In the quiet heart of the forest, where the wind whispered through the leaves and sunlight pierced the canopy in scattered shafts, stood a young boy stood alone. Though only eight years old, there was a presence about him that belied his age.
His long, straight white hair flowed gently in the breeze, falling past his shoulders. A sharp fringe curved upward over his forehead, each strand defined with precision, echoing the noble, disciplined air that surrounded him.
His sharp, almond-shaped eyes, dark as midnight obsidian, held a focused, unwavering gaze, though now they were closed in calm concentration. Thin, angled eyebrows gave his face a blade-like intensity—yet his expression remained composed, collected.
Clad in an elegant white robe, trimmed with gold patterns along the sleeves and hem, he seemed almost ethereal beneath the forest light. Beneath the robe, layers of black and gold inner garments framed his collar, adding to his noble appearance. A black belt adorned with a golden clasp held the ensemble snugly to his form, the cut of his robes suggesting both refinement and combat readiness. Draped over his shoulders, the robe's hooded cloak framed him like a cultivator of high standing or an elite swordsman.
At his side, secured diagonally across his waist, rested a sheathed sword. Its dark hilt accented in gold bore the unmistakable craftsmanship of a traditional blade—sleek, deadly, and revered.
Before him stood a wooden training dummy, silent and still.
He exhaled slowly.
Then, without opening his eyes, he murmured with clarity and intent,
"Seven Kill Sword, First Form."
His hand moved like lightning.
A single, horizontal slash carved through the air—clean, elegant, and perfectly measured. The air seemed to freeze for a heartbeat before the strike landed with precision. The dummy's upper half fell away, cleanly decapitated, the cut so smooth it seemed effortless.
The young swordsman opened his eyes.
Sharp. Cold. Controlled.
He stepped back into position, already preparing for the next form.
Suddenly, a calm yet distant voice echoed through the forest:"Your sword is sharp, but your heart is clouded. If your mind remains in such turmoil, your path will fracture before the blade reaches its true edge. Sooner or later, you will meet the bottleneck not of power—but of self."
The boy's eyes snapped open. His body shifted instinctively, turning sharply toward the source of the voice. His small hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword, fingers tensing with caution.
Seated upon a moss-covered boulder beneath the shade of an ancient tree was a tall figure, robed in deep earth tones woven with golden filigree. His long brown hair flowed like a waterfall of amber silk, and his golden eyes shimmered like molten amber—deep, timeless, and filled with quiet insight.
Zhongli.
He sat with one leg crossed over the other, his posture calm and composed, as though he had been part of the forest all along. His gaze, however, was fixed keenly upon the boy.
The child narrowed his eyes, wariness rising in his heart.
Zhongli offered a faint, unreadable smile. His voice was deep, smooth, and filled with tranquil authority."No need for alarm, young swordsman. I've merely been watching your practice. I mean you no harm."
He paused, tapping a finger lightly against the stone beside him."Your sword technique is promising, but your foundation is brittle. I only spoke to point out what your blade has not yet realized."
The boy's fingers relaxed slightly around the hilt of his sword as a memory surfaced—his father's words, spoken with solemn clarity:
"A person's sword will always reflect their mind. If your heart wavers, so will your blade."
He glanced up at the man seated calmly upon the boulder. Though Zhongli had made no threatening move, his presence pressed faintly on the air—like a mountain watching the wind.
Something in Chen Xin's instincts stirred. This man was not ordinary.
His young voice carried both caution and curiosity."Are you… a swordsman?"
Zhongli's golden eyes curved faintly in amusement, as though the question held more weight than the boy knew.
"A swordsman?" he echoed softly. "Rather than tell you, I will show you—what a perfect sword looks like."
Raising one hand, Zhongli extended his palm outward.
In the air above it, energy rippled—quietly, gracefully. A simple wooden sword materialized, forged not from steel but from pure intent. It bore no ornament, no edge of metal—just smooth, aged wood, polished by time and purpose.
Chen Xin's eyes narrowed slightly. His first thought: A tool spirit?
It didn't feel strong. Certainly not as powerful as his own Seven Kill Sword. But still… something about it felt strange.
His curiosity stirred, and without a word, he followed Zhongli as the man led him to the edge of a high cliff.
Below them: an endless sea of trees, swaying in the wind.
Above them: a sky fully cloaked in thick clouds, shrouding the sun.
Zhongli stepped forward, holding the wooden sword gently in one hand. His posture remained relaxed—almost casual.
Then, without a stance, without aura, he lifted the blade.
And brought it down.
A simple vertical slash. Slow. Measured. Silent.
Yet the moment it fell, the air exploded.
A thunderous gale roared from the tip of the wooden sword, spiraling downward with terrifying force. Leaves scattered across the forest canopy below. Trees bent. The very air trembled.
Chen Xin was nearly thrown back by the pressure. Instinctively, he raised both arms to shield his face as the wind howled past him.
And then—he looked up.
The clouds above had parted.
Not just a rift—but a vast corridor had been carved into the sky itself, stretching for miles, revealing pure blue above where only grey had been.
The wind died. Silence returned.
Zhongli lowered the wooden sword and turned slightly.
Chen Xin stood frozen. His mind struggled to process what he had just seen. That effortless swing… had cleaved the sky.
Even his father, a revered master, would have needed his full strength to produce such devastation. But this man… had done it as naturally as breathing.
With trembling knees, Chen Xin fell into a respectful kneel. His voice rang clear through the still air."Please… teach me."
Zhongli looked down at him, the faintest trace of approval in his timeless gaze.
The sword path had found its next disciple.