The old official had finished arranging the scrolls and stepped onto the podium a few meters away from the table.
"The Western Clan Academy has long awaited the arrival of True Sword Warriors. It is also a great honor, for the Elders of the Western Clan are present today to witness the selection firsthand."
A wave of applause followed his welcome speech. Zhen didn't quite understand it, and simply assumed their clapping was part of some clan tradition.
"When the bell tolls, the warriors will be called one by one to display their finest sword techniques. Stand on the white line, and wait for your turn," the old official continued with his instructions.
"The Selection for the Sword Masters of the Western Clan Academy is now officially open."
The sound of a gong echoed, signaling the beginning for all who had come to compete.
Zhen gave a quiet nod and stepped to the side of the arena.
The line of Sword Warriors began murmuring again. For some reason, every few minutes, their eyes kept drifting toward the tall young man in the black robe.
'Why do they keep staring at my robe? I know it's old-fashioned.' Zhen brushed down his sleeve — which was already clean — just to make sure.
The main courtyard of the Western Clan Academy buzzed with whispers and occasional shouts from the gathered warriors. Senior instructors and a few high-ranking figures of the academy sat apart on a ring-shaped stone tribune, their eyes fixed on the circular arena marked with a glowing white line at its center.
Not long after, the bell tolled. The sound of heavy metal rang out, shaking the air like a warning.
One by one, the warriors stepped into the center of the arena. Each was given five minutes to demonstrate their ultimate technique, combat style, and mastery of the sword.
The seventh warrior — a woman wielding twin wind blades — moved like a shadow leaving streaks of light behind her.
The crowd burst into cheers.
But in the end, she only managed to shatter the first-level testing stone.
"What a shame, she failed," murmured someone in the crowd.
The twenty-first warrior — a broad, tattooed man — smashed the second-level stone with an earth-element sword technique, sending a rumble through the ground.
The testing stones were large boulders, each ranked by difficulty from level one to level five. The fifth-level stone was a giant — and had never been completely destroyed.
But the crowd reached its peak during the forty-ninth performance.
A young warrior in a silver robe, with three swords hanging at his waist. His technique dazzled — a fusion of fire-style moves, native to the Western Clan, shook the arena with bursts of raw energy. Dust billowed as he shattered the fourth-level testing stone with just two of his blades.
The elders nodded slowly. Some even scribbled his name down in secret.
"He's definitely one of the two who'll be chosen," whispered several of the other participants.
But even before the cheers had fully died down...
"The final Sword Warrior..." the old official called him to the arena.
His steps were light — yet heavy enough to silence the crowd in an instant.
The noise collapsed into a hush. All eyes turned toward him. A few gasped when they realized: "This is the fiftieth.The last."
One academy elder clicked his tongue. "Who is this? Only carrying a single sword?"
Another murmured back, "The scroll he brought came from Rusty Feran. He's one of his students."
The condescending looks shifted — from scorn... to curiosity.
Zhen stopped at the center of the circle, eyes fixed on the glowing white line beneath his feet — then took a slow breath.
His hand moved to the sword on his back. The first three movements were like a dance: slicing the wind, splitting the shadow, piercing the void. The air sang with tension.
His attacks weren't just beautiful — they were precise. Ancient swordplay had a way of turning awe into something that felt almost... ominous.
Then Zhen stood before the fifth-level testing stone. He raised his blade high.
A single strike.
The stone split cleanly — like wet paper.
Half of it remained standing. The other half had already fallen, cracked silently on the ground.
Cheers erupted from the warrior ranks.
"Incredible!"
"He did that with just one slash?"
"He's going to be the next legendary master!"
The old official smiled and began writing. "Perfect technique. Remarkable energy control. Full marks."
Zhen regulated his breath in silence.
One second. Two. Five.
Then, in a flash, his blade moved again — with another ancient form. A classic motion that every trained Sword Warrior in the arena could recognize at a glance.
The line across the ground cracked — like parched desert earth.
The remaining half of the stone crumbled instantly, dust rising without wind.
The rumble came late. Several warriors in the audience hadn't even realized they'd stood. Their eyes widened. Even the sword-wielding prodigies who had performed earlier… could only stare, lips parted, unable to speak.
That wasn't a technique. It was… a statement.
And within the silence that followed, the gazes of the academy's elders crossed paths. Some smiled with pride. Some were left in awe. And some… looked uneasy.
The main courtyard remained hushed, even though the selection had ended.
All fifty warriors had shown their best.
Sweat dripped, breaths were still uneven, some sat at the edge of the arena, quietly tending to minor wounds from the trials.
But not one of them spoke. Because that final performance... still lingered in their minds.
The young man in the black robe, a single sword on his back — said not a single word… yet left cracks in the ground, and a deeper fracture in the hearts of all who saw him.
