The sky above the Northern Territory seemed to collapse that night. Autumn, which should have brought the tranquility of the harvest season, had been stolen by an unnaturally early arrival of frost.

It all began the moment the twilight bell ceased its tolling. Without warning, a swarm of black shadows descended from the mountain peaks, carrying flames that even the snow could not extinguish.

The night chill felt like a jagged blade slicing through skin. On the outskirts of the Northern Territory, a land perpetually shrouded in mist, the Village of the Dying Wind was no longer filled with the chirping of crickets. Instead, the air was thick with a pungent stench—a mixture of charred wood and the metallic tang of blood.

Han Lian, a sixteen-year-old youth in hempen clothes soaked with cold sweat, crawled through the ruins of a grain shed. His breath came in short, shallow gasps, escaping his lips in thin wisps of white vapor. Every lungful of air felt like swallowing glowing embers.

Just a few paces ahead, his father's body lay stiff on the frost-covered ground. The snow, which should have been pure, was stained by a deep, spreading crimson blooming from the old man's chest.

"Father..." Lian's voice was nothing more than a broken whisper.

He wanted to scream, but terror had gripped his throat with sharp claws. In the middle of their courtyard stood three men in black robes. Silver thread was embroidered onto their chests in the shape of clouds that seemed to drift and coil in the wind. They were disciples of the Black Cloud Sect—a name powerful enough to make children stop crying in the dead of night.

"Find the boy," one of them commanded. His voice was cold and emotionless, like the sound of grinding stones. "The Young Master wants the Dragon Breath Manual before dawn. Leave no witnesses."

Lian squeezed his eyes shut. Hot tears tracked through the black soot on his cheeks. He fumbled inside the folds of his tunic, making sure the hard leather bundle was still there. The Manual. Because of this weathered manuscript, his entire world had been pulverized in a single night. His father, a quiet blacksmith, had apparently harbored a secret capable of shaking the foundations of the martial world.

"Over there!"

A coarse shout shattered the silence. Lian flinched. One of the black-robed men had kicked aside the wooden plank shielding him. Their eyes met—the hollow gaze of a killer against the eyes of a youth burdened by vengeance and trauma.

Without thinking, Lian bolted. Adrenaline overrode the searing pain in his legs. He crashed through a leaning bamboo fence and sprinted toward the dense forest behind the village.

"After him!"

Light but powerful footsteps pursued him with terrifying speed. Lian knew he couldn't outrun them for long. He was a youth accustomed to lifting a blacksmith's hammer, not a cultivator skilled in the art of Qinggong. However, he knew the twists and turns of this forest better than anyone.

Branches whipped his face, leaving fine, bloody welts. His lungs felt ready to burst. Behind him, a strange whistling sound pierced the air—the sign of an internal energy strike being unleashed.

Zasss!

A flying dagger thudded into a tree trunk just an inch from his ear. Lian tripped and tumbled, rolling down a steep slope covered in thorny brambles. Pain shot through every nerve, but he didn't stop. He let himself slide until his body slammed into the bank of a semi-frozen river.

He lay there, staring up at the bleak night sky. The stars above seemed to mock his weakness.

'Is this the end?' he thought. 'To die like a stray dog without ever repaying my father's kindness?'

Suddenly, his father's final words echoed in his mind as he had shoved the manual into his chest: "Lian, never hate the sword. Hate only your own weakness. If you wish to live in this world, you must become sharper than any blade."

Lian's trembling hand gripped the freezing snow. He could not die here. The hatred newly taking root in his heart provided a surge of unnatural warmth. He crawled slowly toward a small cave hidden behind a frozen waterfall—a secret sanctuary from his childhood.

Inside the damp darkness of the cave, Lian pulled out the leather manual. With hands stained by his own blood, he flipped open the first page.

Moonlight filtered through a crack in the rock, illuminating the ancient script within. As his eyes swept across the lines, a strange vibration stirred in the depths of his abdomen—his Dantian. The air around him began to swirl in a faint, localized vortex.

He did not yet know that on this night, a blacksmith had died, and a sword demon who would shake heaven and earth had been born.

The darkness inside the cave was thick, as if the stone walls were closing in to crush Han Lian as he huddled in the shadows. The rhythmic tick... tick... tick... of water dripping from the ceiling sounded like the countdown of a death clock in his ears. Outside, the shouts of the Black Cloud Sect pursuers grew distant, but Lian knew they wouldn't give up until his head and the manual in his hands were secured.

Lian leaned against the damp wall. The blood from the wound on his shoulder had dried, gluing his hemp tunic to his skin. The sharp sting had faded into a dull throb, but his mind was in far more turmoil than his physical body.

