The clang of swords echoed through the open training yard like a hymn of war, sharp and rhythmic. Sunlight danced on polished steel as noble sons of the Jiang Clan practiced their forms under the watchful eye of elder instructors. Movements were crisp, spiritual energy flowed in elegant arcs, and the scent of sandalwood mingled with sweat and steel.
Just outside the courtyard wall, beneath the shade of a crooked pillar, crouched a figure in threadbare gray. Huang, no family name, scrubbed blood from the flagstones with a stiff brush, hands raw and stained from days of the same task.
Another drop of blood splattered in front of him. Fresh.
He looked up without raising his head — a trick all slaves learned to avoid punishment. A disciple had slashed too wide, cutting his sparring partner's shoulder. A minor wound. They laughed it off and continued. A servant rushed to offer clean robes. Huang turned back to his work, silent.
But in his mind… he replayed the move.
Reverse Fang Turn, second variation. Form breaks after the third step unless the elbow is drawn two inches tighter.
He had seen that form a hundred times. Corrected it a hundred more — in his mind. Not aloud. Never aloud. Once, when he was ten, he whispered a correction to a low-ranked disciple. The boy had landed the move in front of an elder. For a day, he was praised. The next, Huang was beaten for "arrogance."
Now sixteen, Huang had learned the unspoken law of the Sword Hall:
> Slaves do not speak of swords.
Still, he watched.
His eyes were his cultivation. His memory, his manual. His hands, though rough, mimicked every grip and step each night behind the stables. With a stick in hand and moonlight as his witness, he practiced moves that should have belonged only to those with spirit roots. And yet, he had none. The clan tested him young. No qi resonance. No elemental affinity. He was declared Empty-Bodied. Useless for cultivation.
And so, he served.
---
The Inner Quarters
"You're staring again," said a girl's voice, low but sharp.
Huang blinked. Mu Xiaoyi, barefoot and carrying a tray of steamed mantou buns, nudged his leg with her knee as she passed. "They'll see you. Then they'll cut off your eyes and make you eat them."
"I wasn't staring," Huang muttered.
"You weren't blinking either."
He returned to scrubbing as she set down the tray beside him and plopped onto the dusty ground. Her black hair was tied up with twine, and her sleeves were rolled above her elbows. She stole a bun from the tray before the others could arrive.
"You know," she said between bites, "if you stopped being weird and obsessed with sword forms, we might actually get out of this place together someday."
"I'm not obsessed."
"You talk to your mop like it's a blade."
"It's better company than you."
Before she could reply, a shadow loomed.
Luo Sen, tall and broad-shouldered, dropped a cloth satchel beside them and let out a long sigh. His face was streaked with soot from the forges, and the scent of molten iron clung to his clothes.
"They're planning something," he said without preamble.
Huang and Xiaoyi straightened. Luo Sen rarely spoke unless it mattered.
"Who?" Xiaoyi asked.
"The Young Master. Jiang Wei. He met with Elders in secret last night. And this morning, I saw the expedition list posted by the Gate Hall." He pulled a wrinkled scroll from his belt and laid it flat.
Huang scanned the names. "We're on it."
"All three of us," Luo Sen confirmed. "We leave tomorrow."
---
The Tomb
Word had spread of a discovery deep in the Ghosting Wastes — a region said to hold the remnants of rogue immortals and forbidden legacies. The Tomb of Master Veilcut, a Sword Immortal who defied sect and empire alike, had been found beneath layers of dead soil and decayed qi.
The Jiang Clan wanted it. The Heavenly Shear Sect would soon be watching. The Young Master and his cousins were eager to prove themselves before the Pavilion made its seasonal selections.
And slaves? They were expendable. Useful for carrying supplies and triggering traps.
---
That Night
When the moon was high, Huang stood alone behind the stables, a wooden stick in hand. He breathed slowly and stepped through the Eightfold River Style, a sword form only elite disciples learned in their third year. His feet traced precise arcs in the dirt. His hand cut through air in silence.
But tonight, something felt wrong.
Not in his form. In the air.
A pressure.
As if the world itself had stopped to watch.
He turned sharply. Nothing. Only the wind brushing through grass and the creak of old wood.
Still… somewhere deep inside, something pulsed. Dull and ancient. Like the echo of a gong struck a thousand years ago.
He breathed out and tightened his grip.
"Tomorrow," he whispered, "I hold a real sword."
