The sword rested in his grasp, yet it felt far from ordinary steel. Power surged through it like a living force, pressing against the surroundings with a suffocating intensity. The air grew heavy, difficult to breathe, as if the world itself recoiled from that presence.
The blade angled toward the sky in silent defiance, and in response, thunder roared above. Dark clouds twisted and gathered, layering over one another until the heavens themselves seemed weighed down by an invisible force.
From within that storm, another figure descended.
There was no hesitation in his movement, no sign of restraint. A sword rested in his hand as well, its presence just as overwhelming, just as absolute. For a brief moment, the world seemed to still. When their eyes met, it felt as though two boundless forces had finally acknowledged each other. No words were needed. None could have carried the weight of what passed between them in that single glance.
Then, in the next heartbeat, both moved.
They surged forward with terrifying speed, their blades erupting with a radiant glow that seemed to bend the very air around them. The ground trembled, the sky quivered, and even the storm above faltered as if forced into submission. It was not merely a clash of swords, it was a collision of will, of power so immense that it felt capable of tearing the world apart.
The distance between them vanished in an instant. Their blades drew close, light colliding with light, power pressing against power.
And just as the moment of impact arrived, the scene shifted.
A lone figure stood in the midst of the battlefield, long hair swaying gently, sharp eyes fixed ahead. Armor covered his body, and in his hand rested a sword that seemed anything but ordinary.
Thousands of soldiers charged toward him, their footsteps shaking the ground, their intent clear and merciless. Yet the man did not move, did not even flinch. not even for a moment.
Then the blade shifted.
Under the pale moonlight, it glowed with a deep red hue, reflecting the blood beneath his feet. A single swing, then another. Each strike was effortless, precise, and final. Soldiers fell in numbers too great to count, as if their lives held no weight at all.
With every slash, the army's momentum faded. Fear crept into their movements as they watched their comrades fall before their eyes. Their will to fight began to break, replaced by a desperate urge to survive.
And at the centre of it all, that lone figure remained unchanged calm, unmoved, as if this outcome had always been certain.
His movements were overwhelming, yet if one looked closely, they were no more complex than a simple step forward. There was no wasted motion, no struggle, only quiet and effortless precision. It was not the technique that made it terrifying, but the one who wielded the sword.
The simplicity of it all felt unsettling. Every movement seemed natural, almost calm, yet it carried a weight that was impossible to ignore. It was not chaos that defined the battlefield, but control, absolute and unshaken.
When it was over, silence fell across the battlefield. Corpses lay scattered, submerged in pools of blood that reflected the faint light of the sky. The man stood alone amidst it, untouched, as if none of it had required any effort at all.
The stillness that followed felt heavier than the battle itself.
Then, without warning, the man turned his gaze toward a distant point, as if he had sensed something, or someone. For a brief moment, it felt as though that gaze reached far beyond the battlefield.
And then the scene shifted once again.
This time, the same figure walked through a vast hall that felt almost divine. Towering pillars rose in endless rows, stretching from depths that seemed to touch hell itself, all the way toward distant, unseen heavens. The space carried a strange stillness, both grand and suffocating, as if it did not belong to any ordinary world.
The sight stirred an uneasy feeling. The beauty of the place was undeniable, yet something about it felt distant, almost cold. It was the kind of perfection that made everything else seem insignificant.
Then the scene shifted again.
Now, the figure stood before countless creatures, each one more unnatural than the last. Some bore horns, others had tails, and many possessed eyes far beyond what any human should. No two were the same. Some stood on two legs, others on three, while a few carried more than one head, their forms twisted and unfamiliar.
There were thousands of them. The sheer number alone was enough to overwhelm the senses, their presence filling the space with a quiet, unsettling tension that refused to fade.
The figure did not flinch. His gaze remained steady, meeting theirs without the slightest trace of hesitation, his sword resting firmly in his hand. Then, as if moved by an unseen command, the creatures began to part, stepping aside one by one.
From among them emerged a being more grotesque than the rest, its presence alone enough to unsettle the very air. Without a moment's pause, it lunged forward.
And then, everything broke.
"Haaf… Haaf…" He jolted upright in his bed, breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. "…the same dream," he murmured, pressing a hand against his chest as he tried to steady himself. Even after waking, the weight of it clung to him, refusing to fade.
Each time he closed his eyes, the images returned with relentless clarity. The battlefield, the creatures, that final moment before impact. It all felt too real, too vivid to dismiss as mere imagination.
This was not the first time. He had seen these dreams countless times before, yet familiarity brought no comfort. If anything, it only made the unease settle deeper, leaving behind a quiet dread that lingered long after he was awake.
Every time he saw those dreams, it felt less like a vision and more like a memory he was forced to relive. The faces, the endless fighting, the battlefield drowned in blood. None of it faded with time. It lingered, sharp and vivid, as if it refused to let him go.
He let out a quiet sigh.
After freshening up and bathing, he settled himself on a mat, sitting cross-legged as he began to cultivate. Slowly, his breathing steadied, his mind clearing with each passing moment. The lingering unease from the dream began to dull, replaced by a fragile sense of calm. Hours passed in silence.
Then, a knock broke through the stillness.
"Li Ming… are you home?" a voice called from outside. "Open the door. It's me, Chen Yu."
"I'm here too," another voice added, lighter and more cheerful.
Li Ming opened his eyes; the calm he had gathered wavering slightly. He stood up and walked toward the door, his movements unhurried, though a faint heaviness still lingered within him. As he opened it, he found two figures standing outside, a boy and a girl, both around his age.
He looked at them for a moment before speaking, a hint of realization crossing his face. "Oh… is it already time?"