"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 was still: the next, space fractured.
A single step forward and the world went dark, true darkness, no starlight, no mana glow, only an abyss that swallowed sound itself. From that void, a crescent of pure night sliced horizontally, so sharp it severed the concept of distance. Grass a hundred meters away simply ceased to exist, edges cauterized into perfect glass.
She spun. Nine spectral void-moon tails unfurled behind her like living shadows, each one trailing with ribbons of starless night. The black sword sang a soundless song as she danced through forms that should have been impossible: a downward cut that carved a canyon into the air itself, a thrust that punched a hole straight through space and out the other side of the Lesser Chamber, a lazy parry that reflected an imaginary strike back at its origin and erased the phantom attacker from existence.
Every movement left thread of darkness hanging in the air like spider silk made of midnight. When she finally stopped, the meadow looked as though a god had taken a bite out of reality and spat out a wound that refused to 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 were clumsy echoes, but the memories of thirty thousand years of swordsmanship lived inside his soul now. Muscle memory that wasn't his own guided his limbs.
Ten swings became a hundred, then a thousand. The black threads of darkness began to appear around his practice sword, thinner, rawer, but undeniably the same technique. Seeing this Vaeloria's emotionless mask cracked for a single heartbeat.
'Impossible…'
Two months blurred past like a drawn blade.
When Ash finally sat cross-legged in front of her, the sword technique was no longer hers; it was his, perfected and internalized
His existence level had climbed steadily, finally brushing the threshold of A-rank at 2,500. But numbers alone did not open the gate. To truly step into A-rank, one had to undergo evolution and form a Soul Brand, a conceptual rune burned into the soul that represented their Myth.
This myth is something that would assist cultivators in battle by faintly manipulating fate.
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 pure power wrapped around him, thick as starfire, violent as a dying sun. Above the cocoon floated an illusory symbol: a perfect all-black circle, a devouring void. Through its center pierced a cracked golden sword stained with pink blood, unbreaking despite the 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 peeled away, Ash floated inches above the ground, taller, sharper, lethal. His hair had grown to his neck, blacker than the void with streaks of white like captured starlight, wild and untamed. Six-foot-two of sculpted ruin and beauty.
He opened his eyes, golden with pink rings spinning lazily.
"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~"