They left at dawn, before the fishermen cast their nets and before the sun had fully burned through the river fog.
Shenhai looked back once at the village.
The crooked roofs. The weathered pine. The only home he had ever known.
His grandmother stood at the edge of the dock, still and silent, the wind teasing her white hair. She said nothing—only raised her hand and turned back toward the hut.
There would be no return.
Baimu led the way upriver, through thickets and stone paths carved by forgotten hands. Though he limped, he moved with the certainty of someone who had traveled these roads in dreams—or perhaps lifetimes. Shenhai followed, the rusted sword strapped across his back, the sealed scroll tied in linen at his side.
They spoke little.
The forest grew strange.
Trees leaned in too close. Crows circled without cawing. The air buzzed faintly, as if charged with qi. By midday, they reached a narrow pass marked by broken statues—warriors, monks, beasts—each shattered at the neck or chest.
"This is Jiuhua," said Baimu, voice low. "A temple turned tomb. A battleground where truth and illusion warred until both bled dry."
Beyond the archway, ruins sprawled like bones: toppled pillars, moss-eaten shrines, cracked bells too heavy to ring. The wind moved in circles. No birds sang.
"What are we doing here?" Shenhai asked.
"You must awaken," said the monk. "Not just your body, but your will. Before you can read the scroll, you must step into the river of spirits and prove you will not drown."
He pointed toward a stone platform at the center of the courtyard—its surface engraved with hundreds of names, some glowing faintly.
"Step onto it," Baimu said. "If your blood is true, the Ghost-Sword Trial will begin."
Shenhai stepped forward.
As soon as his foot touched the stone, the world turned to ash.
⬖⬖⬖
He stood in a vast plain of fog and starlight. A battlefield littered with broken swords, their blades humming faintly in the dark. In the sky above, the crimson moon loomed larger than ever, pulsing like a second heart.
A voice echoed—not from around him, but within him.
"Who are you… to wield a name that bleeds?"
"What will you cut… when your blade is rusted with grief?"
One of the swords lifted into the air on its own, floating toward him.
It was a mirror of his father's blade—but alive with pale fire.
"Prove yourself," the voice whispered. "Take the sword. Face your shadow."
From the mist emerged a figure: himself, but older—dressed in black, with eyes like stormclouds and a crooked smile that twisted like broken truth.
His shadow self attacked.
Steel met rust. Sparks flew. The duel was not fair—his double moved like wind over water, his strikes graceful and cruel. Shenhai stumbled, blocked, bled.
But he did not fall.
He remembered his mother's voice. His grandmother's silence. The feeling of the scroll pulsing against his skin.
He stepped inside the storm.
His rusted blade—his father's blade—hummed once, and the rust fell away.
Beneath it, the true sword gleamed: pale silver etched with storm-script.
He moved.
One strike.
The shadow shattered.
And he was alone again.
⬖⬖⬖
When he awoke, he was on his knees in the courtyard. The name Li Shenhai now glowed faintly among the thousands carved into the stone.
Baimu stood beside him, watching.
"You passed," the monk said. "You faced what you might become… and chose what you must become."
Shenhai stood slowly, the sword now bright in his hand.
Not his father's anymore.
His.
He looked to the east, where the mountains whispered and the old empire slept.
"I'm ready," he said.
Baimu smiled, for the first time.
"No," he said. "But you've begun."