> "If you want to live, grip it tightly."
—A whisper from nowhere
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[1] Black Mist and Wasteland
The night hung like an iron slab crushing down, and the wasteland lay silent beneath it.
The wind carried fine sand and bone dust, stinging the skin like needles. In the distance, a broken mountain stood as though cleaved by a giant axe; black mist seeped from its fissure, dragging a damp, fishy stench along with it.
Lin Yuan knelt on one knee, blood from his left shoulder running down through the tear in his armor, soaking half his sleeve black. Twenty paces ahead, a massive beast clad in black bone armor crouched low, approaching. Its vertical pupils were like two cold red nails, nailing him in place.
There was no retreat: behind him was a collapsed gorge; ahead, a Bone-Cracking Beast.
His hand brushed against something cold and metallic on the ground. In that instant, his fingertip felt as though it had touched some lurking creature at the bottom of a lake—faint, rhythmic vibrations seeped from the hilt into his palm, like… a heartbeat.
It was a rusted, broken sword. The tip was chipped, the blade scarred with dark patterns, as though scorched by fire and corroded by the deep sea.
To find such a piece of junk at the edge of death almost made him laugh—except his throat was dry, tasting only of rust.
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[2] Hunter and Prey
The Bone-Cracking Beast lifted a foreclaw, the scrape of bone plates producing a low rasp, like a creditor's demand. Lin Yuan gripped the broken sword in both hands—it was unexpectedly heavy, heavy like gripping a gravestone.
The wind seemed to be sucked away.
Just as he was about to leap, a thin glimmer of light flickered deep within the ancient carvings of the blade.
—Grip it tightly.
The voice was low and hoarse, like an old man crawling out of blood, whispering against his earbone.
There was no time to tell illusion from reality. The beast lunged, its shadow swallowing him, a wave of hot, bloody stench slamming into his face, laced with the acrid tang of rotting flesh.
Bang!
Iron met bone; the impact almost snapped his wrists.
At the same moment, the rusted sword let out a brief, low hum—so quiet only he could hear it.
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[3] The Blade That Drinks Blood
The hilt suddenly warmed.
But the warmth wasn't comfort—it was theft. Blood from his split tiger's mouth seeped into the ancient patterns, and he suddenly felt as though his very soul was being drained—not just his blood, but even his breath and heartbeat were being taken away, made lighter, emptier.
Lin Yuan clenched his teeth and held on. He had never been one naturally attuned to weapon laws—no blade intent, no spear spirit, let alone the tide of sword dao—
Yet the broken sword in his hands seemed to acknowledge him in its own way.
He slipped in close, shoulder and back scraping along the beast's armored belly, swinging the broken sword upward in a precise, restrained arc, sliding perfectly into the gap between bone plates.
Crack!
Bone and metal shattered together. The beast froze mid-air for an instant, and the light in its vertical pupils went out like a candle flame snuffed by a pinch.
The corpse crashed to the ground, sending up a ring of bone dust and black ash.
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[4] The First Drop of Price
Everything went still.
Lin Yuan remained in his strike stance, the broken sword trembling faintly in his grip, as if breathing.
He looked down—the beast's blood did not drip from the blade; instead, it was slowly drunk by the ancient patterns, the red drawn into bottomless seams, vanishing completely.
Instinctively, he tried to release it, only to find his fingers frozen—stuck to the hilt. A few breaths later, the cold receded—yet with it, the feeling in his palm ebbed away, inch by inch from center to fingertips, numbing as it went.
He frowned and shook his hand. His palm was pale, as though burned by invisible frost.
"What are you?" he muttered.
The sword's faint glow faded, as if nothing had happened.
In the distance, more crimson points lit up in the mist. He knew the noise had drawn others.
He slung the sword onto his back.
The moment he did, a prickling sense of being watched crept up his spine—not from the wasteland, but from the sword itself; as though, behind him, not a strip of iron but a sleeping creature waited to open its eyes.
---
[5] Return to Town
Tidehaven Town's fences were patched together from salvaged battlefield armor—short but sturdy. Lin Yuan returned to the gate just as the horizon paled with a bloodless grey.
The gate guard, an old soldier, frowned at the sight of him covered in blood. "Went near the rift again? Lucky you're still breathing."
His gaze fell on the broken sword—insignificant in daylight, yet the old man's eyelid twitched. "Where'd you pick that up?"
"Gorge mouth," Lin Yuan said.
"Throw it away," the old soldier's voice lowered. "Things that drift out of the rift rarely serve their wielder."
Lin Yuan smiled faintly, offering no explanation. Beneath his sleeve, his sword hand curled slightly—the numbness still lingered.
Inside the town, the streets were narrow, rooftops pressing low, held up by tired beams. The vendors hadn't set up yet; only the forges of a few weapon smithies exhaled heat.
He ducked into an empty alley and opened his palm: his lines were so faint they looked erased. Touching the wall felt muted for a moment, as though through thin cloth, before sensation washed back in like a receding tide.
"Hold it too long, and you lose feeling?" he murmured.
At that moment, the sword on his back gave the faintest "twitch"—as if it understood, or was impatient.