He stared at the Dragon Breath Manual resting on his lap. In the dim moonlight filtering through the cracks in the rock, the characters on the ancient leather seemed to breathe. The script wasn't mere ink; each stroke carried a suffocating aura of authority.

"Father... what exactly were you keeping?" he whispered.

With trembling fingers, Lian turned to the second page. Unlike the first, which was purely philosophical, this page displayed a diagram of the human body marked with complex red lines—indicating the flow of Qi, or internal energy. Beneath the diagram was a short inscription:

"Heaven grants the breath; Earth grants the vessel. Man is but the bridge. To become sharp, cleanse your bridge of all worldly filth."

Lian had never received formal martial arts training. In his village, he was known only as the blacksmith's son who was strong enough to swing the heavy hammer. Yet, for some reason, the complex diagram appeared crystal clear to his eyes. It was as if something buried deep in his blood was beginning to respond.

He attempted to sit cross-legged, mimicking the posture in the illustration. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the hunger gnawing at his stomach and the bone-chilling cold. He began to regulate his breathing—a long draw through the nose, holding it below the navel (the Dantian), and a slow release through the mouth.

One minute passed. Five minutes. Ten.

At first, nothing happened. Only the howling wind outside the cave filled the silence. But just as Lian was about to give up, he felt a warm sensation at his fingertips. It was tiny, like a spark from his father's forge, but it began to move.

The warm current crawled up his arm, reached his shoulder, and then plunged toward his chest. When the current touched the wound on his shoulder, Lian nearly screamed. It felt as if thousands of white-hot needles were stabbing his flesh. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead despite the sub-zero temperature inside the cave.

"Don't fight it. Let it flow," a gravelly voice suddenly echoed through the cavern.

Lian bolted upright, his eyes wide with alarm. In the darkest corner of the cave—a spot he had previously mistaken for a pile of rocks—a figure emerged. An old man with matted white hair and tattered, moth-eaten robes watched him with eyes that glowed like a cat's in the dark.

"Who... who are you?" Lian stammered, his voice catching in his throat. His hand instinctively reached for a jagged stone beside him.

The old man let out a short, dry chuckle that sounded like snapping twigs. "A beggar seeking shelter from the snow. Or perhaps, a spectator watching a foolish boy try to commit suicide by practicing high-level techniques without a foundation."

Lian frowned, ignoring the mockery. "This manual... it makes my body feel like it's on fire."

"That is because your meridians are clogged with the dregs of a common life. You eat wild game, drink foul water, and have never purified your energy pathways. Forcing Qi into an impure body is like pouring molten metal into a wet mold. It will explode," the old man said as he crawled out from the shadows.

Moonlight finally illuminated his face. The man was missing his left arm—severed at the shoulder. Yet, the aura radiating from him was more oppressive than anything Lian had felt from the Black Cloud Sect disciples.

"Help me," Lian said suddenly. He didn't know why he trusted this stranger, but his instincts told him this was his only chance to survive. He knelt and pressed his forehead to the ground. "Teach me how to use this manual. I need to take revenge."

The old man went silent. His sharp eyes scanned the Dragon Breath Manual in Lian's hand with an unreadable expression—a mix of longing and deep-seated hatred.

"Revenge is the sweetest poison, boy," the old man said, gliding toward Lian. His footsteps made no sound on the rocky floor. "It will give you the strength to climb the highest mountain, but it will also hurl you into the deepest abyss the moment you reach the peak."

He stopped in front of Lian and placed a rough right hand on the youth's head.

"My name is Mo Shanshan. The people of the Jianghu once called me the 'Broken Sword of the Heavens.' If you wish to learn from me, you must promise one thing: Never draw your sword for justice. Draw it only for your own survival."

Lian looked up, his eyes burning with an unshakable resolve. "I don't care about justice. I only want those who killed my father to feel what I feel."

Mo Shanshan offered a thin, sad smile. "Very well. Close your eyes. Tonight, I will open your meridians. It will feel as if you are being burned alive in hell. If you faint, you die. If you endure, you will become the first speck of dust in the coming storm."

Before Lian could respond, a massive wave of energy surged through the crown of his head. Lian's world turned white. The pain he had experienced earlier was nothing compared to this. Every inch of his nerves felt as though it were being stretched and twisted into knots.

In the midst of the agony, Lian bit his lip until it bled. He visualized his father's face, the flames consuming his village, and those black robes with the silver clouds.

'I will live,' he roared in his heart. 'I will become the sharpest blade!'

A suppressed scream echoed within the narrow confines of the cave. Han Lian felt as if every drop of his blood had turned into boiling acid. Beneath Mo Shanshan's palm, the energy flowing into him was no longer a mere warm current; it was a rampaging wild dragon, crashing through and obliterating every blockage within his narrow meridians.

