The icy power from the sheathed blade seeped into Dunce's core, carrying the raw, brutal tapestry of Owen's life. The shock was visceral, igniting a cold fire of vengeance deep within him. *Revenge. No matter the cost.* "Uncle," Dunce asked, his voice thick with grief and newfound resolve, "can I learn the final four Arts?"
"No!" Owen's voice was sharp, final. "Absolutely not. The miasma they draw upon… it's too strong. If that cursed evil touches your soul, the Sword *will* dominate you. You'd become its puppet, its butcher. Never skip ahead. Dunce… are my eyes grey?"
Dunce blinked, focusing. Owen's eyes were indeed lifeless, cold pools of ash.
"That… that's the backlash," Owen rasped, a grimace twisting his poisoned face. "Better I die. At least I won't be the monster it craves. But you… be vigilant. Never use the higher Arts lightly. I could use the fourth… but not chain Reaper's Flash, Relentless Harvest, Soul Cleave, and Shadow's Embrace together. The foulness saturated me, root and branch. Only decades of cultivating the **Vitality Sutra** kept my mind intact, barely." He coughed, a spray of crimson streaked with unnatural azule splattering the floor. "Remember, boy… power isn't good or evil. It's the *wielder* who chooses." His voice hitched. A sickly blue aura flared around him, brighter this time. His body convulsed violently as the potent **Blood Skeleton Bane Venom** warred against his fading life force. Dunce pressed harder, channeling his own meager reserves of **Spirit Energy** into his mentor's failing body.
With agonizing slowness, the tremors subsided. Owen slumped, diminished, his gaze fading. "Dunce… bind the Sword… to your chest. Now."
Dunce didn't hesitate. He yanked open his worn tunic, securing the heavy scabbard diagonally across his torso. The cold hilt pressed against his heart, a shockwave of frigid power jolting his depleted core. His **Spirit Energy**, near extinction, surged back into a sluggish pulse, fueled by the dark relic.
The influx of energy bought Owen a few last moments. The venom was winning, death close enough to smell its decay. "Promise me… you won't abandon the Sword. Master… the first Art. Survive… in this world full of knives hidden in smiles. As for… the final Four… if… if your life force… and inner radiance… ever surpass… the Ninth Gate… of the Vitality Sutra… *maybe*… but beware… the Corruption…" He gasped, fighting for each word. "The Guild… avoid them… powerful… labyrinth… no place… for a gentle soul… The silver orb… keep it… The technique I used… it doesn't cure… Blood Skeleton Bane… but… other toxins… concentrate… expel… If only… my cultivation… had broken the Ninth Gate… could have… purged it… entirely…" He gestured weakly towards the burning cottage. "When… I'm gone… burn it all… house… body… use… your Fire Sigil… quick and clean… no poison… harming others… Born here… died here…" A strangled breath. "Tandor't… cry… boy. Man… now. Stand… strong… Must… take care… yourself… understand?" The final plea hung in the air, choked off as another torrent of poisoned blood erupted from his lips. The vibrant blue of the venom now mapped rivers across his face, meeting the ashen grey of impending doom. This last exertion shattered his reserves. The confluence of deadly venom, the Sword's insidious counterflow, and the sheer exhaustion of combat claimed its final toll.
Owen's hand, stained with unnatural blue, fell limp from Dunce's cheek.
Sacred Calendar, Year 994, Sixth Mystic Moon. The Grim Reaper of the continent, the shadow feared by kings and cutthroats alike, fell not on a battlefield, but consumed by poison and sorrow in a forgotten coastal shack.
Dunce stood frozen, tears carving hot paths through the dust and grime on his face. The weight in his chest was suffocating, a mountain of grief for the man who had given him not just survival skills, but a semblance of purpose over five hard years. The cold energy from the Sword hilt was a sharp counterpoint, cutting through the fog of despair. *Uncle's last commands.* They resonated with crystalline clarity in his shock. He couldn't disappoint Owen. Survival was the only path to vengeance.
Forcing his limbs to move, Dunce gathered his few possessions: his spare clothes, the precious **Silver Detox Orb** they'd crafted to stem the poison's tide (now a bitter symbol of failure), and the remaining scraps of food from the kitchen. Returning to Owen's side, the sight was horrific. The venom had begun its work in earnest. The once-handsome face was dissolving into a blue ruin. A cry tore from Dunce's throat – raw, guttural, full of rage against the unseen killers. He wouldn't let the venom finish its sacrilege. Choking on sobs, he traced the patterns in the air, calling the raw power of heat. "Flames Ignite!" he gasped, the sigils flaring. Blue fire, born of desperation and grief, leapt from his palm onto Owen's remains. It consumed with unnatural speed and ferocity, reducing the vessel of a fallen legend to a pile of glittering azure ash.
