The air in the Outer Disciple Courtyard felt different now. Whispers swirled like smoke, thick with speculation and envy. Lucius, still only a child in years, had grown into a presence that stretched beyond the bounds of the courtyard's training stones and dusty wooden arenas. Every gaze lingered a moment too long, every word hushed as he passed. Something had shifted.
By now, everyone in the outer sect had heard the name—the Crimson Demonic Sword. Though he had never claimed it himself, the title had rooted itself deep into the bones of the disciples. It was a name whispered during night training, murmured in awed tones after matches, and carried with reverence in the mouths of those who had witnessed him fight.
Yet Lucius remained unchanged—or so it appeared.
He still meditated each morning beneath the stone archway where the sun's first rays struck. He still wore the standard black robes, though the hem now bore quiet stains of soil, ink, and training dust. His hair, longer now, fell over his sharp, youthful face like threads of midnight silk. The crimson in his eyes never dimmed, though the glow now seemed deeper, as if fire had begun to burn behind them.
But behind the scenes, something within him was stirring—subtle, potent. He had begun dreaming in sword forms, moving even in his sleep. His body pulsed with quiet strength, unspent potential simmering beneath his skin. The style that had begun to emerge from his training was no longer entirely Velzarim. It had shades of something older, something more fluid and merciless.
On this particular morning, he faced a new challenge—not from the elders, but from within the ranks of the outer disciples.
Three disciples stood before him, older boys—two in their early teens, the third nearly fifteen. Each wore hardened expressions and the arrogance of those who had dominated their peers until Lucius arrived. They bore the surnames of the Blade Sect: Varn, Kile, and Thamos. Known bullies, they were used to intimidating new talents to maintain their status.
"You've made quite the name for yourself," said Thamos, the eldest. "The Crimson Demonic Sword, huh? Sounds flashy. But I think you've forgotten your place."
Lucius said nothing. He was sweeping the courtyard—his assigned duty for the day. He continued his work, undisturbed, even as the three stepped closer.
"Oi! You think you're better than us?" barked Varn, knocking the broom from his hands.
Lucius looked at the broom, then at Varn. "No."
Kile sneered. "So you admit it, huh?"
"I don't think about it," Lucius replied calmly. "That's the difference."
Before they could respond, he retrieved the broom and returned to his sweeping. The insult hit harder than any sword.
But it wasn't pride that made them react—it was fear.
Thamos drew his practice blade, a dull-edged training weapon of black iron. "You've disrespected senior disciples. That's punishable by combat."
Lucius paused. Then set the broom aside.
"I accept."
The sparring circle filled within minutes. Word spread like wildfire. The Crimson Demonic Sword was about to fight three of the senior outer disciples.
Some elders peered from the training balconies above, arms crossed, curious.
Lucius stood barefoot in the dirt ring, no blade on his hip. The trio of Blade Sect disciples stepped in together, drawing their dull swords in unison.
Saigon watched from a shaded corridor, his expression unreadable. A few inner sect scouts were present too—unofficially, of course. Even the senior disciples of other sects had paused their drills to watch.
A bell chimed. The match began.
They struck at once. Varn and Kile from either side, Thamos charging straight ahead.
Lucius didn't flinch.
He ducked under Kile's slash, let Varn's blade skim past his shoulder, then stepped between them. His hands blurred. He seized Kile's wrist, twisted, and disarmed him. With the same motion, he struck Thamos's stomach, using Kile's own blade as leverage.
A breath later, Kile was on the ground.
Varn swung wildly. Lucius pivoted with a single step, placing Varn in Thamos's path. Thamos's blade struck his own ally, unbalancing both.
Lucius swept Thamos's legs, kicked Varn's knee, and sent both sprawling to the ground.
The entire sequence took less than ten seconds.
Silence reigned.
Lucius stood in the center, not panting, not boasting. He bowed once—to the circle, to the tradition—and picked up his broom again.
The watching disciples didn't cheer. They watched him in stunned quiet.
It wasn't just his skill.
It was his restraint.
He hadn't injured them.
He had exposed them.
Later that night, Saigon called him to the elder's courtyard.
"You've created unrest," the elder said.
Lucius inclined his head. "They challenged me."
"And you humiliated them."
"I won."
Saigon grunted. "You are not wrong. But you've shaken the balance of the outer sect. The inner disciples are watching now. So are the other elders. You'll soon be sent for evaluation."
Lucius looked up. "To enter the inner sect?"
"Or be exiled. The elders will not welcome one they cannot control."
Lucius's silence stretched.
Saigon sighed. "There's someone I want you to meet before that day comes."
The next morning, Lucius followed Saigon deep into the southern cliffs. They walked through narrow passages, over hanging bridges, into caverns where the air smelled of sulfur and incense.
At the end of the path stood a hut carved into the mountain itself. Moss coated the stone like old armor. Wind whispered through its cracks.
An old woman waited outside. She had no title, wore no sect robes, and sat on a flat rock grinding herbs with a stone pestle.
"This," said Saigon, "is Grandmaster Irah. She was once the Heaven Destroyer Sect's last living inner guardian. She withdrew from the cult after its fall."
Lucius bowed deeply.
"I see him," Irah said. Her eyes were milky, but her expression was sharp. "The child who remembers."
"You knew my ancestors?" Lucius asked.
"I knew your master's master," she said. "And I knew Klaigos—the Sword Demon. I was there when the sky bled red."
Lucius's heart skipped.
"I've forgotten more martial forms than the sects now teach," Irah said. "But perhaps you can remember them for me."
She reached behind her and drew an old scroll. The ink was faded, the edges worn, but Lucius recognized the script: ancient Heaven Destroyer calligraphy.
She handed it to him.
"The Sixth Blade of Mourning," she said. "Incomplete. I want to see if you can restore it."
Lucius opened the scroll.
As he read, memories surged—not his own, but inherited. He could see the form as if he'd lived it. He stood. He stepped. His arms moved. The wind around him stirred.
Irah watched, unmoving.
Then she smiled.
"You are his shadow."
"No," Lucius said softly. "I am his ember."
That night, Lucius sat at the highest terrace of the outer sect, gazing across the chasm that separated it from the inner sanctums. He thought of the path ahead—the battles not yet fought, the truths not yet spoken.
He knew the path forward would be darker, more perilous. He would soon face scrutiny, envy, hatred. Perhaps even betrayal.
But he also knew this:
He was no longer just a disciple.
He was a remnant of fire that refused to be extinguished.
And one day, the world would remember the Heaven Destroyer Sect—not as a ruin, but as a warning.
The Crimson Demonic Sword had begun to burn.
And no shadow could smother it.
End of Chapter 3