Darkness… An endless void filled the entire Sword World.
It stretched endlessly, suffocating and absolute. The weight of it pressed against Dao Wei's chest like an iron vice, each breath shallow, each heartbeat sluggish. Pain lanced through his body, deeper than flesh, carving through bone and spirit alike. His limbs felt foreign, his muscles numb from exhaustion, yet each pulse of agony reminded him—he was still alive. Barely.
The cold embrace of the steel beneath him sent a shiver down his spine. It was rough, jagged, and soaked with his blood. His fingers twitched against the shattered remains of his last stand—broken weapons, fractured stone, remnants of the very foundation he had thought unshakable. His Dragon Saber, lay in his grasp, its once-radiant blade dull, its power waning like a dying ember.
For the first time in almost forever, Dao Wei knew defeat.
His vision blurred, but through the haze, he could still see the floating islands of this cursed place. The Sacred Sword Sanctum—his final challenge, the ultimate trial that should have cemented his legend. He had fought through the Tower, crushed foes who once stood as titans, ascended to the throne, and claimed his title as Sword Sovereign. And yet, here… he was nothing.
The swords would not accept him.
They did not obey him.
He could feel them—dozens, no, hundreds of divine blades surrounding him, their silent judgment weighing heavier than the injuries he bore. Their presence was overwhelming, like celestial sentinels watching from the abyss, their will unified in a single, unyielding rejection.
"Unworthy."
The unspoken word reverberated through his soul, a verdict colder than steel. It made no sense. Had he not proven himself? Had he not walked the path of the sword with unwavering resolve? And yet, the very essence of the sword rejected him as if he were nothing more than a misguided fool wielding borrowed power.
His grip on the Saber tightened, but the weapon did not respond.
He let out a ragged breath, his throat dry, his voice a mere whisper beneath the crushing silence.
"I was wrong…" The words escaped before he could stop them, a confession torn from his soul. "I thought… I thought I had reached the peak. That I knew it all." His gaze flickered toward the swords, the reflection of his bloodied face staring back at him from its lifeless surface. "But what am I? Just a man who swings a sword?"
No answer came.
Only silence.
It was absolute, stretching endlessly through the darkness, thick and suffocating.
And then—A voice.
Soft. Ancient. Yet carrying a weight beyond comprehension.
"Do you seek to wield the sword… or to become the sword?"
Dao Wei's breath hitched.
A presence stirred before him, forming out of the void like mist drawn into shape. A figure, translucent and ethereal, its body shifting as if composed of drifting smoke and fading memories. Yet, despite its ghostly nature, its presence was undeniable—immense, like the vast heavens pressing down upon him.
The Ancient Sword Spirit.
A remnant will left behind by the Sword God himself.
Dao Wei's fingers curled into a trembling fist. His body screamed in protest, yet his mind spun faster.
What kind of question was this?
What did it mean to wield the sword? What did it mean to become it?
Had he not spent his entire life perfecting his swordsmanship? Had he not forged his path through blood, steel, and sacrifice? Every battle, every technique, every hard-fought victory—it had all been in pursuit of mastery, of ultimate strength.
To wield the sword is power. To hold it, to command it, to master its every motion—that was the foundation of his entire life. He had fought, trained, and bled for the ability to wield his blade with absolute dominion. But if that wasn't enough—if the swords themselves denied him—then… what was he missing?
To become the sword is…
Dao Wei's breath came in uneven gasps as he stared at the Ancient Sword Spirit, his thoughts unraveling like a frayed thread.
For the first time, he was forced to wonder—Had he been walking the wrong path all along?
And more importantly—was he even ready to find out?
The Ancient Sword Spirit remained still, waiting. Its presence was patient, unmoving—like a sentinel guarding a threshold that only he could step through.
Dao Wei's grip tightened around the saber's hilt, but for the first time in his life… the blade felt foreign in his grasp.
The road ahead was uncertain. But deep down, he knew—there was no turning back.
He met the Spirit's gaze, or at least, where its gaze should have been. And in that moment, without hesitation, he made his choice.
"Pointless," he whispered.
Ting!
Dao Wei suddenly understood. The rejection, the silence, the crushing weight of failure—it had never been about his strength or skill. He had been trying to control the Sword World, to bend it to his will. But a true Sovereign does not command by force. A true Sovereign does not impose dominance.
A true Sovereign becomes one with the world itself.
His grip loosened, and his breathing slowed. A calmness settled over him, like the hush before a great storm.
He knew his answer.
He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as clarity dawned.
"I am the sword."
RUMBLE!
The instant those words left his lips, the world responded.
A deafening roar erupted from the heavens. The celestial swords that once hovered in silent judgment trembled, their edges humming with an unspoken resonance. The flowing rivers of sword energy that had once rejected him surged like tidal waves, rushing toward him in a violent embrace. The air itself became an extension of the unseen force, pressing against him from all directions.
Then—his body tore apart.
"AGHHH!"
A pain unlike anything he had ever endured ripped through him, a sensation beyond flesh, beyond mortality. His bones shattered into dust. His veins unraveled, turning into streaks of golden light. His very soul cracked and splintered, scattering into the endless void.
He was being dismantled.
Not just his body—but his existence.
Each fragment of himself was stripped down, broken into its purest essence, as if the Sword World sought to unmake him entirely.
The wind howled, but within it, voices began to whisper.
A presence stirred in the storm—a consciousness vast and boundless, speaking in a language older than time itself. The very fabric of the world seemed to tremble as the voices called out:
"Would you surrender to fear… or will you trust the path of the One?"
The air around him shifted.
The whispering winds sharpened into a cosmic storm—a sentient force, alive with the echoes of countless swordsmen who had walked this path before him. The storm churned with visions of past and future, flickering like fragments of a shattered mirror. Blades forged in ancient fires. Wars fought over forgotten ideals. A single sword, standing against eternity.
Dao Wei's breath came in ragged gasps. The sheer force of the storm threatened to erase him completely, to consume him like a fleeting ember in an endless abyss. He could feel himself fading, his mind unraveling—But then, a memory surfaced.
A voice. A presence.
The Old Man.
In the depths of his mind, he saw the aged figure once more, standing beneath the shade of an ancient tree, the sound of a lone wind chime dancing in the breeze.
"Do you fear the storm, boy?" the Old Man had asked during their training.
Dao Wei, young and filled with arrogance scoffed. "A storm is just wind and rain. Why should I fear it?"
The Old Man's chuckle had been quiet, but knowing. "Then tell me… when the storm comes, do you fight against it? Or do you move with it?"
Dao Wei hadn't understood then.
But now, as his very existence teetered on the edge of oblivion, the lesson became clear.
The Laws of One.
One is not separate from the storm.
One is the storm.
His body continued breaking. He was dying.
But he did not resist.
Instead, he let go. He stopped fighting the storm and became part of it.
He let its current move through him, allowed its power to reshape him, to guide him. His form unraveled completely, dissolving into countless motes of sword light, merging into the very fabric of the Sword World.
The storm, once a raging force of destruction, ceased to be an obstacle—It became a guide.
He was no longer merely Dao Wei.
He was no longer just a man wielding a sword.
He was the sword.
And for the first time…
The Sword World welcomed him.