The first thing he felt was cold.
Not the burning heat of fire or the sting of steel, but the biting cold of stone beneath his back. Slowly, painfully, Li Shen opened his eyes. Darkness pressed in from all sides. A flicker of torchlight came from a crack in the wall above.
His chest ached with every breath. His ribs stabbed him from the inside. His arms refused to move. He coughed, and blood filled his mouth, warm and sticky.
For a moment, he thought he had died.
But death would have been kinder.
His father's final roar echoed in his ears. The masked man's words cut deeper than any blade. His clan's cries still rang in the silence.
The Ironblade Clan was gone.
Li Shen tried to sit up. Pain tore through his body, but he forced himself upright, leaning against the wall. His right hand, the one that had held his sword, hung limp and twisted at his side. When he tried to clench it, nothing happened.
"No…" His voice cracked, barely more than a whisper. He tried again, willing his fingers to move. They stayed stiff and lifeless.
A cripple.
The word burned in his mind like fire. For a cultivator, to lose the strength to wield a blade was worse than death.
He slammed his left fist into the stone floor, over and over until his skin split. Tears he didn't want fell down his cheeks. "Why… why didn't I die with them?"
His eyes fell to the ground beside him. A shard of steel glinted faintly in the dim light.
It was the broken fragment of his sword.
The weapon his father had given him when he was ten. The weapon that had shattered under the masked man's strike. The weapon that had failed him when he needed it most.
His chest tightened. His trembling hand reached out, closing around the shard. Its edge cut into his palm, drawing blood, but he didn't let go.
"They took everything," he whispered. His voice was hoarse, raw. "They killed everyone. And they left me to crawl in the dirt."
Images flooded his mind: his father's body collapsing, the clan warriors falling one by one, the fires that consumed everything he knew.
Hatred rose inside him, dark and suffocating.
"If the heavens won't give me justice… then I'll take it myself."
The shard pulsed faintly in his hand. It was his imagination, it had to be. But he swore he felt a strange heat seep into his skin, a faint vibration like the echo of a heartbeat.
He closed his eyes, clutching it tighter, ignoring the blood that dripped from his palm. "I swear on what's left of my blade… I'll destroy them. The Seven Peaks Sect. That masked devil. Every last one of them."
The vow settled in his chest like iron.
But when he tried to rise, his body betrayed him. His right arm dangled uselessly. His legs shook under his weight. He collapsed back against the wall, panting.
A cripple.
The world outside would laugh at him. Sect disciples would sneer. Even beggars would spit on him. How could a broken boy like him even dream of vengeance?
But Li Shen's eyes hardened. He had lost everything. He had nothing left to fear.
"Even if I have to crawl, I'll climb back up."
Hours passed. Or maybe days. Time lost meaning in that dark hole. His wounds festered, his body screamed with hunger, his throat burned with thirst. Several times, he thought he would die. Each time, he clutched the shard and held on.
Then, when the darkness nearly swallowed him completely, a sound stirred.
Drip.
Water.
He dragged himself across the stone, each movement tearing his skin. His broken hand dragged uselessly, but his left hand clutched the shard like his life depended on it.
At last, he found it—a thin crack in the wall, where cold water seeped through. He pressed his lips to it, drinking greedily. The water was bitter and metallic, but it kept him alive.
With each drop, he whispered the same words. "I will rise. I will destroy them all."
On the third night, fever took him. He tossed and turned, shivering, sweat soaking his torn robes. His hand, still clenched around the shard, burned like fire.
He dreamed of a vast sea of blades, endless and shining. In the middle of it, a broken sword floated, cracked but unyielding. From its jagged edges spilled rivers of blood.
A voice whispered through the dream, low and ancient.
"Broken… yet unbroken. Shattered… yet sharp. Do you wish to wield me?"
Li Shen's lips parted. "Yes."
"Then bleed."
Pain ripped through his hand. He gasped and opened his eyes. His palm was cut to the bone, the shard buried deep in his flesh. Blood dripped onto the stone, but instead of weakening, he felt something stir inside him.
A thread of warmth entered his veins. His breath quickened. His dantian, which had felt hollow since the battle, pulsed faintly.
Cultivation energy.
It was impossible. He had lost everything. His meridians were shattered. His right arm was dead. He was crippled.
And yet, the shard pulsed again. Energy, faint but real, spread through him.
Li Shen's eyes widened. For the first time since that night, hope flickered.
Maybe the heavens hadn't abandoned him after all.
Maybe his broken blade wasn't truly broken.
He clenched his teeth, forcing himself upright despite the agony. His body screamed, but his spirit surged. He pressed the shard to his chest, feeling its jagged edge cut deep, marking him.
"I will not die here," he growled. His voice was low, rough, filled with steel. "I will not remain trash. I will rise from this pit. I will rise… and I will destroy them all."
The words echoed in the empty chamber, sharp and unyielding.
That night, under the silent gaze of the shattered moonlight, the crippled boy named Li Shen took his first step onto a path drenched in blood and vengeance.
The path of the Broken Blade.