"Do not resist! If you stiffen your muscles, this energy will shatter your own bones!" Mo Shanshan's voice was calm yet commanding amidst the storm of agony Lian was enduring.

Lian tried to relax his body, a task that felt nearly impossible when every nerve was shrieking for relief. Sweat mixed with blood began to seep from his pores, carrying a nauseating, metallic stench—the impurities and toxins that had long clogged his vessel, the dregs of a common life being forcibly purged.

He remembered helping his father at the forge. His father often said that to produce a fine blade, raw iron had to be heated until it glowed red, then struck repeatedly with a heavy hammer to drive out every impurity.

'I am that iron,' Lian thought in a haze of semi-consciousness. 'And this pain is the hammer.'

With that thought, Lian stopped focusing on the agony. Instead, he visualized himself as a piece of steel being tempered. He allowed Mo Shanshan's energy to shatter the "rust" within his veins, letting every obstacle crumble one by one.

Suddenly, a soft crack resonated from within his body. It wasn't a bone breaking; it felt as if a massive dam had finally burst. The energy flow that had been excruciatingly painful transformed into a cool, refreshing stream, flowing smoothly from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes.

Lian's darkened vision suddenly became preternaturally clear. Even with his eyes closed, he could "see" the cave's structure through the vibrations in the air. He could hear the heartbeat of a bat hanging from the ceiling; he could even sense the flow of water running deep underground.

Mo Shanshan withdrew his hand. He looked slightly pale, his breathing somewhat heavy. He looked at the youth before him with an unreadable expression.

"Incredible..." Mo Shanshan whispered. "Twelve primary meridians fully opened in a single session. Your body... was truly born to be a vessel for great Qi."

Lian opened his eyes. The black of his pupils now carried a deep, metallic sheen. He looked at his hands; his skin appeared clearer, and the small cuts from his flight had already closed, leaving behind faint, almost invisible scars.

"I... I feel light," Lian said, his voice deeper and more stable. He stood up, feeling as though gravity no longer pressed upon him as heavily as before.

"Do not get ahead of yourself, brat," Mo Shanshan interrupted, leaning his maimed body against the wall. "I have only opened the door. To step inside and climb the ladder of power, you must still crawl. What you feel now is only the Early Stage of the Marrow Cleansing Realm. In the outside world, even a low-level bodyguard has reached this level."

Lian bowed deeply. "Thank you, Senior Mo. I know I am still far from being able to take my revenge."

Mo Shanshan tossed a dry, brittle twig toward Lian. "Take that. From this day forward, that twig is your sword. Do not ask why I do not give you metal. If you cannot feel the 'life' within a twig, you will never be worthy of holding a real blade."

Lian caught the twig. It was light, fragile, and looked utterly useless. "What must I do?"

"Thrust. Ten thousand times a day," Mo Shanshan answered curtly before closing his eyes as if to sleep. "Every thrust must have one purpose: to pierce the air without making a sound. If I still hear the whistle of the wind when you swing it, you will have no food tonight."

Lian looked toward the cave entrance. Snow was still falling, and dawn was breaking over the eastern horizon, bringing a cold, blue light. He knew his enemies out there had thousands of followers, legendary weapons, and lethal techniques. He had only a mad, one-armed teacher and a wooden twig.

But Lian did not complain. He stepped to a wide corner of the cave, planted his feet firmly, and began to thrust the twig forward.

Wussh!

The sound of the wind was clear.

"Too noisy!" Mo Shanshan barked without opening his eyes.

Lian took a breath, stabilized his emotions, and tried again.

Wussh!

"Fool! You are using muscle power, not your will!"

Lian continued to thrust. Ten times, a hundred times, a thousand times. His arm began to go numb, and his shoulder muscles felt as if they were tearing again, but every time he felt weak, he visualized the face of the Black Cloud Sect leader smiling over his father's corpse.

Blood began to drip from his palms, blistered by the friction against the bark, but Lian did not stop. Each thrust became more focused. He began to realize that to silence the wind, he could not fight the air; he had to become part of the air itself.

On the five-thousandth thrust, something strange happened. The twig felt as if it had vanished from his hand. When he lunged forward, there was no whistle of wind. Only a sharp silence.

The twig pierced a dry leaf falling from the ceiling so cleanly that the leaf didn't even flutter; it simply hung there with a perfect, tiny hole in its center.

Mo Shanshan opened one eye. A cynical smirk played on his parched lips. 'Terrifying talent,' he thought. 'Perhaps... just perhaps, he is the one who will reclaim what they stole from me.'

"Enough for this morning," Mo Shanshan said loudly. "Now, go to the river. Catch three fish using that twig. If you ruin the meat, you will sleep hungry again."

Lian nodded, tucking the twig into his waist as if it were a priceless heirloom, and stepped out toward the frozen river with a newfound resolve.