There are weapons forged in fire.There are weapons carved from the bones of fallen beasts.And then… there are weapons that need not be drawn—because the world remembers what they've done.
The Sage's blade was one of those.
It had not been seen for centuries.Not even by the girl who now trained beneath him.It rested in its sheath, untouched, unnoticed, leaning quietly against a stone wall beside his hut.
But today… it hummed.
Not loud.Not demanding.Just a whisper beneath the wind, as if remembering something the world had tried to forget.
Lian stood in the courtyard, drenched in sweat.
Her practice was not martial.
There were no strikes, no clashes, no explosions of spiritual energy.Only stillness.Listening.Control.
The Sage watched her silently, sipping tea under the wisteria.
She had learned quickly—not by talent, but by trust. She stopped forcing her energy and began feeling it. She no longer feared silence. She embraced it. That, above all, made her dangerous… in a way the heavens couldn't calculate.
And they were watching.
That evening, a raven landed on the edge of the pond.
Its eyes glowed faintly blue.Its feathers shimmered with celestial markings.This was no ordinary bird.
It opened its mouth—and spoke in a cold, woman's voice.
"Sage of the Endless Peak, this is your final warning.Your disciple's name is not written in the Book of Continuation.Her existence threatens the weave.Release her to the heavens, and we will overlook your defiance."
Lian froze.
But the Sage didn't react.
He simply turned the teacup slowly in his hand and replied:
"The weave is already unraveling.You're not here to warn me.You're here to beg."
The raven's feathers ruffled in subtle irritation.
"You invite war."
"No," he whispered. "You invite extinction."
And with that… he raised two fingers.
The raven disintegrated—not in flame, not in ice.It simply stopped existing.
No trace.No echo.Gone.
Lian stared in disbelief. "You just… erased it."
He nodded. "It wasn't alive. It was a thought wrapped in feathers."
She swallowed hard. "They're desperate."
"They're terrified."
That night, she approached the blade.
The sword he never touched.Never even looked at.
It was simple. Plain. No glow. No aura.
But standing near it… she couldn't breathe.
It wasn't pressure.It was memory.
The sword remembered too much.
Entire cities, reduced to silence.Heaven's generals, begging with broken mouths.Ancient names, now forgotten, buried beneath its shadow.
She stepped closer, hand outstretched—
"Don't," the Sage said behind her.
She stopped instantly.
"Why?" she asked softly.
He didn't answer right away.
Then finally:"Because it doesn't cut flesh. It cuts meaning."
She turned. "What does that even mean?"
"If I unsheath that blade," he said quietly, "the world will no longer recognize what it believes in. Names, titles, laws—all of it will become meaningless."
She stared. "That's… impossible."
He looked up at the moon. "So was I."
Elsewhere, in the divine realm, another council was being held.
This time, not in the Celestial Court—but in the Forgotten Palace.
Here, the discarded gods gathered.The ones the heavens no longer prayed to.Old war spirits.Nameless immortals.Beasts who once ruled stars.
And in the center of them all sat The Broken Saint, a man wrapped in bandages of lightning, with hollow eyes and a mouth stitched shut.
They all turned toward him.
"He is waking," one god said.
"The blade sings again," another whispered.
"What do we do?"
The Broken Saint did not speak.
He only raised a single finger—
And the entire palace shuddered.
Because even he remembered the Sage's last walk through the divine halls.
And that finger said it clearly:Do nothing.Don't provoke him.Pray he stays calm.
Back on earth, as dawn stretched across the hills, Lian watched her master prepare tea again.
She didn't ask questions this time.
She simply sat.Breathed.Listened.
He smiled.
"You're learning," he said.
"Learning what?"
"To speak only when silence doesn't answer."
She smiled back, a little proudly.
But then, his gaze grew distant.Clouded.
"The blade is remembering," he whispered.
She frowned. "But… you haven't touched it."
"I don't need to," he said. "It responds to fate. It stirs when the world needs cutting."
"What will it cut this time?"
He sipped his tea.
"The lie."
And so, the blade that had not moved in centuries began to hum louder.
Not for violence.
But for truth.
Because the time was nearing when heaven's illusion—of order, of destiny, of control—would finally be sliced apart…
Without ever being drawn.