"He who walks alone must carve his own path, even if it is paved with bones."
---
The first rays of dawn pierced through the mist, painting the bloodied village in hues of gold and crimson. Xian Ren stood unmoving, his sword dripping onto the dirt floor, the scent of iron thick in the air. Around him, bodies lay scattered—men who had thought themselves untouchable, their arrogance now carved into their corpses.
The enforcer of the Iron Vein Sect had not died swiftly.
No, Xian Ren had ensured that he understood, in his final moments, what it meant to be powerless.
The weak suffered at the hands of the strong.
And now, for the first time, Xian Ren was no longer weak.
The village was silent. Those who had not fled cowered behind locked doors, their breaths held, afraid that even the sound of their fear might bring the blade upon them.
But Xian Ren had no interest in them.
They had abandoned their own to the wolves. They had bowed before the executioner's axe and prayed that it would not fall upon them next.
Cowards.
He turned away from the square, stepping over the body of the enforcer without a second glance. His cloak, tattered and soaked in blood, trailed behind him like a funeral shroud.
He had no home. No family. No name that the world spoke with reverence.
But now, he had a purpose.
The Iron Vein Sect would learn that some prey did not run.
Some prey turned and devoured the hunter instead.
---
The mountains loomed before him, jagged and unforgiving, their peaks hidden in the clouds. Somewhere beyond them lay the Iron Vein Sect's stronghold—a fortress carved into the cliffs, where disciples trained in the art of war and cruelty.
Xian Ren had heard the rumors.
They ruled the surrounding villages with an iron fist, taking what they wanted, crushing any who defied them.
For years, they had moved unchecked, believing themselves untouchable.
But no kingdom stands forever.
No sect is immortal.
And Xian Ren would be the storm that shattered their walls.
But he was not a fool.
A single man, no matter how skilled, could not face an entire sect head-on. Not yet.
Power.
He needed more power.
---
By nightfall, he reached the base of the mountain.
A cave entrance yawned open before him, its depths swallowed in darkness. The air was thick with an ancient presence, something old and forgotten lingering in the shadows.
He stepped inside without hesitation.
The cold greeted him like an old friend.
The deeper he went, the quieter the world became, until even his own heartbeat seemed like an intrusion. The walls were etched with symbols—forgotten scriptures, warnings left behind by those who had long since turned to dust.
He ran his fingers over the carvings, tracing their meaning.
It spoke of a weapon.
A blade forged in the abyss.
A sword that did not hunger for blood, but for the soul itself.
The Forsaken Blade.
It had been sealed away, locked within this tomb for centuries. A weapon too dangerous, too cursed, for any mortal hand to wield.
Xian Ren closed his eyes.
He did not fear curses.
He was already damned.
---
At the heart of the cavern, the blade waited.
It rested upon an obsidian altar, its surface untouched by time, its form wreathed in shadows that twisted like living things.
Xian Ren approached.
The moment his fingers brushed the hilt, a voice echoed in his mind.
You seek power, but power comes at a cost.
He did not hesitate.
"There is nothing left to lose."
The blade pulsed. The cavern trembled.
And the darkness swallowed him whole.
---
When he opened his eyes, the world was not the same.
The blade in his grasp no longer felt like mere metal—it pulsed, as if it had become an extension of his own soul.
The cavern had become silent. The whispers that had once filled the air were gone.
The Forsaken Blade had chosen him.
But at what cost?
Xian Ren did not care.
With this sword, he would carve his vengeance into the bones of the world.
One cut at a time.
And the Iron Vein Sect would be the first to fall.
---
Far away, high in the mountain stronghold of the Iron Vein Sect, a disciple rushed into the grand hall, his face pale with fear.
"The enforcer… he is dead."
Silence.
The elders turned from their meditation, their eyes narrowing.
A sect protector stepped forward, his voice cold.
"Who did this?"
The disciple swallowed hard.
"A boy… with red eyes."
The hall fell into a hush.
Then, for the first time in decades, the Iron Vein Sect sounded the drums of war.
For they had just realized that a storm had begun to rise.
And it would not stop until the heavens themselves trembled.