Chapter 7 – The Shadow Realm
The path to the next realm stretched in silence.
Yan Xuanlanbin limped forward, bruised and burned from his battle in the Flame Realm. His clothes were torn, his skin scorched, and every breath reminded him of how close he'd come to breaking.
Now, the gate to the Shadow Realm stood before him.
It didn't open with fire or thunder.
It simply… vanished. Like smoke caught in wind.
He stepped through.
And immediately, everything changed.
The air turned sharp and cold.
The ground beneath his feet felt distant, like he was walking on a memory.
Something watched him.
A presence.
A pressure.
A silence that didn't just fall over the forest — it swallowed everything.
He stood in what looked like a forest.
But not one he knew.
Tall black trees surrounded him on all sides, their trunks warped, their branches curled like claws. There was no wind. No sun. Just a heavy grey dusk.
Even his own footsteps made no sound.
Yan tightened his grip on his sword.
Something was off.
Something was wrong.
He heard everything… and nothing. Even the stillness made noise in this place.
Then—
A voice echoed.
Distant.
Familiar.
Calling him.
"Yaaaan…"
He froze.
That voice.
It had been years.
It was soft. Warm.
His mother's.
"Yan… come home."
He turned, slowly.
There, standing beneath a twisted tree, was a woman in a blue robe — the exact one she wore the night she died.
Smiling at him.
Her arms open.
"You've walked so far," she said. "Aren't you tired?"
She stepped closer.
Yan didn't move.
He didn't draw his sword.
Didn't speak.
Just stared.
And whispered, "You're not real."
Her eyes blinked once.
Then the illusion shattered like glass.
The world twisted again.
The forest crumbled around him, melting into something else — a broken village.
His village.
Before he left.
Before the massacre.
Blood covered the dirt paths. Broken walls. Scorched homes. Bodies.
And in the middle of the road…
A boy knelt, shaking, crying, sword clutched in both hands.
Yan stepped closer.
The boy looked up — and Yan saw his own face. Younger. Lost.
"You left us," the boy said, voice raw. "You abandoned everyone."
Yan's grip tightened.
"I was just a child."
The boy stood.
Pain in his eyes. Anger in his voice.
"So were they."
A dark blade formed in his hand.
Then the boy charged.
Steel met steel.
The sound was deadened — no ring, no clash. Just cold, heavy silence.
Yan blocked.
Then again.
Then parried.
But the boy was different.
He moved like Yan.
Fought like him.
Knew his rhythm. His counters. His flaws.
A mirror. A shadow.
Yan gasped as the boy's blade sliced across his arm.
He staggered back, heart pounding.
The boy grinned.
"I'm everything you hate about yourself," he said. "I know every move you'll make."
Yan didn't speak.
He just raised his sword again.
The boy charged.
They fought through the ruins.
Across broken rooftops.
Through collapsing walls.
Down alleys that twisted and bent like a dream.
Yan didn't fight with style.
He fought with instinct. With grit.
He studied his opponent — his younger self.
Waited.
Watched.
Then—one step.
The boy slipped. Just slightly.
It was enough.
Yan dropped low, drove his shoulder into the boy's chest, and slammed him against a shattered wall.
The boy stumbled.
Yan moved without hesitation.
The sword pierced the illusion's chest.
The boy gasped.
Then… smiled.
"Guess you've changed," he whispered.
And vanished.
The world shattered again.
Now he stood in a hall of mirrors.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
Every reflection showed a different version of him.
Young. Old. Broken. Angry. Crowned in gold. Shackled in chains.
In the center stood a tall, cloaked figure.
Its face hidden.
Its hand gripping a long sword of black obsidian.
"You seek to master the Supreme Sword," it said.
Its voice echoed through the glass.
"You grieve. You hesitate. You doubt."
Yan didn't flinch.
"The sword does not follow the unsure," it said.
Then the shadow raised its blade.
"Let's see what your doubt costs."
The figure moved.
Faster than thought.
Its blade tore through the air — and every swing didn't cut skin, but mind.
Each strike dragged something from Yan's memory.
His father's scream.
The day the sword village burned.
The girl he'd once promised to protect — and failed.
It was like bleeding from the inside.
His limbs felt heavier.
His vision blurred.
"You are not enough," the shadow whispered.
"You'll never be enough."
Yan dropped to one knee.
The shadow raised its sword.
But Yan…
Smiled.
"You're right," he said.
His voice was quiet.
Steady.
"I've doubted. I've lost. I've failed."
He looked up.
"But I'm still here."
He stood.
Lifted the broken Supreme Sword.
"And that's more than your illusions can say."
The sword pulsed.
Not with light — but with truth.
It burned in his hand, not like fire… but clarity.
The shadow hesitated.
And Yan struck.
It wasn't perfect.
It wasn't graceful.
But it was real.
The blade cut through the shadow's chest.
And split it in two.
The mirrors cracked.
The hall crumbled.
And the Shadow Realm let him go.
Yan fell to his knees.
Breathing hard.
Sweating. Bleeding.
But alive.
The Supreme Sword pulsed in his hand.
Once.
Then again.
Then it whispered in his mind — a word clearer than anything else in the realm:
"True."