The translucent sword spirit before Chen Xin regarded him silently, its form flickering like a
candle in a windless room.
"You have awakened, but do you remember who you are?" it asked, voice echoing with ancient
weight.
Chen Xin searched his own mind. Memories hovered, like shards of glass—some sharp and
vivid, others hazy and broken.
He could see flashes of the Seven Treasure Glazed Tile Clan, the faces of his comrades, the
smell of wet earth after rain, the clash of steel in battle. Yet, his name felt like a distant echo,
slipping further away the more he reached for it.
"I... I am a swordsman," he said slowly, "but my name..."
The spirit's gaze hardened. "A sword without a name is but a tool. You must reclaim your name
before you can reclaim your blade."
Before Chen Xin could respond, the mist thickened around him. Shadowy forms
emerged—ghostly apparitions shaped from his doubts and regrets.
One took the shape of his younger self, eyes full of promise but flickering with uncertainty.
"You were strong once," it whispered, "but now you are nothing. Forgotten. Nameless."
Another shadow, older and weary, sneered, "You died serving a dying clan. What worth is your
sacrifice?"
Chen Xin's heart clenched. The weight of those accusations was heavier than any blade.
He clenched his fists, recalling the countless hours of training, the battles fought, and the loyalty
that had defined him.
"I am not nothing," he said firmly. "I am Chen Xin. I am a sword, and I will not break."
With that, the shadows recoiled, dissolving into mist.
The sword spirit nodded once, faint approval in its gaze.
"Remember this: the blade follows the soul. To reclaim one, you must first reclaim the other."
Chen Xin closed his eyes, feeling the mist swirl around him — a sea of lost memories, waiting to
be reforged.
His journey had truly begun.