The cavern pulsed with echoes.
Each strike from Ji Haneul's blade was met with nothing—parried not by steel, but by motion. The masked figure danced between the arcs like water slipping through fingers, never touching, always present.
But Haneul was not just fast.
He was inevitable.
His blade curved in strange angles, redirecting mid-stroke, turning missed cuts into follow-ups. The training etched into his bones—the deeper understanding born of the Heavenly Martial Body—allowed no wasted effort.
The masked figure swept a palm outward.
A ripple of force rang through the temple, bending the torchlight.
Haneul crouched, skated under it, and cut diagonally toward the figure's legs.
The blade passed through cloth—yet there was no flesh.
The figure had already moved—stepped through the air like stepping across threads of thought.
"You learn quickly," the voice said, calm and cold. "Faster than the last."
"The last?" Haneul's eyes narrowed.
A pause.
"Your blood remembers what your mind does not."
They clashed again. This time, the masked one struck with the back of the hand. It was no simple blow—it carried qi, strange and discordant, like a blade slicing sideways through memory.
Haneul took it on the shoulder and staggered back, breath cut short.
"You wield the Heaven-Splitting Sword Art," the masked one said. "But you do not know why it was made."
"I don't need to."
"You will."
The enemy's stance changed. Hands weaved—not in martial form, but in calligraphy. Each stroke traced symbols in the air, glyphs that shimmered before fading.
"You think your ancestor forged that sword art to conquer?" the voice asked.
"Didn't he?"
The figure stilled.
"No," it said. "He forged it to erase."
The masked one pointed to the pool at the center of the chamber.
"Come. Look."
Haneul hesitated.
But the truth had weight. He stepped forward.
The still black surface began to glow.
Not with reflection—but memory.
He saw a mountain, long before any sect stood upon it.
Two swordsmen.
One bore a straight blade—the first cut of the Heaven-Splitting Sword.
The other… held nothing.
Not even a name.
And the one without a sword won.
With nothing.
With a movement so pure, it carved reality itself.
Then—
The swordsman with the straight blade smiled.
And began to walk the path again, but differently.
As if… replicating what defeated him.
Learning from it.
"What is this?" Haneul asked.
"Your ancestor," the masked figure said. "He didn't invent the Heaven-Splitting Sword Art. He stole it from someone who never wanted it to be known."
The pool darkened.
The memory ended.
Haneul's jaw clenched. "Then where is the original?"
The figure tilted its head.
And from behind the mask, it whispered:
"Buried… with the one who chose to forget it."
Then it attacked.
Not with fists.
But with intent.
The torches blew out.
The room turned black.
But Haneul had already stepped forward, his blade cutting through the veil.
Even if truth was broken.
He would carve a new path from its shards.