The academy elders began their closed discussions. Some flipped through their notes.
Others stood and stepped into the arena to inspect the fractured ground.
"This doesn't make sense," muttered one of the senior swordmasters. "That crack… it wasn't caused by magic. It was pure physical force."
"That's not all," added the old official. "His age. According to the form he submitted… he's seventeen."
Several eyes among the academy masters and Western Clan elders went wide in disbelief.
"Impossible," muttered a bald elder.
"That face, that build — that's a man of twenty-five who's seen real battlefields. But… seventeen?"
"Why is that impossible? Rusty hasn't aged in thousands of years. For him to have a student this capable… is not beyond belief."
Silence fell again.
Each of them remembered the power of that legendary healer — Rusty Feran — and realized what knowledge might have been passed down to his disciple. And more than that… too many eyes had witnessed Zhen's performance. Too many saw the way the ground split — not through illusion…
but through undeniable truth.
Meanwhile, Zhen sat at the edge of the arena.
His eyes gazed at the sky. He wasn't hoping.
Nor was he worried. In his eyes, there were only two things:the direction of his journey…
and the direction of the hunt.
The other swordmasters could only watch him from a distance. Some with admiration. Some with bruised pride. But not a single one dared to approach or speak to him. Because they all knew… that young man wasn't one of them. He was too unfamiliar. Too quiet. And far too powerful to be approached without purpose.
One of the swordmasters leaned toward his friend and whispered, "If he's chosen… everything we've worked for, for years, will be for nothing."
His friend replied bitterly, "Let's wait and see. The Clan Elders… surely have their own plans."
Yet none of them knew…
That at the bottom of Zhen's recommendation scroll, Rusty had written a single, quiet sentence.
~
The facilities of the Western Clan Academy were never a joke.
The residence built for the two chosen swordmasters stood on the western side of the main arena. A structure made from cold, natural white stone, adorned with carvings of dragons and swords, rising three floors high with a wide courtyard and a fountain that never stopped flowing.
Two rooms had been prepared, and two honor robes already hung neatly in place. Two names were etched on the front door: Swordmaster XIRAN and Swordmaster ZHEN.
Zhen stood staring at his name, beautifully engraved in wood. Suddenly, the door opened, and a well-built young man with a wide grin appeared from inside.
'Ah. So it's him.'
The triple-sword wielder. The one who went 49th.
"Ah! So you're Zhen, huh?" His voice was bright—almost too much. "Finally, we meet face to face. I'm Xiran. You probably saw my performance earlier."
Zhen gave a single nod. "Yes."
Xiran chuckled lightly, a bit awkward. "You were... incredible. Seriously. I thought my moves shook the ground, but you? You were like a calm nightmare."
Zhen didn't respond. He walked into his room, his eyes scanning the space. Stone walls, a bookshelf, a large window with crimson curtains, and a bed far too soft for someone used to sleeping on snow mounds.
'This place feels like a trap disguised as a reward.'
Xiran had followed him in, casually shrugging.
"I guess we'll be seeing a lot of each other. Training together. Eating together. Sharing teaching duties. You're the quiet type, huh?"
Zhen took off his sword and leaned it against the wall. He glanced at Xiran briefly, then sat down on the wooden chair.
"I don't speak unless necessary," he said flatly.
Xiran gave a short laugh. "Yeah, I figured. But hey, we're a team now, right? The two best swordmasters of the Western Clan Academy! I hope we can—"
"I didn't come here to make friends." Zhen cut him off, his voice emotionless.
"If you're here to have fun, leave me out of it."
The words hung in the air like cold mist.
Xiran paused, but then tried to smile—not out of offense, but like someone beginning to understand a strange rock that couldn't be carved easily.
"Alright, alright. No worries. We've got time to get to know each other. I'm not just here for fun either. I'm also running from… something."
Zhen raised an eyebrow, but asked nothing.
Xiran nodded slowly, then turned to look out the window, toward the courtyard where the graceful fountain stood.
"Zhen," he said finally, "You don't look like you're seventeen at all."
"I'm not a child," Zhen replied, without even glancing at him.
That afternoon, Zhen had planned to enjoy the twilight—sitting occasionally on the building's balcony, gazing at the sky, lost in thought once more. He shifted his gaze to his own hand. The tattoo of the ancient swordmaster's symbol on his wrist still shimmered faintly.
Then came the sound of footsteps—soft, deliberately quiet, approaching from behind.
It was Xiran.
"I like this place," he said casually.
Zhen didn't respond.
Xiran moved to sit beside him. "Hey. You're not a bad person… right?"
His eyes stayed fixed forward as he asked.
Hearing that, Zhen turned to glance at him for a moment. Then answered softly—barely above a whisper.
"I'm just not a good one."