice echoed across the platform—neither male nor female, neither young nor old.
A voice that spoke as if from the marrow of existence itself.
> "You are the Chosen Mistake."
> "You carry what was not yours."
> "But you did not shatter."
The statue raised one finger.
And a final glyph shimmered into view, hovering in the air before him:
> **择** (*zé*) — *To choose.*
---
The voice continued:
> "You were not chosen by fate.
> You were not meant to survive.
> Yet you *chose* to carry, to ask, to bear, to believe."
> "Power is not meant to be granted. It is meant to be *answered.*"
The glyph for **择** etched itself across Orion's chest.
The seventh glyph.
The final seal.
It pulsed once—and then, every glyph across his body ignited in unison, forming a radiant ring around him.
From the ashes of confusion, a new truth was forged.
> He was not the Chosen One.
> He was the One Who **Chose.**
---
Suddenly, the golden stairway shattered.
The Four Realms vanished.
And Orion was falling.
Not down—*inward.*
Spiraling through his own soul, reliving every trial, every failure, every silence.
And from that spiral rose a vision—
Of the **original Oracle.**
The one who had made the prophecy.
The one who had vanished.
She stood in a garden of ink and glass, speaking softly to a man with no name.
> "The ritual must fail," she whispered.
> "Only then will the real Guardian awaken."
The man frowned. "You're gambling with destiny."
She smiled.
> "I'm *rewriting* it."
---
Orion snapped awake.
He was standing once more in the outer courtyard of the Realm Academy—where this journey had first begun.
Only now, every student, elder, instructor, and Guardian had gathered.
Whispers spread like wildfire:
> "He survived the Four Realms…"
> "He bears the glyphs…"
> "But he wasn't even chosen…"
> "Is that even *allowed?*"
From across the courtyard, **Jian Longwei** stepped forward.
The official Chosen Guardian.
His presence was sharp. Refined. Unyielding.
His voice rang clear:
> "You stole what was not yours."
Orion stepped toward him.
> "No," he said. "I proved I could carry what no one else wanted."
---
Longwei's blade glinted in the sunlight.
Orion's hands were empty.
But the glyphs along his arms flared again, forming threads of light that pulled together into something new:
A sword—**forged from questions.**
It was unpolished, uneven.
But it *belonged* to him.
And in that moment, every soul present felt the shift:
This wasn't about tradition anymore.
This was about **truth.**
---
Longwei raised his blade.
"So, what now, 'Guardian'?"
Orion raised his.
"Now we find out what happens… when the mistake fights back."
Their blades met in a crash of light—
And the prophecy, long thought broken, began to *rewrite itself.*
**The courtyard held its breath.**
Every student, elder, and Guardian watched—unable to look away—as the two figures clashed.
Orion, bearing the seven glyphs of the Realms.
Jian Longwei, the one chosen by fate.
Power crackled in the air—not just divine, but raw intent. Belief. Will. **Choice.**
---
Longwei attacked first.
His blade was perfect. His form, immaculate.
Each strike etched with practiced glyphs: **力** (*strength*), **速** (*speed*), **决** (*precision*).
Orion blocked, parried, dodged—but barely.
He had no training like Jian.
No tutors. No sacred lineage.
But he had something else—
Each time Jian struck, one of Orion's glyphs glowed in response, adapting to the pressure, drawing not from tradition, but from **experience.**
---
A blow aimed at his chest was redirected by **问** (*Ask*).
A feint was caught mid-swing through **疑** (*Doubt*), turning hesitation into insight.
Even when knocked down, he rose—not because he was unhurt, but because of **承** (*Bear*).
And with each rising motion, **真** (*Truth*) shone brighter on his skin.
---
The crowd gasped as Jian's blade was finally caught—mid-air—by Orion's empty palm.
From the contact, a pulse of glyphlight erupted between them.
> Jian: "You don't deserve this."
> Orion: "I never said I did. But I *earned* it anyway."
And then, from Orion's hand, a new technique was born.
Not copied.
Not passed down.
**Forged.**
He stepped forward, slashing downward with a glyph made entirely from his seven seals:
> **选问疑合承玄真择**
> *(Choose. Ask. Doubt. Unite. Bear. Mystery. Truth. Decision.)*
A perfect sentence.
A complete identity.
And Jian's blade shattered.
---
Silence.
Then—**chaos.**
Some Guardians reached for weapons.
Some fell to their knees.
Others looked to the Grand Oracle's seat—still empty.
Then—
A ripple passed through the sky.
The **lost Oracle** appeared on the central dais.
Draped in robes of mirror-thread and bone silk.
Her name whispered on every tongue:
> "Sūn Mièlián…" (孙灭莲)
> *Mirabel Sun.*
The Oracle who vanished the day Orion received the power.
---
She spoke.
And the world listened.
> "You were right to fear the mistake.
> But what you feared… was change.
> The prophecy never failed. It evolved."
She looked at Orion.
> "Xuán Yí. Orion Jiang. You carry the soul of what was never meant to be.
> And in doing so, you have shown what **can be.**"
> "The Four Realms recognize you."
> "So do I."
And with that, the Oracle bowed.
---
The Academy erupted—not with cheers, not yet, but with noise.
Confusion. Arguments. Awe.
And in the center of it, Orion stood still.
Sword lowered.
Eyes open.
The journey was just beginning.