Blades Behind Smiles
The Jiang Manor stretched like a fortress over the southern cliffs of Jianzhou, its stone walls rising like fangs above the jade forest. Sword-shaped weathervanes turned on the wind, and scarlet banners flapped from every tower. To outsiders, it was a temple to honor, discipline, and tradition. But within its inner sanctum, shadows gathered like loyal disciples.
In a sealed courtyard behind the Second Sword Pavilion, four figures sat in silent formation around a tea table carved from white ironwood.
Three wore the silver robes of inner Jiang disciples.
One wore black.
He did not speak unless addressed. His job was to serve, pour tea, and forget what he heard.
At the head sat Jiang Wei, heir to the main branch. Seventeen, calm-eyed, and cruel. His voice rarely rose above a whisper, but those who heard it knew to obey. Beside him lounged his two cousins:
Jiang Tao, who wore his confidence like armor, and had once nearly beaten a sect disciple in a sparring match.
Jiang Ren, soft-spoken but observant, with eyes that flicked like blades across a battlefield.
The fourth cousin — not present — was Jiang Fei.
And he was the problem.
---
"The Chosen One"
"He'll be chosen," Jiang Tao said with a sneer. "Mark my words. The Pavilion accepts four each season. Three will come from sects. The fourth… they always reserve for a prodigy outside the walls. And Fei has made certain everyone knows his sword dances have reached the 'Drifting Feather' stage."
"Elder Yue has already written his recommendation," Jiang Ren added, biting into a plum. "It's practically sealed."
Wei didn't respond at first. He calmly poured the tea, eyes fixed on the steam.
"He is talented," Wei finally said. "But he is also... soft."
"Soft?" Tao scoffed. "He nearly crippled a visiting swordsman last week."
"He speaks of justice. Of reforming the dueling rights between branches. Of honoring slaves." Wei's lips barely moved. "If he gains the Pavilion's favor, he'll gain the Emperor's eye. Then what happens to us?"
Ren's voice lowered. "You want him gone."
"I want to protect our bloodline's future," Wei corrected. "If a weed overshadows the tree, you don't trim it. You pull it out by the root."
Tao grinned. "Then we make it look like a wild pull."
---
The Plan
They spread the scrolls across the table — floor plans of the Veilcut Tomb, hand-drawn from the explorer who discovered the site and mysteriously disappeared afterward.
"There's a sword hall inside," Ren said. "With dozens of sealed stone guardians. The inner path splits. We lure Fei toward the left branch, away from the relic chamber. When the traps spring... he'll die in combat."
"And if he doesn't?" Tao asked.
Ren pulled a thin talisman from his sleeve — black ink etched into bone-white paper. "Spirit lock. It disrupts qi flow for half a breath. Long enough to make a fatal mistake."
Wei tapped the table. "Place it on his back when we begin our descent. As if someone pushed him. And we won't be the only ones there."
"The slaves," Ren murmured.
"They'll carry our packs, food, spirit torches. But they'll also carry the forbidden talisman." Wei reached under the table and removed a palm-sized jade box. Inside was a crimson seal — used only by rogue cultivators and demon-binders.
"Mu Xiaoyi's satchel," Wei said. "She's quick and clever. The type to sniff through relics she shouldn't touch. Luo Sen will take the fall. His hands are strong enough to strike someone down. And Huang…"
"Huang doesn't even have a spirit root," Tao snorted.
"Exactly," Wei said, smirking. "Who better to hate us than the boy who will never be more than dirt under our feet?"
---
The Justification
Ren set his cup down and looked toward the moonlit garden.
"Fei's kind," he said quietly. "Too kind. If he lived... if he joined the Pavilion… he might have tried to lift us all. Even the slaves."
Wei's eyes darkened. "Then he would've weakened the foundation. This world doesn't need kindness. It needs strength."
"No one will question the deaths of three slaves," Tao added. "We'll return with relics and a tale of betrayal. A jealous slave, a foolish master. A noble tragedy."
"A tragedy," Wei said softly, finishing his tea, "is only tragic if the right people weep."
---
In the Slave Quarters
That same night, Huang sat on the straw mat beside Luo Sen and Mu Xiaoyi.
None of them knew what awaited in the tomb.
But Huang felt a chill behind his eyes that no wind had brought. He dreamed of swords drifting through the void — of a thousand lines of fate splitting like rivers.
And one of those lines — his own — trembled.
But did not break.