Time meant nothing here.
No sun nor moon rose over the endless sky of the Path of the Sealed Sword.
No shadows marked the hours, and no sound denoted the passing of seconds. Lin Mu walked through voids, across broken stone, through silver fields and blood-red skies, never knowing how long he'd been inside.
A day? A week? Perhaps a year? He stopped counting after the twentieth trial. It didn't matter. The only measure of time here was progress—and pain.
This was no mere path. This was a forge. And he was the blade.
Trial after trial came, each unlike the last. Each a facet of the sword—and the soul.
In an endless hall of mirrors, Lin Mu came face to face with himself—no, not just himself, but a thousand variations.
Some were twisted by hatred, bearing the blood of friends on their hands. Some were weak and bitter, their eyes empty after choosing safety over justice. Others had walked different paths, wielding fire, poison, or abandoning the sword altogether.
