The clang of the ceremonial gong echoed through the wide stone chamber of the Sword Hall Tribunal.
Every elder of the Jiang Clan was present, seated in a rising tiered arc behind the silver rail of judgment. The inner disciples stood shoulder-to-shoulder in solemn silence, lined along the polished blackstone walls. At the very center, beneath the dome adorned with the etched names of ancestors, stood the three kneeling figures: Jiang Wei, Jiang Tao, and Jiang Ren—bound by soul-lock chains, their cultivation sealed.
Jiang Son stood at the tribunal's focal platform, robes shimmering faintly with suppressed power.
"Three days ago, justice began its slow return to this clan," he said, his voice calm but resonant. "And now, justice shall be sealed with truth."
He gestured behind him.
From the side, Huang stepped forward, no longer clothed in slave garb, but dressed in the formal silver and blue robes of the Jiang Clan heir—a sword at his side, and something deeper in his eyes than any had seen before.
The inner disciples whispered among themselves. This was the youth who had returned as Jiang Fei—who had bested Wei and the others in open combat, who had brought truth to light.
And now… the moment had come.
Jiang Son's gaze met Huang's. "Reveal what you must. Let no shadow remain."
Huang took a breath. Then, slowly, he lifted his hand toward his face. A shimmering ripple passed through the air as the disguise of Jiang Fei faded like a mist parting to the morning sun.
Gasps filled the hall.
A face no one recognized. Harder. Sharper. A scar along the chin. Brown eyes that had seen cruelty and still stood.
Jiang Wei growled, "You—! You're just a—"
Huang's voice was quiet but firm. "I was a slave. One of three dragged to the tomb to be framed for your crime."
He stepped forward, one pace at a time, as his words rang clearly.
"Luo Sen. Mu Xiaoyi. My brothers in chains. You murdered their lives to protect your secrets. But secrets rot, and rot smells in time."
He turned slightly to the elders. "I do not come seeking your pity or your mercy. Only that your judgment be final and true."
Then he unsheathed the sword.
A beautiful blade of pale silver, humming faintly, like a memory echoing across time.
From it, light poured out—not the raw power of an attack, but the pure, soul-lit radiance of projection.
A translucent figure stood behind Huang now. The crowd went dead silent.
Jiang Fei.
Not whole. Not alive. But present.
"I am Jiang Fei," the soul projection said gently, his voice like a breeze cutting through mourning. "My body may have died beneath the tomb, but I still remain. Not as a vengeful spirit… but as his sword."
Everyone stared in stunned disbelief.
Even the elders, who had stood firm in their verdict, could now feel the resonance. The soul's signature was unmistakable. The patriarch's only son had not died in vain. His soul had chosen to live on—bonded—to the very slave they'd once called unworthy of speech.
Fei continued, "He is Huang. No clan. No root. But he was my only friend… and the man who carried me from death. I gave him my sword, my will, and my path. One day, I will return—reborn—and until then, he is my blade."
Silence held for a long breath.
Then Jiang Son stepped forward.
"Let the verdict be passed."
Three golden slips flew from his robe—sigils of sentencing—binding with ancient script.
"For framing a core heir, the murder of kin, the forging of memories, and the use of forbidden talismans to harm soul and bloodline—Jiang Wei, Jiang Tao, and Jiang Ren are hereby stripped of name and cultivation. You will be cast into the Spirit Abyss Prison for thirty years. Your souls shall be marked. And if you survive, you may never return to the Jiang Clan."
A crack of soul-light burst from the slips, locking onto the three conspirators.
They screamed as the chains deepened, their energy draining into the seals, their faces contorting with despair.
"No! I was to join the Imperial Sword Sect!"
"We did what was needed—!"
"You can't do this—!"
But no one spoke for them. No elder dared. Not even the sect envoys who had once favored them.
Jiang Son turned to the assembled disciples.
"Let this mark the end of rot within the Jiang Clan. The Sword Hall will no longer protect corruption beneath gold-threaded robes. Our blades are not for privilege, but for purpose."
He gestured toward Huang.
"And as my son's chosen heir… Huang will remain under our banner."
Another silence followed, then a slow ripple of respectful nods and reluctant bows.
Some elders glowered. Some disciples looked confused.
But none denied what they had seen.
---
Later that evening, alone on a balcony overlooking the moonlit Sword Hall, Huang held the blade before him, Jiang Fei's projection beside him—flickering now, dimmer with exhaustion.
"You sure you want to keep this up?" Huang asked quietly. "They'll expect things I can't give them. Politics. Traditions. Bloodlines."
Fei smiled. "Then give them something else. A sword that serves no lies."
Huang's fingers tightened around the hilt.
"Then we'll burn through the rot. And when you return, we'll carve justice together."
The wind stirred.
And somewhere deep within the clan, the true change had already begun.