The wind howled through the charred remnants of what was once the village of Linhe. Ash still clung to the skeletons of homes, and the scorched earth whispered of blood and sorrow. Tianming stood at the edge of the blackened field, his newly awakened spirit flickering like a candle against a storm.
His hand trembled as he grasped the hilt of the sword — the Heavenbreaker. It pulsed with warmth, like a heartbeat, ancient and aware. He hadn't asked for it. He hadn't even known it was real. And yet, it had chosen him.
"You are the last," a voice echoed in his mind. Not his own. Older. Colder. "The blood of the forsaken flows in you still."
He fell to his knees, overwhelmed by visions. Blades clashing beneath twin moons. Temples in flames. A masked warrior with golden eyes — watching, always watching.
And then… silence.
The spirit within the Heavenbreaker spoke again, more clearly this time. "Rise, Tianming. What was taken can be reclaimed. But only if you are willing to become what they fear."
Tianming clenched his fist. The embers of his rage, his loss, his destiny — they were no longer dormant.