Destiny in Cinders

"Don't stop. Let intent be your sword, directing the flow of qi and aura."

An Jing was a little breathless following his powerful sword strike.

Observing with satisfaction, the sword soul promptly offered guidance and said, "You consumed a massive amount of fey flesh, and that accumulation led you straight to the River Aura Stage upon breaking through, which is exactly why the backlash is so strong! Guide the flow back to your dantian."

Drawing a deep breath, An Jing unleashed another powerful slash. A wave of heat coursed through his being with the relentless force of a rushing river. This rich, untamed breath of energy was undeniably his own innate qi. In his chest, his heart erupted with a rhythm louder than ever, like the percussive crash of the thunder god’s drumming.

In an instant, the warm current transformed entirely into aura that he could control. Yet, in the aftermath of that sword strike, An Jing was drained of the mental focus to command it. His aura suddenly spiraled out of control, threatening to dissipate into various parts of his body.

Fortunately, he had the sword soul to guide him. As An Jing breathed deeply, large beads of sweat carrying a peculiar fragrance began to roll down his arms and chest. The raw medicinal properties that had accumulated in his system from long-term consumption of fey flesh and herbal brews numbed his senses and subtly altered his body and mind.

But he was now free of its influence. An Jing felt as if he had swallowed molten lava. A searing current, sharp as a sword, blazed a trail through his body. Wherever it burned, intense sweat poured from his skin, forcibly purging his system of the harmful medicinal effects. This was An Jing's innate qi, or aura.

Much like trying to consciously manipulate one's own digestive system or internal functions, the fiery sensation was almost impossible to control. He struggled to guide its path. However, martialists could direct the flow of aura to strengthen specific parts of the body through sword practice. The process was swift and highly rewarding. Through repeated cycles of depletion and activation, feeding and tempering, he could grow a stronger aura and perfect his control over it.

Hence, the phrase "the poor study literature, while the rich train in martial arts." Daily aura cultivation depleted vast strength and vigor, which could only be replenished with copious amounts of food and herbs.

Major sects possessed unique contemplation techniques, enabling them to direct the flow of aura via visualization, effectively expanding it while using minimal vigor. Sword of Tranquility was one such contemplation technique. The visualization served as a guide.

As the rust was polished away, the overwhelming aura became more manageable and refined. Continued practice would strengthen both An Jing's aura and soul. It truly was the "basis of everything" as the sword soul said.

"It's time to leave."

With his aura calmed, he drew it all inward to his dantian, then sent it flowing along the heavenly cycle before pooling it in his dantian again. Though his eyes shone with intensity, An Jing slowly reined it in and retracted the sword qi into his body.

While the lethal-qi sword’s origins were a mystery, it felt natural in his grasp. The drawback was its significant drain on his vigor and stamina. But he could voice his questions later. Assuming the time in both worlds were synchronized, it was nearly dawn, and he had to get back to his dormitory right away.

Despite everything, An Jing didn't forget what was important. He first contemplated using Sword of Tranquility to calm and disguise his aura, and Yvelbane laid the finishing touches for the concealment.

He put away the two large-caliber guns, the spirit-beam handgun and some ammunition he had collected before summoning the rusted sword. With the sword soul's guidance, he cut open a spatial rift, allowing him to return to Void Embrace.

Shortly after An Jing left the ruins, a faint rustling broke the silence as countless slithering shadows gathered, coalescing into a dark shape that drifted to his former position. It paused at the mark An Jing made with his sword slash, studying it for a long time, and after a nervous glance around, silently withdrew into the shadows once more.

Back at Direlife Manor, the torrential rain persisted and lights flickered in the gloom. The patrolling instructors were nowhere to be seen. An Jing slipped out of the hidden room, concealing his breath as he dashed towards the main building. Taking advantage of the downpour, he washed away the herbal residue from his body.

An Jing paused briefly by the "water vats" before heading back with unwavering resolve. He wouldn't forget.

Within the dormitory, the others were sleeping soundly. Since An Jing was in charge, the usual patrols were absent, and he wasn't subjected to the manor lord's intense scrutiny. As long as he avoided detection and showed up to lead training on schedule the following day, that was considered a job well done; how An Jing managed to slip past the instructors was irrelevant to the manor lord.

He wrung his clothes dry, swapped back into his original attire, and tucked the firearms away. As sleep claimed him, An Jing drifted into the quiet void of dreams and came face to face with a sword.

Forged in an ancient style, the sword’s mysterious hilt gave way to a blade with the icy, translucent gleam of a moonlit spring. The near-transparent silver blade spanning three fingers in width and four chi in length shimmered with unbroken azure cloud motifs. Tempered by pure killing intent, the blade radiated a piercing chill that words could not capture.

Even in the sweltering heights of midsummer, looking upon its edge was enough to transport one to the desolate chill of the far north. In the palm, the sword appeared delicate and ghostly, deceptively fragile for all its power.

Finely sculpted jade-like fingers gripped the hilt. Up above, a lone figure witnessed the decay of a fallen world. On the ground, towering ruins stacked high amid burning cities. Countless cities in the sky plummeted, celestial havens suspended like stars.

Thousands of nations collided in an endless storm of war. Blood surged like a tide over the mountain peaks, and the plains were bleached white by a sea of unburied bone. In the capital perched upon the Heavenly Pillar, the decadent sovereign dwelt in splendor as throngs of servants and slaves lay prostrate in the dust below.

Within the opulent garden, men and women entwined like writhing maggots. The metallic tang of blood drifted through the debauchery and lavish feasts, as black smoke from fiery pillars billowed upward to heaven's canopy.

Above the Heavenly Pillar, aerial cities, and celestial grotto-havens, numerous eyes observed the chaotic world below, devoid of apathy, schadenfreude, compassion, and malice alike. They only watched, waiting for a seed to sprout from the endless slaughter and the depths of human desire, to rise and become one of their own.

But the anticipated demonic seed, forged in the fires of endless agony and revelation, never appeared. What awaited them instead was a sword. What began as a tiny glimmer in the apex of the sky expanded rapidly, dwarfing the cities in the clouds. Bursting from the vault of heaven, it tore the firmament asunder and split the world in two.

The moment An Jing laid eyes upon the blade, he felt its blow. But the sword never fell because it was already broken at its base. It was but an echo of a time forgotten, a fractured vestige of an age before the sundering.

"Yvelbane."

Finally, a cold voice whispered in the boy's ear, "Unsheathe."

An Jing awakened to the clear chime of steel.