Zhao Yan lay half-submerged in the cool river, the water rippling gently around him as sunlight danced across its surface.
A deep sigh escaped his lips. "I missed this feeling," he murmured, his voice barely rising above the quiet flow.
For a moment, the world felt still—his body lighter, his mind clear.
A faint smile tugged at his lips, serenity washing over him like the current itself. But then, his brows knit together as a flicker of thought crossed his mind.
With a simple will, a translucent window shimmered into view before his eyes.
L****** (Zhao Yan)
Age: 16
Cultivation: Qi Condensation - 1st Layer (0/20) (+)
Techniques: Phantom Step Technique - Beginner (0/5) (+), Plum Sword Technique - Beginner (0/5) (+), Sword Breathing Technique - Origin, Heavenly Sword Strike - Not Initiated (+), Devil Blade - Beginner (0/1000) (+), Silent Wind Technique - Beginner (0/10) (+), Energy Extraction technique - Origin
Revulsion Points: 8850
Pity Points: 751
"System, why is my name section changed?" Zhao Yan asked, his tone filled with curiosity.
The river's gentle current carried his words away, but the system remained silent—cold, unresponsive, as always.
A faint crease formed between his brows.
He opened his status again, eyes narrowing as he noticed something off.
Nurturing Sword was gone. In its place stood a new entry—Devil Blade.
He stared at the crimson sword resting beside his damp robes, its surface glinting faintly under the light.
"The old man said the swords holds their master's memories, insights, and techniques…" he murmured, his voice fading as his gaze grew distant. After a moment, he stepped out of the river and pulled on his pants.
"Then… does that mean it carries the knowledge of its previous owner?" The thought lingered in his mind like a whisper he couldn't shake.
"So… how do I see the memories of this thing's past master?"
The instant the words left his lips, the sword pulsed—faintly at first, then a strange force tugged at his consciousness.
His vision blurred, the world tilting as an unseen force yanked him under.
The river rippled softly as Zhao Yan's body went limp, sinking slowly beneath the shimmering surface, his reflection swallowed by the current.
...
"Where… is this place?" Zhao Yan's voice trembled faintly as he opened his eyes.
Darkness surrounded him—vast and endless, pressing in on every side. For a moment, it felt like he was floating in a void, weightless, cut off from time itself.
Then, a faint light flickered ahead.
It grew slowly, piercing through the shadows until images began to form—faint at first, then vivid, moving like a film projected onto the dark screen.
From within the glow, a man appeared—his face blurred, his voice deep and almost nostalgic.
"You are the Devil Sword," the man said with a faint chuckle. "The name sounds good, doesn't it?"
The darkness shattered like glass, and Zhao Yan's eyes flew open as he broke the river's surface, gasping for air.
His chest rose and fell in ragged bursts, every breath scraping like fire through his lungs.
'What was that…?' His mind spun as he tried to hold onto the fragments of what he had just witnessed. But the moment he tried to recall, a dull ache spread in his chest—like someone had driven a blade straight into his heart.
The pain pulsed there still, stubborn and real.
"Hey, you!" The sharp voice cut through his haze, dragging him back to the present.
Zhao Yan blinked the water from his lashes and turned, spotting a woman standing at the edge of the river. Her robes clung to her like a second skin, soaked and heavy, her expression twisted in fury.
He pressed his lips together and asked in a low voice, "Was it you who dragged me out?"
Her glare sharpened like steel. "If not me, then who?" she snapped.
"If you're so eager to throw your life away, do it somewhere else!"
She took a step forward, her drenched clothes dripping onto the stones, her anger flaring with each word.
"The Sword Graves are sacred—the noblest ground in all of the Heavenly Sword Sect. And you dare to defile them by committing suicide?" Her voice cracked like a whip, full of righteous indignation.
Zhao Yan lowered his gaze, inspecting himself as the woman's furious words echoed in the background.
His clothes clung heavily to him—at least he still had his pants on. Not entirely naked, then. Small mercies.
He brushed a hand across his chest and winced. Faint red marks stood out against his skin, shaped unmistakably like a fist. So that was the pain he felt earlier—someone had struck him hard enough to nearly stop his heart.
His eyes flicked toward the woman still berating him from the riverbank, her voice sharp and righteous as she lectured him about the sacredness of the Sword Graves.
A faint, almost mocking smirk tugged at his lips. Sword Graves, huh?
Defiling them by committing suicide? He almost laughed at the absurdity of it. He, Zhao Yan—a prodigy who had reached Qi Condensation in a single month—being scolded like some worthless fool. The thought of snapping back at her burned on his tongue.
But he didn't. Not this time.
He remembered all too well what had happened the last time he'd let his pride speak for him. The humiliation, the cold stares, the way his so-called brilliance had been crushed without effort. So instead, he swallowed his pride and kept his expression neutral.
The woman might seem ordinary—young, no visible Qi—but Zhao Yan knew better. Even that old man in the thatched hut had no detectable Qi, yet Elder Gao himself had bowed before him.
No, appearances meant nothing here.
Only two kinds of people visited the Sword Graves: those who had reached the end of their path… and those tied to these blades by lineage or power. Either way, they were never ordinary. Certainly not poor.
And as he looked at her again, Zhao Yan realized—she belonged to the second kind.
As the woman spoke about the ancient history of the Sword Graves—how each blade held the will and memories of its fallen master—Zhao Yan suddenly dropped to his knees.
She blinked, surprised. His head was bowed, shoulders trembling. For a moment, she thought her words had truly moved him.
'So he realizes the gravity of what he did,' she thought.
Her voice softened. "There's no need to kneel."
"If you understand your mistake, that's enough."
But Zhao Yan lifted his tear-streaked face, his voice shaking with raw emotion.
"Senior… I wasn't disrespecting this place. I was trying to end my life..."
She froze.
"I have nothing!" he cried.
"No spirit stones, no cultivation pills—how am I supposed to survive in the sect without a single thing?"
Tears began pouring freely now. He clutched at his chest as if the pain was too much to bear.
"And after hearing you speak of how noble the Sword Graves are… I realized—you, Senior, must be even nobler."
He threw himself into a full kowtow, forehead pressed to the dirt.
"Please, I beg you! Give me a few spirit stones, just enough to get by!"
"I swear I won't try to kill myself again!"
His voice cracked. "There's still another year before I receive my stipend… what am I supposed to do until then?"
"Senior!" he wailed, face soaked with tears. "Spare me a little money!"
He raised both hands in a begging posture, his expression that of utter desperation.
For a long second, the woman just stood there. The pity she had once felt returned… briefly.
But as she looked at the grown man groveling on sacred ground, her sympathy turned cold.
With a look of disgust, she tossed a small stone at his feet.
"Take it—and go," she snapped.
"Don't defile this sacred place with your pitiful presence."
Zhao Yan didn't even hesitate as he snatched up the stone, tucked it into his robe, and wiped his tears with practiced ease.
"Thank you, Senior!" he sobbed, bowing low one last time before turning to run.
The woman watched him disappear down the slope, still shaking her head in disbelief.
She had no idea that Zhao Yan's tear-stained face had already turned into one of pure mischief—his lips twitching as he fought back laughter.
Behind that tragic mask was the grin of a swindler who had just played his part to perfection.
....