The wind howled through the decaying rooftops of Black Rain Village, carrying with it the bitter stench of rot, smoke, and forgotten dreams.
Among the muddy paths and broken homes, a boy lay sprawled in the dirt. Blood trickled from the corner of his lips, and the villagers who passed didn't spare a second glance. They had seen this sight before.
Ye Tian, the orphan cripple.
"Still breathing? Damn roach," muttered a sneering youth from the local sect. He had been the last to land a kick before they left.
Ye Tian didn't move. His bones ached, his limbs trembled, but his eyes—dim as they were—gazed silently at the gray sky.
"…Three hundred years," he whispered, the voice hoarse yet ancient.
Within that frail, broken body, a storm churned.
He remembered everything now.
The divine peaks of the Heavenly Sword Sect, the countless battles beneath the stars, the way even gods trembled when he drew his blade.
He had once stood at the apex of the Dao.
Jian Wuji — the Sword God who split mountains with a flick of his wrist, who challenged the heavens and nearly won.
And then… betrayal.
Twelve of his most trusted disciples. Poison in his tea. Blades in his back. Seals that crushed his cultivation and soul.
He had laughed even as he died.
And now, that very soul resided in this ruined vessel.
"...How poetic," Ye Tian muttered, blood running down his jaw. "From the highest sky… to the filth of the earth."
But the heavens had erred.
For in choosing to reincarnate him here, they had given him something greater than power.
They had given him rage.
Ye Tian's fingers curled into the dirt. His spiritual veins were shattered, his dantian like a hollow shell—but his soul burned with the will of the sword. And that... was enough.
From beside him, something shifted. Half-buried in the mud lay a rusted piece of iron — jagged, ugly, no longer a blade by any sane standard. A broken training sword long discarded.
Yet Ye Tian's heart skipped.
His trembling fingers closed around the hilt. It felt… familiar. Like an old friend buried under centuries of silence.
And then it spoke — not in words, but in sensation. A faint warmth, a whisper, like a sleeping beast stirring beneath layers of ash.
Taiyi.
The Primordial Sword.
No one had ever truly destroyed it. It had simply waited.
Suddenly, pain lanced through his chest as golden light surged beneath his skin.
His heart thundered.
His meridians—long thought destroyed—began to throb. Broken circuits sparked faintly with qi. His body convulsed.
"Impossible," Ye Tian gasped.
But the impossible was his domain.
The Sword God does not beg. He does not kneel.
He rises.
With a groan, Ye Tian stood, leaning on the rusted sword.
A group of village boys paused nearby, wide-eyed.
"Oi! He's standing again? After what Young Master Feng did to him?"
"Haha, stupid cripple must want to die twice."
Ye Tian turned his head slowly.
No killing intent. No aura. Just silence.
Then, the blade moved.
A blur.
SLASH.
One boy screamed and dropped to his knees, clutching his ear. Another tumbled back, his cheek sliced open cleanly — blood trailing into the mud like ink on canvas.
Ye Tian didn't move again. He didn't need to.
The message had been sent.
I am no longer beneath you.
The boys fled, howling in terror.
The rusted blade crackled. A faint glint pulsed along its jagged edge.
Ye Tian exhaled. His body shook from the effort. One slash had nearly drained him.
But it was enough.
He looked up at the sky.
"Feng Sect… Golden Cloud Academy… Divine Sword Hall…"
Names etched in his soul. Names that would burn.
"You tore down a god once," he murmured, voice low and dangerous. "Now watch as I climb again... and tear down the heavens."
---
From the ashes of betrayal, a blade once more shall rise.
And with it, a god reborn in blood and fire.