There was no tunnel this time. No runes in the stone, no wind echoing through forgotten corridors. One blink—and the glade was gone. The pool. The shrine. The old man. Gone. What remained wasn't darkness, but a stillness that felt older than time itself. It wasn't black. It was absence—the space before anything ever began.
Then something shimmered.
A mirror floated in the void. Towering, still, frame-less. It didn't reflect Altan's face, only fragments: the last breath of his father, the blood on his hands, fire devouring the steppe. Emotions buried deep. Thoughts never voiced.
He stepped forward.
The mirror pulsed. A voice rose—not from the air, but from within his bones. It was cold as mountain frost and ancient as stone.
"What burns when fire dies?"
"What remains when earth breaks?"
"What flows when water stops?"
"What carries the wind when you forget how to breathe?"
Altan didn't answer. The mirror already knew.
He stepped through.
The void shattered like glass.
Light bloomed around him, soft and surreal. He stood in a circular hall floating in emptiness. Shelves spiraled into infinity, made from threads of glowing qi. Scrolls drifted freely, pages turning themselves, whispering lost knowledge.
The air smelled like rain after lightning—charged and clean.
Visions passed across the walls: cities burning, temples lost, warriors dying in forgotten wars.
"This," said a voice behind him, "is the weight of spirit."
The old man stood there, his robes trailing smoke and starlight. His eyes were calm now—clear, steady.
"To be the blade," he said, "is not just to cut. It is to know when not to."
Altan remained quiet. The pain of the past stirred but didn't break him.
"You've forged the body," the old man said. "Now temper the mind."
Time unraveled.
There was no sun or moon here. Only learning.
Scrolls opened to reveal living diagrams. Phantom masters emerged from ink, demonstrating ancient styles: Flowing Leaf of the Willow, Seven Cuts of the Broken Moon, Earth-Sleeper's Breath. Every movement had purpose. Every stance held truth.
Altan watched. Moved. Learned.
He began to read breath. Anticipate motion before it began. He saw how a feint could break momentum, how fear triggered mistakes, how rage blinded vision.
He saw empires fall—not by defeat, but pride. Generals undone by their own certainty. From that, he learned: discipline sharpens the soul, clarity keeps it true.
When the last scroll vanished into flame, warmth flowed into his chest. The fifth sigil appeared—spirit, bright and steady.
The old man gave no praise.
Altan turned. "Is that all?"
The old man raised his hand.
The library vanished in wind.
He now stood beneath a thundercloud sky, surrounded by statues of long-dead warriors. They held weapons from distant ages—twin sabers, spiked chains, monk beads, bare fists. Lightning growled above, not in anger, but judgment.
The voice returned, louder now, almost Immortal.
"To become the blade is not to master one form… but to rise through them all."
They came from the storm.
Not shadows—memories made real. Warriors forged from regret, failure, and honor. They were masters once, now echoes. They had stepped into this test and never emerged. Some had broken, others lost to pride or fear. A few had given everything but still fallen short. Now they remained—bound to this trial.
They came in every form. Towering northmen with frost-forged axes. Desert swordsmen whose sabers moved like storms. Assassins in silence, monk-warriors chanting as they struck. Elves, giants, lizardkin—all wielding styles from every race, region, and belief.
Their eyes glowed a soft gold—the light of purpose unfulfilled.
Altan took a breath.
Ten landed. Then twenty. Then more.
"All of them?" he asked.
"You will fight until your body breaks. Until your mind shatters. Again. And again."
"For how long?"
"Three years," the voice answered. "From the fall, to your rise."
He fought.
He bled.
He died.
And each time, he returned. Drawn back like a tide.
Each warrior moved with mastery. Crane's Reversal Palm. Thousand Petal Death. Ancient, deadly styles. Each battle forced Altan to adapt. Shift. Learn.
He discovered Qi-Binding—merging energy with steel. Mirror Pulse—to reflect strikes back. Iron Moon Breath—to slow his heartbeat and read the future in stillness.
After one year, he faced ten.
By the second, he danced through fifty.
In the third, he stepped into a hundred. And the mist parted.
He stood alone.
His blade no longer needed to be seen.
The field emptied. The sky calmed.
Across the clearing, a boy walked forward.
Altan didn't move.
It was himself.
Not who he was now—but the boy he had been. Barefoot. Angry. Eyes full of grief. Swinging a sword too heavy with pain.
The boy charged.
Altan didn't strike.
He caught the blade gently. Guided it away. Held the shaking hand.
Then knelt.
"Thank you," he whispered.
The boy faded.
Stars lit the sky.
Altan opened his eyes.
The chasm lay before him again.
Three years had passed in the Hollow Mirror. But outside, only three months.
Five sigils glowed—wind, fire, earth, water, spirit.
He no longer trembled.
He no longer fought to survive.
He had become the blade.
And now, the blade would return.
A faint touch brushed his thoughts. The old man's voice echoed in his mind.
"The hall exists within you now. If ever you need it, meditate. Return to the Hall of Knowledge. Learn again."
The voice faded, but its warmth stayed.
Altan stepped forward, carrying not just skill—but memory, strength, and the path ahead.