Chen Xin descended into a solemn vale—a quiet land untouched by time, where fog hung low and the ground seemed to carry mourning in its silence.
He saw them first as silhouettes.
Dozens—no, hundreds—of swords planted into the earth like markers. Each blade was unique: some ornate, some worn, some blackened by ash, others gleaming with a light that refused to fade.
Each was a gravestone.
This was the Sword Grave of the Silent — the resting place of those who had walked the path of the sword and fallen before reaching transcendence.
The Trial Realm did not forget its failures. It honored them.
As Chen Xin stepped forward, the mist thinned, and the weight of the place settled on him like a shroud. The wind did not blow here. The earth did not move.
He stopped before a sword that called to him. It was plain — the hilt wrapped in torn gray cloth, the blade half-buried, rusted from exposure. Yet he felt it tremble faintly as he approached.
Reaching out, he touched the hilt.
The world changed.
Suddenly, he stood not in the valley, but in a golden field beneath a blue sky. Before him was a young swordsman, kneeling beside a gravestone, weeping quietly.
"I trained my whole life. I did everything right. But when they needed me… I froze."
The illusion shifted — battlefields, fire, the screams of those left behind.
The swordsman's face twisted with guilt.
Chen Xin watched, unmoving.
"You died in silence," he whispered. "But not in vain."
The swordsman turned toward him, tears in his eyes, and asked a single question.
"Will you carry what I could not?"
Chen Xin nodded.
The illusion shattered.
Back in the graveyard, the rusted sword glowed faintly before crumbling to ash. A thread of light flowed into Chen Xin's chest.
He had inherited not the blade, but the regret it carried — and the strength to surpass it.
He continued walking, pausing at each sword he passed — honoring them silently with a glance, a word, or a memory.
He wasn't alone. These were not failures — they were foundations.