**Chapter 6 – The Awakening Pulse**
The crack on the black-lacquered case widened by the width of a hair.
A thread of golden light—pure, searing, almost liquid—seeped through like dawn breaking under a closed door. At the same instant, the Dragon Slaying Saber answered: its crimson veins swelled, beating in perfect rhythm with the golden pulse. The three-layered seals hissed and smoked; mantra ink bubbled black, taiji patterns spun into blurred spirals, Cold Moon runes wept clear water that froze mid-air into needle-sharp shards.
Every cultivator in the Jade Hall felt their qi surge involuntarily toward their dantians, then twist painfully as though pulled in two directions at once—up toward heaven, down toward the abyss.
Grandmaster Zhang Sanfeng moved first.
He stepped forward, sleeves billowing without wind. Both palms extended, fingers forming the Taiji mudra. A soft silver glow bloomed between his hands, expanding into a slowly rotating yin-yang orb that floated toward the center of the circle.
"Seal of Primordial Harmony," he intoned. "Return to stillness."
The orb settled over the two weapons like a gentle moon. For a moment the pulses slowed. The crack stopped widening. The saber's veins dimmed.
But then a new sound entered the hall—a low, resonant thrum, like the heartbeat of something far older than the mountains themselves.
The Heavenly Sword inside the case began to sing.
Not a chime now, but a rising melody: clear phoenix notes woven with sorrow and longing. The Dragon Slaying Saber answered in kind—deeper, guttural, a dragon's growl turned to song. Two voices, separated by centuries, found harmony in dissonance.
The pressure in the hall became unbearable.
Disciples dropped to their knees, clutching chests. Even the elders swayed. Abbot Xuanci pressed both palms to his heart, sweat beading on his silver brows. Abbess Miejue gripped her staff until wood creaked.
Only three people remained upright without visible strain:
Zhang Sanfeng, still channeling the Taiji orb.
Zhao Min, eyes wide with exhilarated fascination.
And Lin Wuji.
He had not moved from his kneeling position, but his breathing had deepened, synchronized unconsciously with the dual rhythm. Inside his body, something stirred.
The Nine Yin Poison—long a cold, coiling serpent in his meridians—began to writhe. Not in pain, but in response. Thin threads of black frost rose from his skin like smoke, drawn toward the saber on the floor. At the same time, a faint golden warmth flickered in his lower dantian, as though a distant sun had remembered him.
He gasped softly.
The saber's curse was reaching for him—not to consume, but to *share*. The phoenix essence in the sword answered in kind, sending a thin golden thread through the air toward his heart.
Two ancient powers, locked in stalemate for ages, had found a living bridge.
Lin Wuji's vision blurred. He saw—not with eyes, but with inner sense:
A vast starry void.
A phoenix of pure flame spiraling downward, wings trailing nebulae.
A black dragon coiled around a crumbling throne, scales bleeding starlight.
They clashed once, twice—then instead of destroying each other, they tore free a fragment of their own essences and forged them into weapons.
Not for war.
For *choice*.
A voice—not one, but two overlaid—whispered directly into his sea of consciousness:
*"Bearer of both curses. Child of exile. The cycle ends with you.
Unite us, and command Heaven.
Separate us, and the world bleeds another thousand years.
Or shatter us both… and pay the price."*
Lin Wuji's hands trembled. Sweat ran down his temples.
"I… don't want to command anything," he whispered.
The voices laughed—phoenix bright, dragon dark.
*"Then choose the third path. But know: no one has ever survived it."*
Reality snapped back.
Zhang Sanfeng's Taiji orb flared brighter, forcing the golden thread and black frost to retreat. The crack in the sword case sealed with a hiss of freezing vapor. The saber's veins dimmed to a sullen glow. The singing stopped.
The hall exhaled as one.
Grandmaster Zhang lowered his hands. His face looked older—lines deeper, eyes wearier.
"The essences have awakened," he said quietly. "They will not sleep again easily. The boy is their fulcrum."
Abbess Miejue rounded on Lin Wuji, voice shaking with fury.
"This is your doing! Your blood called to them!"
Lin Wuji met her gaze. His own voice was steady, though exhaustion pulled at every word.
"My blood didn't ask to be born between your hatreds. If the weapons want me, perhaps they want an end to all this more than any of you do."
Zhao Min stepped forward, clapping once—slow, deliberate.
"Marvelous," she said. "Absolutely marvelous. The orthodox sects spend centuries hiding and fearing these blades. The dynasty spends centuries hunting anyone who might wield them. And in walks a poisoned boy who neither wants nor fears them. The heavens must be laughing."
She crouched before Lin Wuji, close enough that he could smell the faint jasmine oil in her hair.
"Tell me truthfully, Lin-gongzi," she murmured. "If you could take both weapons right now—phoenix and dragon, heaven and rebellion—would you use them to burn everything down? Or would you walk away?"
Lin Wuji looked past her shoulder to Zhou Qingruo.
She stood frozen among the Emei disciples, face pale, eyes wide with something between fear and fierce protectiveness. When their gazes met, she gave the smallest shake of her head.
*Don't answer her.*
Lin Wuji returned his attention to Zhao Min.
"I would ask them the same question they asked me," he said. "What do *you* want? Because I'm tired of being the weapon in someone else's war."
Zhao Min studied him a long moment. Then she smiled—slow, genuine, almost soft.
"You really are dangerous," she whispered. "Not because of the saber. Because you refuse to hate."
She rose gracefully and turned to the elders.
"I propose a truce. Three days. No attacks. No escapes. The boy remains here under joint guard. We study the weapons—together. If the essences truly seek balance, let them prove it. If not…" She shrugged. "We can always resume killing each other afterward."
Grandmaster Zhang Sanfeng looked at the other elders. One by one, they nodded—reluctantly.
"Three days," he agreed. "And the boy stays under Wudang protection."
Abbess Miejue looked ready to explode, but she bit back her words.
Zhao Min turned back to Lin Wuji one last time.
"Enjoy your truce, fulcrum," she said lightly. "Try not to break the world before supper."
As guards—Wudang disciples this time—escorted Lin Wuji to a quiet side chamber, Zhou Qingruo slipped away from her sect's ranks. She followed at a distance, heart pounding.
In the corridor outside the chamber, she caught his sleeve just before the door closed.
"Lin Wuji," she whispered urgently. "Whatever they showed you… whatever they asked… don't trust it alone."
He looked down at her hand on his sleeve, then up into her eyes.
"I won't," he said. "But I think… I have to listen."
She released him, but did not step back.
"Then let me listen with you."
The door closed softly between them.
Outside, on the peak's highest balcony, Zhao Min leaned against the railing, watching clouds boil below.
Xie Yuan stood beside her, golden mane stirring in the wind.
"She likes him," Zhao Min observed.
Xie Yuan grunted. "The Emei girl? Aye. And he likes her back. Poor fools."
Zhao Min smiled into the distance.
"Good. Love makes everything more interesting."
Far below, in the sealed vault, the Heavenly Sword gave one last soft, lingering note.
And in the chamber where the saber now rested under new wards, its crimson veins pulsed once—like a promise.
Or a warning.
(End of Chapter 6)