Dunce knelt, sobs wracking his frame, meticulously scooping the ashes into a small urn. Sealing it, he placed it tenderly into his pack. No more hesitation. He slung his packs, hoisted the heavy **Astral Blade**, and stepped outside. He kicked the desiccated corpses of their attackers – the Guild assassins – into the inferno he'd set to cleanse Owen's home. The shack roared, swallowing memories and evidence alike. One last look at the pyre that marked the end of his childhood, then Dunce turned and ran, carrying the cold weight of the Reaper and the burning weight of vengeance into the unknown.
---
Meanwhile, back in the small coastal town…
Xi'er, the portly Mayor, stewed in his living room, face flushed with anger. Dunce's public refusal of his daughter Fei's hand still rankled. Pride wounded. How dare that boy, raised by Owen that hermit, spurn his offer? The sound of Sifi's heartbroken sobs upstairs only fueled his irritation.
*BANG! BANG! BANG!*
The frantic hammering on his door was an unwelcome intrusion. "Who is it?! Sounds like the hellhounds are after you!" Xi'er snapped, wrenching the door open.
His eldest son, Sizhong, stood panting, eyes wide with panic. "Father! Come quick! It's Master Owen!"
Xi'er's annoyance vanished, replaced by cold dread. "What? What about him? Here? Trouble?"
Sizhong grabbed his arm. "His place… it's on fire! Big blaze! Brothers Zhong and Fa saw it coming back from the nets. They're rallying the town!"
Xi'er's blood ran cold. Together, they sprinted towards the outskirts.
By the time they arrived, the fire was a collapsing skeleton of glowing embers and thick black smoke. The salty sea breeze carried ashes like dark snow. Xi'er stared, stunned, at the ruin. He grabbed his second son, Sifa, who was futilely throwing buckets of seawater onto the charred remains. "Where are they?! Owen? The boy?! Did they get out?!"
Sifa shook his head, face grim. "Saw no one, Father. Fire ate too fast… if they were inside…" He trailed off, but the implication was clear.
As the townsfolk murmured condolences around the grieving Mayor, unnoticed among the crowd, several pairs of cold, calculating eyes scanned the scene and the charred ruins.
"President Deputy," a shadowed figure murmured softly to the man beside him, whose features were twisted with sour malice. "We scoured the ashes. Found the brittle bones of our team, charred to the quick. No sign of the Reaper. Or the kid."
The Deputy hissed, venom matching the poison he'd deployed. "Damnation! That old wolf's life force… underestimated. Should have brought the whole kill-team. Dunce might be ash, but the *boy*… he's out there. Find him. Sweep the coastline, the rocks, every damned crack! Find his corpse if you have to. The *Sword* must not slip away!"
"Understood." Like smoke, the Assassins Guild shadows dissolved into the dispersing crowd.
---
Waves exploded against the jagged rock pillars, sending plumes of salt spray high into the air. Only half stood now; Owen had deliberately reduced them months ago to hone Dunce's raw power and balance.
Dunce stood braced atop one, the heavy **Astral Blade** a blur in his hands. He wasn't just cutting the relentless waves; he was hacking at the suffocating grief, the gnawing hatred. Each thunderous impact jarred his body, mirroring the shattering inside.
*CRASH!* A monstrous wave, unchecked, tore him off the pillar and flung him into the churning sea. He didn't fight it. He let the cold, merciless water engulf him, drag him down, wishing it could scour the pain away as it scoured the rocks.
"WHY?!" His voice tore through the ocean's roar, raw and desperate as he surfaced, salt water mixing with tears streaming down his face. "Why kill him?! WHY?!" Only the indifferent sea answered with its eternal crashing.
Ten numb days later, huddled in the lee of the rocks, gnawing on stale rations like a stray dog, the crushing weight of grief finally began to lift, replaced by a colder, sharper stone in his chest: hardened resolve. He remembered Owen's warning. *Stay hidden.*
Finishing the last scrap of dried meat, Dunce secured his packs, shifted the weight of the Astral Blade, and touched the cold hilt resting against his heart. Dunce was silent, but its presence was a constant reminder. Owen's final words echoed in his mind with painful clarity – a map to survival. That clarity, borne of brutal loss, had saved him; the Guild hunters had finally abandoned their search along this coast the day *before* he emerged.
Turning west, towards the borders of the Blood Skeleton Whirl Duchy, he started walking.
---
Three days and a gnawing emptiness later, he stumbled into the fringe town marking the Duchy's edge. His lips were cracked, his stomach an echoing cavern. The bustling streets, teeming with men and women in worn leathers and gleaming armor, marked by badges of countless **Mercenary Companies**, felt alien after the desolate shore and their quiet shack.
*Mercenary Duchy*, Owen had called it. The heart of the Mercenary Guild's power. Among these fighters, he needed to find sanctuary. The **Mage Enclave**… his ticket to sustenance, to blending in, as Owen had advised. Keep moving. Blend in. Survive.
Rounding a corner, the scent hit him like a physical blow: warm, yeasty, comforting. *Bread.*
"FRESH BUNS! GET YER HOT BUNS HERE! TWO FOR A COPPER! MADE FRESH!"
