When Huang awoke, he was surrounded by neither stone nor rot, but endless silver.
The chamber was a dome of starlight — etched with blade-shaped constellations, each one gently pulsing as if alive. The air was still, heavy with a timeworn power, yet not suffocating. Beneath his feet was polished jade that reflected not his body, but his soul — flickering and uncertain.
And in the center, robed in a robe of sun-faded white and holding no weapon, stood a figure.
His face was ageless.
His eyes were deep with eternity.
He bore no aura of might — yet everything around him bent subtly in reverence, as though the stars themselves had bowed long ago and never risen.
Jiang Fei's soul hovered beside Huang, faint and translucent now, like smoke threaded with light. He looked around — not afraid, but quiet, awed.
The figure turned to them.
"I am but a shadow," he said. His voice was not loud, but it echoed within the marrow. "A remnant of one who once stood at the peak. I have been dead for fifty thousand years."
He looked gently toward Fei.
"And so, I am only a whisper. I no longer have the power to save you, little one."
Fei's soul flickered. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he bowed his head.
"I understand."
"But," the Master continued, turning now to Huang, "you came with him. Not as servant. Not as pawn. You shielded him when you could not fight. You stood against fate with nothing but will. And more…"
He reached forward.
Huang flinched, but the hand passed into his chest — warm, not cold, threading through bone and qi like breeze through silk.
The Immortal's eyes glowed.
"A perfect sea," he whispered. "Untouched. Infinite."
He smiled.
"You are a Void Vessel."
A rush of light burst from Huang's body. He cried out — not in pain, but in revelation. His dantian, once still and cold, now swirled with motion. What had been a flickering ember of life suddenly blazed into a silent flame, devouring even spiritual interference. A constitution not of fire, wind, or thunder, but of absence — the ability to hold all, yet be shaped by none.
The Master pulled back.
"I cannot bestow teachings," he said. "But I can leave one thing behind."
From his palm, a sword appeared. It was not metal, but a long stream of translucent divine essence, coiled and writhing like a living thing. And in one motion, he pressed it into Huang's chest — not slicing, not burning, but vanishing into the sea of his cultivation.
"You are now the bearer of my Divine Sword," the Master said, "but you will not wield it yet. You must grow. Rise. Endure. Its voice will remain silent until you are worthy."
Huang gasped, falling to one knee, breathing heavy. And when he rose, a simple spirit sword was lying by his side. Its blade was sharp, its hilt worn, and it held no presence — but it pulsed with a single wordless bond.
"This will guide you for now," the Master said.
Fei, who had watched all this in silence, now turned to the Immortal.
"But what of me?" he asked. "Will I fade?"
The Master's eyes met his.
"I cannot save you. But he might."
He looked to Huang.
"If you become his Sword Spirit, your soul will remain anchored. It will feed from his growth. And when he ascends, he may perform the Body-Soul Reunification Technique to call you back to life."
Fei's eyes widened.
"Or," the Master added, "should you become an Immortal Sword Spirit in your own right, you may return on your own — wielding yourself, for yourself."
Fei turned to Huang.
"You don't have to accept—"
"I do," Huang said instantly. "You stood for me. I'll carry you forward."
The Master raised his hand, and a soft glow engulfed them both.
"This is the Ritual of Sword and Master," he intoned. "Let the blade know the hand. Let the soul guide the path. Let life and legacy become one."
Fei's soul flickered — then curved — then shimmered — then split across Huang's body and entered the spirit sword beside him.
Huang clutched the hilt.
And the sword pulsed — once.
Then silence.
When Huang opened his eyes again, the Immortal Master was gone.
Only the chamber of starlight remained, quiet and watching.
And in his hand, Huang now held not just a blade — but a bond.
He was no longer a slave.
He was the bearer of the Divine Sword.
And behind him walked a spirit who once walked beside him.
The chamber of starlight remained silent long after the Immortal Master's echo had faded. Only Huang's quiet breaths filled the vast dome, his spirit sword resting across his lap like a sleeping beast. Time no longer passed in normal rhythm — this was the sanctum of an Immortal. Days, hours, or minutes had little meaning here.
Huang sat cross-legged beneath the star-forged ceiling, the air thick with spiritual essence. A single stream of sword intent trickled endlessly from the walls, weaving into his bones, pooling in his cultivation sea.
The Divine Sword slept deep within his dantian — not pulsing, not vibrating, but present. Like a sleeping dragon with one eye half-open.
The Void Vessel constitution revealed its truth.
He devoured the energy around him — not with hunger, but with silence. The qi did not resist him. It flowed into him like water rushing into a vast, empty lake.
There was no bottleneck. No stagnation. No need for pills or spiritual fire.
He sat. He breathed.
And he rose.
From Level 3… to 4. Then to 5.
Each stage felt like another gate opening. His body trembled with newfound control. The essence began to hum along his limbs, running like invisible threads through his muscles and nerves.
To 6.
Then to 7.
Mid-stage of the Bronze Seal Stage — the beginner realm of all cultivators. But with the Void Vessel and the Divine Sword sleeping inside him, even that simple milestone was enough to shake a young clan's core disciples.
When he opened his eyes, they were no longer the dull, weary eyes of a slave.
They were steady.
And quiet.
And deep.
Beside him, the spirit sword shimmered faintly — Jiang Fei's presence resting in the blade. There was still sorrow there. But no regret.
"I've reached mid-stage," Huang whispered, running a hand over the blade. "It's not much… but it's a start."
The sword pulsed once — faint approval.
At that moment, the chamber responded.
The starlight ceiling dimmed, and a ring of runes ignited in a full circle around him. The air bent, and at the center of the dome, a portal opened — shaped like an ancient bronze mirror, rippling with warped light.
The tomb had accepted his awakening.
It was time to go.
But Huang turned to Fei's still, cold body lying on a jade slab near the altar. It had not aged. The sanctum had preserved it — not through cultivation, but through reverence.
There, beside the body, lay a simple black storage ring with an engraving in ancient celestial script: Return only with purpose.
Huang bowed deeply to the altar. Then he slid the ring on his finger and carefully placed Jiang Fei's body inside, sealing the space with a lock of his own spiritual signature.
Then, with Fei's sword spirit aiding him from within the blade, Huang began what should have been impossible.
Mimicking a cultivator's bloodline required at least high-level illusion techniques or spiritual duplication arrays. But Fei's presence within him allowed a rare synchronization. With his Void Vessel's ability to mold and mirror, and Fei's cooperation in projecting his own soul imprint, Huang altered his voice, gait, aura, and even the flow of blood qi around his meridians.
When he finished, the reflection staring back at him in the polished jade floor was not Huang.
It was Jiang Fei.
"You sure about this?" Huang asked quietly.
The sword spirit vibrated softly in response — steady, resolute.
"I'll walk as you," Huang said. "Until we get justice. Not just for us. But for Luo Sen. For Mu Xiaoyi. For every one of us who was thrown away."
He stepped toward the portal.
The air shimmered with ancient approval.
And with one last glance at the fading chamber, Huang — cloaked in another's name, armed with a buried blade, and carrying the ghost of his only friend — stepped into the light.
The world outside would never see him the same way again.