"First things first," Vaeloria said, voice flat as winter steel, "to wield a sword you must have the correct mindset. Swords are not defensive tools; they are made for killing and only that. When you swing, your intent must ride every stroke like a second blade."
She stepped into the center of the meadow and tightened her grip on the black sword that drank all light.
Then she moved.
One moment she stood still; the next, space shattered.
A single step forward, and the world was swallowed by absolute darkness—no starlight, no mana glow, just an abyss that devoured even sound.
From that void, a crescent of pure night swept sideways, so sharp it cut through the very idea of distance. Grass a hundred meters away vanished, its edges fused into flawless glass.
She spun, nine spectral void-moon tails unfurling like living shadows, each trailing ribbons of starless night.
The black sword hummed a silent song as she flowed through impossible forms: a downward slash that split the air into a canyon, a thrust that pierced straight through space and emerged on the far side of the Lesser Chamber, a casual parry that turned an imagined strike back on its source, erasing the phantom attacker entirely.
Every movement left strands of darkness drifting like midnight spider silk.
When she finally stopped, the meadow looked as if a god had taken a bite from reality and left a wound that would never heal.
Ash's Eyes of First Dawn drank it all in, every micro-twitch of muscle, every pulse of mana, every whisper of killing intent woven into the blade. Without a word he closed his eyes and began to move.
At first, his steps stumbled like faint echoes, but the memories of thirty thousand years of swordsmanship now pulsed within his soul.
Muscle memory not his own moved his limbs with uncanny precision.
Ten swings turned into a hundred, then a thousand.
Black threads of darkness coiled around his practice sword—thinner, rougher, yet unmistakably the same technique. For just a heartbeat, Vaeloria's emotionless mask cracked.
'Impossible…'
Two months slipped by in a blur, sharp as a drawn blade.
When Ash finally sat cross-legged before her, the sword technique was no longer hers—it was his, refined and made his own.
His existence level had risen steadily, brushing the threshold of A-rank at 2,500.
But numbers alone couldn't open that gate. To truly step into A-rank, one had to evolve and forge a Soul Brand—a conceptual rune etched into the soul, embodying their Myth.
This Myth would aid cultivators in battle, subtly bending the threads of fate in their favor.
Ash sank into meditation.
Memories flooded him: a frail prince ignored by his own blood, a forgotten soul on Earth abandoned by the world, ten karmic gifts that turned rejection into apocalypse.
As he thought of this the rune began to form as Mana roared.
A cocoon of raw power surrounded him, dense as starfire and fierce as a dying sun.
Hovering above was an illusory emblem: a flawless black circle, a consuming void. Through its heart ran a cracked golden sword, streaked with pink blood yet unbroken despite its fractures.
'Revenant Singularity.'
Something that would symbolize Ash, the one who was discarded and abandoned but also the one who would come back to devour it all.
As the rune formed it shot into the cocoon and branded itself into Ash's soul.
[You have Ranked Up.]
[Rank A | Existence Level 2,502.5]
[Soul Brand Myth - Every knee will bend or break before the one who was forged in rejection.]
[Revenant Singularity - Any being who harbors even a trace of intent to force Ash to kneel, submit, or bow suffers immediate, escalating backlash:
- Their own techniques turn against them.
- Their weapons develop hairline fractures that widen with every strike aimed at him.
- Their cultivation base begins to crack the longer they maintain killing intent.
- Attacks that carry the desire to dominate or enslave him are reflected at double strength.
- The stronger the opponent's pride or belief in their own supremacy, the more violently fate itself recoils (legendary weapons shatter, cores shatter, bloodlines recoil).
- Only those who approach him as equals, lovers, or willing subjects can fight him without the myth punishing them.]
---
Four more months vanished inside the cocoon.
When the mana finally faded, Ash hovered just above the ground, taller, sharper, dangerous. His hair had grown to his neck, darker than the void with streaks of white like trapped starlight, wild and untamed.
Six-foot-two of striking ruin and beauty.
He opened his eyes, golden with pink rings turning slowly.
"You're finally done," Vaeloria said, voice cold and lofty. "Good. You've wasted enough time."
"We have five months left," she continued, "and one big issue remains."
"And that is?" Ash asked, honestly curious.
She shook her head. "We have yet to test your affinities, because you have no skills. Now tell me, what are they?"
Ash's grin was slow, wicked, teasing.
"Are you sure you want to know?"
When she offered no reaction, he let the words fall like silk.
"Lust, Paradox, Phoenix Fire, Cinderlight, Lunar, Dreams, and Illusions."
For the first time in months, Vaeloria's emotionless mask shattered completely.
"You're joking, right?"
Ash tilted his head, smile sharpening.
"No, I am not, Miss Sovereign~"