A portly man with a fringe of thinning red hair around a bald crown stood behind a stall, shouting with gusto that made his jowls wobble. The large steamers in front of him promised warmth and filling satisfaction. Drawn by pure instinct, Dunce drifted towards the stall.
"Hey there, young fella!" the Bunman boomed, beaming. "Best buns in three territories! Try one? Warm the belly?" He gestured proudly at his wares.
Dunce stared, mouth watering, shaking his head slowly. His pockets were cruelly empty.
The owner's smile faltered. "No coin, eh?" He sighed, disappointment clear. "Bit young to be hard on yer luck out here alone. Here." He picked up a plump bun and thrust it towards Dunce. "On the house. Can't have a lad starvin' outside my stall."
Dunce stared, dumbfounded. The unexpected kindness, the *first* kindness since Owen died, cracked the icy shell around his heart a fraction. Gratitude overwhelmed him. "Th-thank you, sir." He took the bun, barely chewing the first bite, then devouring it in seconds.
The owner chuckled, watching the desperate hunger. "Tandor't wolf it down, son! Give yer gullet a chance!" He produced a cup of water. "Where ya headed in such a state? Got anythin' lined up? Yer blade says fighter."
Warmed by the food and the simple act of compassion, Dunce swallowed the last bite. "Thank you, sir. You… you saved me. The Mage Enclave… Do you know where?"
The Bunman's eyes widened slightly in approval. "Mage Enclave! Now yer talkin' high ground! Yep, got one right here. Been lookin' for work, then?" He pointed down the bustling street. "Straight down this lane. Second right, then left at the end. Big building, usually quiet-like. Sticks out. Sharin' the road with the Merc Guild Hall." He rubbed his chin. "Tough to find work *there*, though. Yer better off tryin' one o' the Companies. Red Lions are recruitin' over there," he nodded towards the crowd near the large Guild Hall. "Decent pay. Steady work. Or…" he gave Dunce a once-over, "Need a strong back? Could use a hand here. Pay's honest, belly's full."
Dunce nodded firmly. "My path is set. Thank you, sir. For everything." The Mage Enclave wasn't just a job; it was Owen's last instruction, a lifeline.
Following the directions, Dunce soon stood before a grander avenue. It pulsed with the energy of armed men and women – the lifeblood of the Blood Skeleton Whirl. Up ahead loomed a formidable building topped by a large emblem: crossed swords before a shield, and the words **MERCENARY GUILD HALL** blazoned beneath it. It thrummed like a beehive.
Dunce paused, taking it in, the noise and energy a stark contrast to his solitary existence.
"Hey! You there! Young one!"
Dunce turned. A large man with spiky red hair stood before him, wearing practical hardened leathers and a sword at his hip. His badge depicted a fierce, crimson-maned lion's head. His build screamed fighter. He had approached moments ago while Dunce watched the Merc Hall.
"Lookin' to sign on? Seen yer steel," the man nodded at Dunce's sword. "Red Lion Company. Best outfit this side o' the delta. Sign-up bonus' a silver. Base pay three gold crowns a month! Good cuts on contract shares. Solid deal!" He puffed his chest out slightly.
The rapid-fire offer overwhelmed Dunce. He shook his head. "N-no. Not looking for company work."
Red Hair raised a skeptical eyebrow. "No? Kid, you landside? Half the blades here come dreamin' o' gold an' glory with a badge! Tandor't pass up good fortune."
Dunce stayed firm. "Path's chosen. Please, let me pass." He tried to step around.
Red Hair snorted. "Suit yerself. Playin' lone wolf." He turned back towards the bustling Merc Hall, muttering about wasted potential.
Dunce breathed a sigh of relief and continued towards the quieter section of the street. There it was – another imposing building, but with an aura of detached stillness despite the Merc Hall's buzz nearby. Symbols etched in the stone hinted at arcane energies. The **Mage Enclave**.
He was almost at the steps when the voice stopped him again.
"Hold up, kid." Dunce turned.
Red Hair was back. Beside him stood another man, taller, calmer. Clean-shaven, with sharp black eyes that assessed Dunce with unnerving clarity. Like Dunce, he carried a large **Astral Blade** slung across his back. There was a quiet authority about him.
"Kid, meet Tranquil. Deputy Soldier Captain, Red Lion Company," Red Hair announced with forced cheer. "See yer steel… fancy-like. Same as his. Thought there might be… a connection? Clan, maybe?"
Dunce tensed. Owen's warning flared: *Heavenly Sect. Show respect.* He bowed stiffly. "Sir."
The man, Tranquil, offered a small, composed smile. "Putting down roots? Who guided your blade? Tranquil. Seems we tread similar paths… perhaps the branch?" His voice was quiet but carried easily over the street noise.
*No names.* The warning was stark. Owen, Gorith… both names were dangerous now. Dunce shook his head, choosing his words carefully. "No formal clan, sir. Just… teachers."
Tranquil's eyes narrowed slightly, but the smile remained. An apprentice wandering the world? "And their names? Who forged your foundation?"
Dunce met his gaze, the practiced "simpleton" mask Owen had taught him settling over his features. "I… can't say, sir."