The town awakened with a chaotic, vibrant energy that stood in stark contrast to the cold, silent isolation of the Ye Clan's back mountain. As the morning sun began to burn through the lingering fog, the main thoroughfare transformed into a sea of movement. Street vendors cried out their prices, the steam from fresh buns rose in thick clouds, and the rhythmic clatter of horse-drawn carts echoed off the stone walls.
Ye Qian walked along the edge of the crowd, his hood pulled low to conceal his face. He moved with a subtle grace—a byproduct of his reaching the Fourth Stage of Body Tempering. He could feel the eyes of some passersby lingering on him, but he ignored them. His mind was focused on a singular goal.
In his pocket, he clutched a small pouch of copper coins. It was a pathetic amount, saved through years of silent suffering and menial labor. He knew that the grand armories—the ones with shimmering banners and guards in polished armor—were not for him. Their swords were forged for the sons of nobles, adorned with useless jade and priced in gold. Ye Qian didn't need a status symbol; he needed a soul for his strength.
He veered away from the main road, entering the narrower, dustier alleyways where the second-hand dealers and scrap-metal merchants set up their stalls. Here, the air smelled of charcoal and old iron.
As he passed a particularly rundown stall, where weapons were piled in disorganized heaps like skeletal remains, Ye Qian's heart suddenly skipped a beat. A strange, electric tingle vibrated in the center of his palm. It was a faint, nearly silent resonance, like a distant bell ringing in his blood.
He stopped. His eyes scanned the pile of bent spears, notched axes, and cracked wooden hilts. At the very bottom, buried under a rusted shield, he saw it.
It was a Tang Blade—a straight-edged sabre, a weapon of elegance and brutal efficiency.
Ye Qian felt an invisible pull, a magnetic attraction that guided his hand toward the hilt. When his fingers wrapped around the grip, the resonance in his body exploded. It wasn't the warmth of a holy relic; it was a cold, sharp, and unyielding sensation. He pulled the blade from the heap.
The weapon was in a state of absolute neglect. The scabbard was chipped and grey, held together by frayed cords. The blade itself was choked with layers of thick, reddish rust, making it look more like a piece of salvaged scrap than a weapon of war. To any other cultivator, this was trash—completely beneath their dignity.
But Ye Qian saw past the surface. He saw the balance of the spine, the sturdy construction of the hilt, and the way the weight seemed to vanish the moment he held it. Most importantly, he felt a shared spirit. This blade, like him, had been discarded and looked down upon. It was waiting for someone who didn't care about its outward appearance.
"How much?" Ye Qian asked, his voice low and devoid of emotion.
The stall owner, a man with a face like crumpled parchment, glanced at the rusted hunk of metal and snorted. "That? It's been sitting there for three years. It's more rust than steel at this point. Give me twelve copper coins and take it out of my sight."
Ye Qian didn't bargain. He handed over nearly all his remaining money. As he wrapped the blade in a piece of rough burlap, a profound sense of peace settled over him. For the first time in his life, he didn't feel like he was fighting alone. He had found his partner.
Returning to the dim light of his cramped shack, Ye Qian felt a surge of excitement he hadn't experienced since his mother passed away. He laid the burlap on the floor and drew the blade fully.
In the shadows, the rust looked like dried blood. The edge was blunt, almost rounded in some places, but as he stood in the center of the room and took a basic stance, the blade felt like an extension of his own skeleton.
"If I can combine the explosive force of my Fourth Stage Body Tempering with the reach of this steel," Ye Qian whispered, "I will no longer be a victim."
He began to practice. He started with the most fundamental movements: the draw, the vertical slash, and the horizontal parry. Whish! Whish! The sound of the blade cutting through the air was heavy and resonant. He focused on the transition of power from his heels, through his core, and into the tip of the blade.
Despite his lack of formal training, his movements were naturally sharp. Every swing carried the weight of his years of repressed anger. He practiced until his tunic was soaked in sweat and his muscles burned with a familiar, satisfying ache.
Suddenly, the door creaked open. The old steward stepped inside, his presence as quiet as a ghost. He stood in the doorway, his eyes immediately falling upon the rusted Tang blade in Ye Qian's hand. His brow furrowed into deep, troubled lines. There was no praise in his expression—only a heavy, lingering worry.
"Young Master... so, this is the choice you have made?" the steward asked. His voice was soft, filled with a bittersweet pity.
Ye Qian stopped his practice, his chest heaving as he regained his breath. He looked at the steward, then back at the blade. "It was the only one that spoke to me."
The steward sighed, walking closer to inspect the weapon. He didn't mock the rust. He knew that for someone in Ye Qian's position, even a piece of scrap was a miracle. He nodded slowly, then reached into the folds of his grey robe to produce a weathered, yellowed scroll.
"If you truly intend to walk this path," the steward said, his voice turning solemn, "then do not waste your time with aimless swinging. This is the Ye Clan's Basic Blade Scripture. It is the foundation given to every outer disciple. It is not a divine technique, but it is practical. It will teach you how to align your breath with your strike, and how to maintain your balance when your life is on the line."
Ye Qian set the Tang blade down and accepted the scroll with both hands, bowing slightly. "Thank you, Steward. I will not let it go to waste."
"Be careful, Young Master," the steward warned, his eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight. "Power without technique is merely a desperate struggle. If your blade-work is not stable, your strength will become your own enemy. Master the basics until they are as natural as breathing. Only then will you have a chance to survive the storms coming for you."
Ye Qian watched the steward leave, his mind already racing. He knew the old man was right. The clan would not allow a 'trash' illegitimate son to grow in power forever. Eventually, they would notice. Eventually, they would try to crush him.
As the night deepened and the wind began to howl through the cracks in the walls, Ye Qian sat cross-legged on the floor. He placed the rusted Tang blade across his knees and opened the scroll.
Under the dim light of a single candle, he began to study. He could feel the Fourth Stage energy humming in his veins, eager to be channeled. The combination of his reforged body and this discarded blade was the start of something new. He wasn't just a boy in a shack anymore; he was a warrior in training.
The journey ahead was long and filled with blood, but as he closed his eyes to meditate, Ye Qian felt the cold steel of the blade against his skin. It was a reminder that he was no longer powerless. The era of the outcast had begun.