Smoke rolled across the sky like slow-moving thunderclouds. It drifted from the village below, black and heavy, choking out the sunlight. The air smelled of blood, burnt wood, and something worse—fear.
At the top of a jagged cliff, a boy stood alone.
His black robe fluttered gently in the wind. Not the clean kind you'd see on disciples or young masters—this one was patched and faded, its threads worn down by dust and time. A dull silver sash held it together. On his back, tied loosely by rope, rested a broken sword, half its blade missing, the sheath chipped like old bone.
His name was Yan Xuanlan.
No one called him that anymore. No one called him anything. The villagers below had stopped speaking his name years ago—after his master disappeared, after the sects stopped recruiting from this region, after they all stopped hoping someone would save them.
Xuanlan didn't come down from the cliffs often. But today, he watched the village burn.
Children screamed. A mother's voice cracked, then went silent. Somewhere near the old well, a roof collapsed, sending sparks into the sky. A group of cultivators—outsiders, dressed in red robes—walked through the smoke like they owned the place. They had emblems on their sleeves, but Xuanlan didn't recognize them. Didn't need to.
They were just another group from one of the Nine Realms, sent here to collect what was left. Spirit stones. Young blood. Fear.
He said nothing. Didn't move.
Wind brushed past him again, curling around the sword on his back. The blade gave off no glow, no aura. It didn't hum or vibrate. But something in the air felt off, like it was listening.
Xuanlan finally turned away and started down the hill.
The old paths had crumbled since the last rain. Loose stones slipped under his feet, but he walked calmly, as if the earth itself made room for him. A few crows circled overhead. One landed on a broken fence post and tilted its head, watching him pass.
He stepped into the village like a ghost. Smoke clung to his clothes. Ash stuck to his sleeves. He passed by the market, now reduced to a blackened square. He saw a merchant's daughter slumped beside a pile of burned herbs. Her eyes were open, staring at nothing.
Then he heard it—a small cough.
He turned and saw the movement near the collapsed temple steps.
A boy. Maybe six, maybe seven. Covered in soot. One leg pinned under a wooden beam, arms shaking from the effort of trying to crawl free.
Xuanlan walked over, knelt down, and lifted the beam with one hand. The boy stared at him like he wasn't real.
"They said nobody would come," the boy whispered. "They said we weren't part of the map anymore."
Xuanlan looked at him for a moment. His voice was quiet, almost soft.
"Maps forget. People forget. The sword doesn't."
He helped the boy to his feet.
Then something shifted in the air behind him.
A pressure.
Xuanlan didn't turn around. He already knew what it was. He'd felt it before—too many times.
A man stepped through the smoke. Mid-thirties. Long red robe, gold patterns around the cuffs. His face was sharp, eyes narrow, lips twisted in a smirk. A curved blade hung at his waist.
"Well now," the man said. "Didn't expect to find a pair of rats still alive."
He glanced at Xuanlan, eyes pausing on the sword at his back.
"That's a funny little thing you're carrying. What are you, a wandering cleaner? You look like a cripple."
Xuanlan stayed still. The boy behind him clung to his leg.
The man sighed. "Leave the brat and walk away. We'll pretend we didn't see you. You're not even worth the trouble."
No response.
The man's smile thinned. "What, you deaf? You want to die for some village kid? You really think that old toy on your back is gonna help you?"
Still, Xuanlan didn't speak.
The wind shifted again. The broken sword on his back creaked slightly in its sheath, like it was waking up.
The red-robed cultivator's face tightened. "You serious?"
Xuanlan slowly reached up.
His fingers touched the handle.
The man's blade was out in a flash. "Touch that sword and I'll bury you here—!"
Schhhk.
The sound was soft. Barely more than a whisper of metal against wood.
But the world paused.
Even the flames seemed to go quiet for a moment.
Xuanlan drew the sword—not all the way. Just enough to show the broken edge. The blade had no glow, no runes, no fancy inscriptions.
But the man stepped back. His eyes widened.
"What the hell… What—what is that?"
The tip of the blade dipped slightly.
Then Xuanlan moved.
He didn't swing. He didn't leap. He just walked forward. Slow, like he had all the time in the world.
The man shouted and raised his sword.
A flicker of silver.
Then silence.
The red-robed man stood still for a heartbeat. Then his weapon fell from his hand.
A moment later, his body split cleanly in two. Not violently. Not with blood spraying. Just… two halves, clean and quiet, like someone had peeled open a scroll.
His soul didn't even scream. It just unraveled.
Xuanlan stopped walking. Sheathed the broken sword with a soft click.
The child behind him stared, mouth open.
But Xuanlan didn't look at him. He stared at the sword, still glowing faintly.
Somewhere deep in his head, something ancient stirred.
A voice, older than memory, echoed inside him.
"So. You finally drew me again."
"The Nine Realms will come. The sword has chosen. And it has chosen you."
Xuanlan looked at the burning village.
No satisfaction. No rage. Just silence.
He turned away.
Far from the village, in a sky palace made of cloudstone and starlight, a sacred mirror cracked with a sound like thunder.
In the Flame Realm, an old cultivator opened his eyes mid-meditation and vomited blood. "It's waking," he whispered. "That cursed sword…"
In the Void Realm, buried under black sand, an ancient beast uncurled its limbs and sniffed the air.
"He lives."
And Yan Xuanlan, the boy on the hill, the orphan with no name left on the maps, kept walking into the smoke—his sword humming gently, as if pleased to be back in the world again