The Tianyin Sect's Sword Arena was a sacred circle of polished stone, etched with symbols of the eight sword styles passed down through generations. No one entered it lightly—only during monthly demonstrations, watched by the elders, did disciples cross blades under the silent gaze of their masters.
Zhao Long stood outside that circle, spear in hand.
He had never been invited.
He never expected to be.
---
On the final day of the Cold Sun Cycle, Master Longma summoned all disciples. Movements had to be perfect, stances flawless—this was the day swordsmanship was judged, ranks shifted, and praise or reprimand was given like fire or ice.
But as the final names were called, Zhu Duan Meng stepped forward.
"Elder," he said, bowing with calm precision, "may I request a match? Not with a fellow sword disciple—but with Zhao Long."
A murmur rippled through the courtyard.
Zhao Long, still in his training robe, blinked once. His hands instinctively tightened on the smooth wood of his spear.
---
"Zhao Long is not a sword disciple," Elder Yu frowned.
"Then let this be a lesson," Duan Meng replied. His tone was measured. "The mountain tolerates no wasted paths."
Master Longma said nothing. He only gave the faintest nod.
---
The arena fell silent as Zhao Long stepped in.
Duan Meng drew his blade with the elegance of a killer born. Rumor held he had taken lives on the battlefield at thirteen—flawless executions under moonlight, earning him the whispered name: Ghost of Cadia.
Zhao Long bowed low.
He raised his spear—not in offense, but in readiness.
---
The match began.
Duan Meng struck first, fast as a blink. His cuts were sharp, deliberate—testing Zhao Long's form. Zhao Long didn't counter. He didn't strike back.
He moved.
He flowed.
He turned just enough, spun just enough, redirected each blow without aggression.
Not once did he attack.
He was water dancing around stone.
---
The disciples whispered from the edge of the arena.
"Is he afraid?" "He hasn't landed a single strike."
But Zhao Long's gaze remained steady.
He was not afraid.
He wasn't fighting to win.
---
Duan Meng pressed harder—his sword whistling through the air in a flurry of cuts designed to overwhelm. At last, he knocked the spear from Zhao Long's hands. It clattered across the stone floor.
A boot pressed down on Zhao Long's chest.
"You defend nothing," Duan Meng said coldly. "You protect no one. You don't belong."
Zhao Long looked up at him, still kneeling.
"I do not fight to belong," he said softly.
"I train… so one day, I won't have to."
---
The words fell like thunder in the quiet arena.
Duan Meng stepped back, uncertain for the first time.
Zhao Long rose, retrieved his spear, bowed, and walked out of the circle—silent as when he had entered.
---
That Evening – Elder's Hall
Behind closed doors, the elders convened.
"He lacks aggression."
"He doesn't wield killing intent."
"He has no sword spirit."
Only Master Longma remained silent.
At last, he said, "He does not seek victory. That is his strength... and his weakness."
A final decision was made.
---
Before Dawn – Departure
When the sun was still hidden behind the ridges, Zhao Long awoke early. He folded his robes, wrapped his few belongings in cloth, and tied his training spear across his back.
No one saw him leave.
But at the bottom of the stone path, he turned once to look back at the Sect. Mist curled over the towers like fading memories.
He whispered, not to any person—but to the mountain itself:
"Thank you... but my path is not yours."
Then he stepped forward into the unknown.