The wind carried no song that night—only silence. A silence so deep it swallowed even the breath of the mountains. Cold mist crept along the edge of the cliffs like fingers searching for something long lost. Beneath the veil of night, where stars blinked timidly behind thick clouds, sat the Hermit—cross-legged, unmoving, eternal.
His eyes stared into the void. Not outward, but inward. They were not the eyes of a man seeking peace, but of one who had touched the heart of chaos and returned… quieter. Not healed. Just quieter.
Behind him stood Meixi, still barefoot, the hem of her robe damp from walking the dew-covered trail. Her gaze remained fixed on his back. That back—wide, calm, ancient. It felt like it had carried centuries of weight and yet stood firm, unshaken. There was a chill in the air, but she didn't shiver. She didn't speak either. She simply waited, knowing he would speak when the silence was ready to break.
And then it did—like glass cracking beneath unseen pressure.
"You heard it again, didn't you?" he asked, his voice like a low breath in the dark.
Meixi's eyes widened. "The... blade?"
He nodded slowly. "It sings. But not in joy. It whispers when it bleeds."
He reached beside him and unsheathed a sword.
It was... unremarkable.
No glow. No divine aura. No mighty symbols etched into its surface. In fact, to an untrained eye, it might've looked dull. Forgotten. But the moment it tasted the air, the world paused. The mist recoiled. Even the trees seemed to bow. And Meixi's breath hitched in her throat.
She felt it.
That overwhelming grief.
That suffocating sorrow.
"It's not just a sword," the Hermit said softly. "It remembers everything. Every drop of blood it ever drank. Every scream it ever silenced. It carries pain not in its steel, but in its soul."
A soft hum emanated from the blade—not sharp, not piercing—more like a sob held too long. A whisper too tired to scream.
"This sword," he continued, turning it slowly, letting its edge catch the starlight, "was forged in the tears of a dying world. It was made not to conquer... but to punish."
Meixi stepped closer, each footfall hesitant.
"You speak of it like it's alive…"
"It is," he said. "But not like you think. It doesn't move. It doesn't breathe. But it feels. It remembers. It bleeds."
The wind curled around them again, carrying with it a strange metallic tang. Not fresh blood, but old. Ancient. Like the memory of a wound that never healed.
"But… why do you still carry it?" she asked, voice trembling.
The Hermit looked at her, and in his eyes, she saw it—a storm caged behind serenity. Fury, love, regret… all stitched into silence.
"Because I must," he said simply. "There are things in this world worse than death. And there are those who make them real."
He rose slowly, the sword now in his hand, its tip barely grazing the earth, yet the ground shuddered like it knew.
"Once," he said, "this blade screamed. It roared with me. Together, we painted skies red and buried empires. But now…"
He looked down at it, his voice growing quieter, "Now it whispers. Because it is tired. Because I am tired. And yet, fate… she still knocks."
Meixi took another step forward, her voice gentler this time. "And if you don't answer?"
He gave her a smile—sad, beautiful, devastating. "Then she will knock harder."
There was no hero in his face. No savior. Only a man who had seen the world burn and was too tired to light another match, yet too responsible to walk away from the ashes.
Suddenly, the wind changed.
It wasn't natural.
It carried… intent.
A ripple danced across the sky, subtle but chilling. Somewhere, far beyond the mountains, something howled—a creature, a god, a forgotten beast. Meixi didn't know. But the Hermit did. His hand tightened around the sword. Not in eagerness. In acceptance.
"The heavens have begun watching again," he murmured. "Which means someone has defied their script."
Meixi's brows furrowed. "You mean… someone challenged destiny?"
He turned to her fully now. "Someone… or something. And when that happens, the blade bleeds in its sleep. Because it knows it must wake."
The sword pulsed again, faint mist seeping from its edge like smoke rising from a dying fire.
"They call me a sage," he said. "But I am no wise man. Just a killer who learned to sit still."
She opened her mouth to argue, but he raised a hand.
"I know what I am," he whispered. "And I know what this world needs me to become again."
A pause.
Then, slowly, he lifted the blade to the sky.
"Let them come," he said, not in challenge—but in invitation. "Let those who twist fate, shatter lives, and poison truth come crawling from their divine thrones."
He lowered the blade, its edge still humming softly.
"This time, I won't scream," he added. "I'll whisper."
"And the blade will bleed."
And with that, he began walking away—slow steps, heavy with meaning. Meixi didn't follow right away. She stood there, watching the mist curl around where he had stood, sensing the quiet tremor in the world itself.
The blade had spoken.
The world would soon answer.