> "A blade sheathed is still a blade. The wise warrior knows when to hide the edge."
— Ryu Seok-jin
---
The morning mist hugged the Iron Vow Saber Sect like ghostly silk, curling around rooftops and drifting between stone lanterns. Crimson banners fluttered gently under the wind, embroidered with the sect's symbol — a saber coiled around an iron ring.
Disciples gathered by the hundreds in the main courtyard, forming rows of steel and discipline. The tension in the air was sharp enough to draw blood.
At the head of the platform stood Nam Gun-seok, Sect Master of Iron Vow Saber Sect. His presence was like a mountain wrapped in flesh — unmovable, immovable. His gaze swept over the students.
> "Three days," he announced, voice like a hammer striking anvil.
"Three days until the Ten Major Sect Martial Exchange."
Silence followed — thick, suffocating.
> "The world looks down on us. We are called the Forgotten Blade. A minor sect. A relic. But this time... we remind them."
"This time, Iron Vow cuts back."
The disciples tightened their grips on their saber hilts. Faces hard, but... not confident. Because the truth was cruel.
Iron Vow was not a great sect. Not like Heavenly Sword Pavilion. Not like Crimson Lotus Sect. While others birthed geniuses... Iron Vow forged survivors.
> "Until now..."
Ryu stood quietly among the tournament candidates — his posture relaxed, eyes half-lidded.
The whispering never stopped.
> "Nam Cheon...?"
"Didn't his meridians collapse?"
"How is he even standing?"
"Wasn't he the sect's embarrassment since birth?"
Sick. Weak. Useless.
A boy born with shattered Qi pathways — veins that could barely circulate internal energy, always coughing blood after training. No talent. No hope.
> Or so they thought.
> "Tch... I can't watch this any longer."
Baek Jin-ho stepped forward, his saber already half-drawn. Mid-stage Sword Disciple — arrogant but skilled. Among Iron Vow's younger generation, he was considered solid... if not exceptional.
> "Nam Cheon. If you really think you're worthy of the tournament team..."
> "Then prove it."
He pointed his saber toward Ryu, smirking.
> "Draw."
The crowd murmured, hungry for drama.
> "He'll cripple him."
"Cheon won't last a second."
---
Ryu slowly stepped forward. His face remained blank, as if the whole thing were beneath him.
> "Fine."
> "Draw."
Jin-ho lunged, saber slicing down in a heavy, two-handed arc aimed for Ryu's collarbone — a textbook Iron Fang Form.
Ryu tilted his head.
Pivoted a single step to the left.
His blade flicked — almost lazily.
> Crack.
Jin-ho's saber shattered at the hilt.
Another flick — the edge kissed Jin-ho's shoulder, parting the threads of his tunic cleanly from neck to hip without touching flesh.
Ryu's saber halted just at Jin-ho's throat.
> "Dead."
Jin-ho's face went pale. His knees buckled. The broken hilt dropped from his trembling hands.
---
Gasps tore through the crowd.
> "...Did anyone even see him move...?"
"That... that wasn't a fight."
"That was... dismantling."
---
Ryu sheathed his saber with a soft click. His voice was bored.
> "Is that sufficient?"
Nobody answered. Only stunned silence.
---
The Second Challenger: Yoo Min-jae
But pride is a foolish thing.
> "Not enough."
A new voice stepped forward — Yoo Min-jae. Peak Sword Disciple. Senior under the Sect Master.
Respected. Feared.
> "Jin-ho was sloppy. Let's see if you're lucky twice."
> "Face me."
The crowd recoiled in shock.
> "Min-jae's the strongest of the Sword Disciples..."
"Cheon... there's no way..."
---
Ryu sighed, stepping forward again.
> "Fine."
---
Min-jae shot forward, his saber spinning into Triple Coil Fang — a high-level Iron Vow form combining offense and feint, designed to overwhelm an opponent's defense through layered pressure.
It never landed.
Ryu's foot shifted — a precise, merciless angle. His saber drew a crescent arc — clean, sharp.
> Crack.
Min-jae's saber split from tip to hilt. The follow-through grazed his robes — carving a thin line across his chest just deep enough to draw a line of blood.
Before Min-jae could flinch —
Ryu's blade hovered at his eye.
> "Dead."
Min-jae froze. His saber dropped. His legs nearly gave out.
> "T-That... that wasn't..."
"H-How... how is that...?"
"That wasn't Sword Disciple speed... that was..."
The crowd no longer whispered. They recoiled — confused whether to fear or worship what they had just seen.
> "He... he was supposed to be crippled..."
Up above, from the pavilion balcony, Sect Master Nam Gun-seok stood unmoving. But his jaw tightened. His fists clenched behind his back.
> "...That... that isn't the power of a Sword Disciple..."
> "Even... even I couldn't dismantle two peak disciples that cleanly without Qi surges..."
But he said nothing.
Because a part of him wanted to believe.
> "My son's a genius... My son has recovered..."
And another part whispered:
> "No... something far deeper sleeps inside that boy."
Night fell.
In the darkness of his quarters, Ryu sat cross-legged, the Sword Saint's Heart pulsing quietly in his core. Veins once called broken now throbbed with molten steel.
> "Sick since birth..."
A perfect excuse. A perfect mask.
> "Let them believe it's a miracle recovery..."
> "Let them lower their guard."
He stood, unsheathed his sword.
The air itself trembled — as if the steel disturbed the very Qi around him.
> "Sword Disciple?"
He laughed under his breath.
> "I wear that title like a beggar's rags."
> "If they saw even one glimpse of my true cultivation..."
> "...Soulbound Swordsmen would kneel."
---
He sheathed his blade.
Walked toward the window. The horizon was distant, but the banners of rival sects were already visible on the next mountain.
> "Three days."
> "Then... the bloodletting begins."
A cruel smile played at his lips.