Sovereign of the Sword

Chapter 3: When the Mighty Fall

Ye Xuan's eyes flew open. Energy—sharp, cold, utterly alien—coursed through his veins. Not blood. He slammed a palm against his lower abdomen. There it was: a thrumming silver needle suspended where his Dantian should be.

"Qi Transformation Realm." The woman's voice sliced through his disbelief.

His fists clenched. This changes everything. The Qi Control Realm was within reach now. Ling's cure at the Imperial Cangmu Academy no longer a dream. A choked laugh escaped him.

"Fool." Her tone frosted the air. "That blade in your gut? A degraded True Sword. Twelve centuries stole its 'Truth,' then its 'Bright Heart.' Now it's barely Spirit Sword rank. When its spirit fades—" The pause hung like a headsman's axe. "—you shatter with it."

Ice flooded Ye Xuan's veins.

"Two paths: Devour other Spirit Skeys to feed it, or replace it entirely. Richer blades mean mightier cores." A derisive snort echoed. "But you? You couldn't afford a Mortal Sword's pommel."

Desperation clawed up his throat. "The three swords atop the tower—?"

"Unranked. Anchor this world. Touch them, and existence unravels." Steel entered her voice. "Train. Now."

"How?"

"Kill."

A shadow coalesced before him. Steel flashed. Ye Xuan twisted, instinct honed in a hundred back-alley brawls kicking in. Too slow. The phantom blade bit deep into his shoulder. Pain, white-hot and precise, seared his nerves.

"Real swordsmanship isn't learned," the woman hissed. "It's carved in bone. That shadow? Your executioner and your master. Let its blade teach you speed... or die rehearsing."

For five endless days, the tower became Ye Xuan's crucible. His tunic hung in crimson rags, each breath scraping like gravel in his lungs. The first three days taught him patience or perish. He'd charged with brawler's fury, only to have the shadow slip past his wild swings, its counterstrike a viper's tongue that cracked ribs and made his collarbone scream. Blood slicked the stone until he learned: reckless aggression bled him dry. He began to mirror instead—studying the shadow's economy of motion, the precise angles it used to deflect. Defense became geometry. The bleeding slowed.

By the fourth day, he moved with the shadow in a deadly dance. Parries became extensions of his bones. He read feints in the subtle tension of its wrist, dodged sweeps by predicting weight shifts. The phantom's watertight defense, a fortress built of precision, became his textbook. He dissected it: High guard invites low thrusts. Wide stance slows pivots.

On the fifth day, he seized his first victory. A flicker of overextension after a lunge—a hair too slow. Ye Xuan lunged not with fury, but with the shadow's own coiled efficiency. His fist (no sword yet—the woman forbade it) slammed into its spectral ribs. Once. Twice. Small victories that screamed louder than any bellow.

He collapsed, muscles shrieking, every cut burning, every bruise throbbing. Yet triumph, fierce and primal, roared through him. His reactions now eclipsed any Qingcheng youth trained since birth. His strength was tempered in this crucible of pain.

"Comfortable?" The woman's voice held no warmth. "The Sword Dao grinds its disciples to dust. You've merely tasted the grindstone."

Ye Xuan spat blood, grinning. "Feed me more."

Beyond the tower, the Ye Clan's scheming continued unabated. In a study reeking of sandalwood, Grand Elder Ye Ku savored the confirmation of Ye Xuan's shattered Dantian like vintage wine. Elder Ye Ku bowed, triumph gleaming. "The cripple's fangs are pulled. But killing him openly? Folly. The clan whispers already, many remembering his past glories." He leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspirator's murmur. "Ye Lang must end him publicly on the Life-and-Death Arena. It silences dissent, burnishes Ye Lang's prestige, and crushes any lingering sympathy. The Clan Head's silence is guaranteed."

A serpent's smile stretched the Grand Elder's lips. "Make him suffer first. Cut their monthly allowance. Stop their kitchen rations. Deny access to the Martial Skill Pavilion. And that useless girl's medicinal cuisine?" He waved a dismissive hand. "Stop it. Her cold syndrome drained coffers for years. Waste."

"And the sister?" Ye Ku pressed, eyes glinting.

"The fallen need purpose. Marry her to a stable hand. Or a debt collector." Cold indifference settled like frost. "Let her taste the mud."

The cruelty of these decrees soon manifested. Ye Ling stood trembling before her brother, two cold, lumpy buns clutched in her small hands. A livid handprint bloomed across her right cheek, stark against her pale skin.

Ye Xuan's world narrowed to that bruise. His voice dropped, deathly quiet. "Who. Touched. You."

"It was— I tripped—"

He took her chin, gentle but unyielding. "Look at me. Truth."

Tears spilled over. "Steward Wang... the kitchen master. He said... said since you're not Family Heir anymore..." She shuddered, recalling the reeking bucket he'd pointed to. "He gave us... dog scraps. Swarming with flies... maggots writhing in it..." Her voice cracked. "I demanded proper food. He laughed. Said... said he'd give me fresh meals... if I... warmed his bed for a night." Her small fist clenched. "I called him a stinking hog! He hit me..."

Silence. Thick. Suffocating. Ye Xuan stared at the pitiful buns—symbols of their fall. A single day ago, we ate from jade bowls. Now, dog slop is too good for us? Rage, colder and sharper than any blade, crystallized in his gut. Fallen from grace. Now even mangy strays feast better than Ye Clan's former heir.

He rose. The air crackled. Callouses from five days of brutal sword-drill rasped against his sister's palm as he took her hand. "Take me to him."