The forest deepened as Kairon walked further, the light thinning into threads of silver moonlight that barely reached the ground. Each step he took sank into the soil, soft and damp, as if the earth itself resisted his journey.
He paused when the wind shifted—carrying with it the faint sound of steel meeting steel. Not in battle, but in a rhythm. A ritual.
Following the sound, he came upon a clearing. Dozens of swords were planted in the ground, their hilts swaying as though whispering to one another. The blades were not rusted, nor were they shining. They seemed asleep. A shrine of forgotten warriors.
At the center stood an old swordsman, his hair a cascade of white, eyes hidden beneath the shadow of his brows. His hands held no weapon, but the air around him trembled as if a hundred invisible blades danced at his command.
Kairon remained still. Watching.
The old man finally spoke, his voice rasping like steel being drawn from a sheath.
"Another wanderer walks the Ashen Dao. Tell me, boy… do you seek to master the sword, or be devoured by it?"
Kairon's hand instinctively moved to the hilt at his side, but he did not draw. His silence was his answer.
The old man smirked faintly.
"Good. Those who answer quickly are already dead. The sword does not serve the impatient."
As the words left his mouth, the planted blades began to tremble violently. One by one, they pulled themselves from the ground, floating into the air. The clearing filled with the hiss of steel as the swords circled Kairon like predators around prey.
The test had begun.
Kairon steadied his breath, eyes tracking the silver arcs around him. He could feel each blade's intent, each one carrying the weight of the warriors who had fallen before.
When the first blade lunged, he moved—not with desperation, but with the flow of the Dao he barely understood yet. His sword met the phantom steel, sparks scattering like stars across the night.
And then the whispers began. Voices from the blades.
"Slay."
"Submit."
"Fall."
Every strike brought another whisper, each one clawing at his mind. The Ashen Dao was not merely a path of strength—it was a graveyard of wills, testing whether the living could resist the voices of the dead.
Kairon's body ached, his arms heavy, yet his resolve did not falter. With every parry, he whispered back—not to the blades, but to himself.
"I will not break."
The old swordsman watched, the faintest hint of respect glimmering in his shadowed gaze.
When the last blade finally clattered to the ground, silence returned to the clearing. Kairon stood alone, chest heaving, his knuckles white around his sword hilt.
The old man stepped forward.
"You carry the Ashen Dao within you," he said quietly. "But remember this—every step will demand a price. The sword remembers. And so will you."
Kairon lowered his blade, but in his heart he knew: the voices would never leave him. They would follow him, whispering, until the end of his path.