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[6] The Law of Weapons
Tidehaven had a "Weapon Ledger Wall," carved with the names of those attuned to weapon laws: Blade Dao · Chen Duo, Spear Dao · Wei Heng, Bow Dao · Chu Qing… beneath each name were tallies of hunts and defenses.
Only the "Sword" column had seen no new name for many years.
Because sword dao's source tide was too obsessive, too difficult.
Most people chose blade or spear—easier to master, easier to earn from, less trouble.
More importantly, the path of the sword was banned—because the last person to step into the sword domain, a century ago, had severed three rivers outside the city in a single night, drying them for seven days straight.
Lin Yuan stared at the wall for a long time. A chill seeped from the cracks, carrying the tang of metal. The broken sword on his back seemed asleep, its heartbeat-like tremor gone, leaving only the weight of iron.
He lifted his hand, closing and opening his grip again. Sensation was delayed by half a beat.
He noted it in his mind: The longer I hold it, the worse the numbness. This wasn't an injury—it was a price.
"You don't come cheap," he told the sword silently.
No reply.
---
[7] The Job Board
By afternoon, the southern guild posted new contracts:
Clear a nest of "Shadow Ticks" in West Ravine Road;
Escort an apothecary to the east side of Broken Mountain to gather "Ashheart Grass";
Night patrol beyond the walls, double pay.
Lin Yuan took the escort job. He needed coin—for armor repairs, for blood-staunching herbs, for his next meal.
As he picked up the slip, the clerk behind the counter eyed his sword. "That thing work?"
"Split open a Bone-Cracking Beast," Lin Yuan said.
The clerk blinked, then smirked in disbelief. "You must've caught it half-dead."
He tossed a wooden tag over. "Dawn, south gate."
Lin Yuan caught it, and the sword on his back gave another small "twitch," as if interested in the idea of "cutting grass." A ridiculous thought crossed his mind: it was hungry.
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[8] Night
Nights in Tidehaven were short, because the black mist favored the dark.
In his narrow room, Lin Yuan washed off the blood, sat on his bed, and laid the sword across his knees. He wanted a closer look at those ancient patterns—fine vine-like lines etched into the iron, weaving into an unreadable order.
He lifted the lamp. Firelight touched the blade, only to be swallowed, leaving the faintest reflection deep in the grooves.
"Where did you come from?" he whispered.
The lamp crackled, and the window lattice behind him tapped twice in the night wind. No answer.
He set his palm on the hilt, waiting for that heartbeat-like tremor.
One breath, two—nothing.
On the third, something far away, deep and slow, thudded once—like another chest knocking from beneath black water.
Exhaling, he moved to set the sword down.
Just as his fingertips left the hilt, a cold light stabbed out from the grooves—like a fine needle piercing the nerves of his palm.
He grunted, almost losing his grip. For an instant, all sensation was reset—he couldn't even tell if he held iron or air.
—Do not let go.
It wasn't a voice, but a pressure in his mind—barren, hungry, forcing its way in.
Lin Yuan's eyes chilled slightly. "You teaching me?"
The pressure didn't retreat.
He tightened his grip, meeting it head-on. The pressure slowly ebbed, as if conceding; at the same time, a dull cold ache crept up his forearm, slow as icewater poured into bone.
"Got it," he murmured. "Hold you, pay a price. Let go, pay with my life. Let's see if we can feed each other."
The sword stilled.
Outside, the wind seemed to come from somewhere far beyond sight, carrying the scent of river tides. Tidehaven slept; the black mist beyond its walls woke.
---
[9] Before Dawn
When dawn broke faintly, he woke to his right forearm cold and numb, as if wrapped in thin ice. Reaching for the water skin at his bedside, his fingers hesitated a moment before feeling wet and cool.
He slung the sword onto his back and stepped outside. Low morning fog spilled into the street; beyond the south gate, a dozen people had gathered, the apothecary's chests neatly stacked, escorts idly checking their weapons.
Someone saw the broken sword on his back and laughed. "Who still uses an iron stick these days?"
"Killed a Bone-Cracking Beast with it," someone else answered vaguely, as if telling a joke.
The laughter grew louder.
Lin Yuan didn't turn. He stood at the back of the group, loosening and tightening his grip—the half-beat delay in sensation returned, and he swallowed it down, adapting.
He set himself a rule:
First, never hold it in idle moments;
Second, in battle, never hesitate to grip it;
Third, every time he holds it, it must get something to eat.
"Escort squad, move out!" The veteran at the front raised a hand.
The team started forward. The south gate's rivets were dull in the morning light; outside, the wind smelled of grass.
The sword on his back was silent, unmoving—but Lin Yuan knew it wasn't asleep. It was watching.
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[10] The Hook
As they crossed the first stretch of reeds, the distant broken mountain loomed in the mist like a shattered blade thrust into the sky. People murmured about a new "Weapon Law" notice: the city was recruiting Blade Dao youths to build defenses on the north shore—triple pay.
"If only you had weapon law resonance," a young man beside him said wistfully.
Lin Yuan just smiled. "I don't."
He didn't say: I have a sword with a heavy price.
And that sword, in his unspoken silence, grew heavier—imperceptibly, like a hook, slowly dragging him toward some fate.
The mist thickened. The wind grew colder.
The road ahead stretched into the pale white, leading to where no one had ever gone.
—And the true cost had only just begun.