Nyx’Sol took a deep breath. This aura was hard to be comfortable with, but it was not oppressive. It did not constrain his movement or hinder him from picking his map from his backpack. It merely felt cold and threatening, like a steadily projected warning.

  His movement felt normal, but every twist and turn he made felt forced, as if overcoming a fear of… being cut. Sol realized that the necklace around his neck was not influencing the perceived colder temperature. Therefore, the cold was not real. It was merely the feeling of a sharp, cold steel blade hovering over his skin, which would mean that this cultivator was a swordsman.

  Nyx’Sol shouldered his backpack. Since he could take either direction of the road from here, he would just take it as fate and walk the more interesting route.

  After a few minutes of walking, he could finally properly assess the traveler.

  The aura had remained steady, neither increasing nor decreasing. It seemed that the traveler just wanted to make himself known to fellow travelers. On his hip hung two swords: a shorter one in a black sheath and another, longer and curved blade. As they approached each other, Sol realized that the shorter blade was what he would classify as a standard-sized sword.

  He doubted that he could have even lifted the much longer blade that effortlessly hung on the traveler.

  While his aura and swords brought the traveler immediate attention, his clothes were unassuming and simple—a plain black cultivator uniform and a brown traveler's cloak.

  The same could not be said about his face. Short, white hair framed an ageless face, contrasting against dark blue skin. A Demonic Ascended.

  Already, this was a sign that the cultivator had endured decades of hardship, as demons did not age. Their hair would slowly turn white as they journeyed into different worlds through summonings. Each time, some of their hair would permanently change to a pure, white color.

  Demons reached the status of Demonic Ascended when not a single hair remained in its original color.

  This traveler was dangerous, ancient, and his elder in every way imaginable. Therefore, it was only logical to be polite.

  Sol bowed and clasped his hands before himself in a sign of respect. “Greetings.”

  The swordsman stopped before him. The aura vanished, as if he was satisfied with the younger demon’s greeting. “Look at me,” he spoke in a calm but demanding voice.

  Nyx’Sol did as he was told and looked into his cold gray eyes.

  Fine, thin scars ran across a face that bore a curious look. “Why do you carry a sword?” he asked.

  The traveler's presence was overwhelming but also deeply interesting to Sol. Why had he asked that? He answered, “It was a gift.”

  “It is not a gift anymore,” the traveler pointed out. “It is your weapon now?”

  Sol nodded. “Yes.” Then he continued, “May I ask you something in return?”

  “You may.”

  “Your aura. Is it the constant presence of,” Sol tried to put it into words, “blades that are ready to cut? It feels that way.”

  The traveler raised an eyebrow. “What a peculiar question.” Then something spread out from him, like a thousand invisible blades piercing Sol’s body. There was no pain, and it felt less threatening than the aura had—just a wave of something washing over him. Through him.

  As rapidly as it had happened, it disappeared.

  “You are very young,” the swordsman lamented. “Barely awakened as well. You have good senses, to feel an aura’s intent so early on. You are largely correct in assuming my intent as something like a promise to cut.”

  Sol smiled and bowed. “Thank you for answering my question.”

  “It might also be the mark you carry on your cheek. Death so early in life will change a great many details in how you perceive your surroundings.”

  The comment took away Nyx’Sol's good mood. Would he always be seen as the idiot who had died early to an enemy he would have no problem defeating down the line? He gritted his teeth, only to be cut off before he could respond.

  “There is no shame in death,” the traveler said casually, lifting his right arm and rolling up his sleeve. Dozens of golden marks adorned his arm, from just below his elbow up to his shoulder.

  A shiver ran down Sol’s back as he realized the implication.

  Immediately, he bowed and clasped his hands again. “I did not mean to offend.”

  “Of course not,” the traveler said in a conciliatory voice. “I challenge you to a duel.”

  Sol’s eyes opened wide as he remained bowing. Cold sweat ran down his spine. “I apologize for offending you, elder. May we resolve this matter through words rather than force?”

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  The swordsman shook his head gently. “You are rather young to talk of testing your dao against my own. I would assume you are arrogant, had I not just confirmed your young age myself,” he sighed. “You do not know who I am, do you?”

  Meanwhile, Nyx’s entire body was sweating, his brain frantically throwing water onto the burning inferno that demanded he find the right words. After a few seconds, he realized there were none. If this cultivator wished to kill him, there was nothing he could do.

  The realization made Sol calm. Death was just another journey. He brought himself upright again and confirmed the traveler’s guess. “I do not.”

  “Draw your blade and introduce yourself,” he demanded.

  Sol dropped his backpack and unsheathed the sword his father had gifted him. He felt as if his opponent would cut him down at any point during the process.

  “I, Nyx’Sol of the Eternal Blossom Clan, greet this elder.” His heart pounded in his chest. “I accept your request for a duel.”

  The traveler smiled. “My name is Krax’Ousay d’Enoy, and I am the Sword God. Carrying a blade in my presence is a challenge.” He drew a blade from his storage space that looked exactly like Sol’s. “I shall only use as much power as you yourself have.”

  Nyx’Sol's eyes widened. The Sword God. The title of Krax that only one swordsman may carry. The title of the strongest. He had read tales of a Sword God who had slain monstrous beasts before, but he would have never imagined himself meeting a legend this quickly.

  Even if he used half of Nyx’s power, he would likely still defeat him quickly.

  Either way, he would fight this duel, so he would make good use of the experience. It might help him if he survived. And if he did not, he would remember eventually.

  His opponent had not lied about limiting himself. With fluid movement, he approached, and the blade cut forward like a snake, impacting Sol’s blade. The well-practiced motion stood in stark contrast to the lack of power the strike showed.

  The next strike came overhead. Nyx managed to block just in time before a small kick to his left leg made him lose his footing. Another sword strike aimed for his throat but was barely parried.

  “Your footwork is lacking,” the Sword God explained as he kicked Sol in the stomach.

  The words struck something deep inside of Nyx’Sol.

  As his opponent's foot connected, he could feel snowflakes melting on his skin and the soft, cold texture of snow on his fingers.

  Sol was suddenly searching for a very different kind of sword, half-buried in a layer of freshly fallen snow. He felt rage and anger burning within him as he grabbed the blade’s handle with his bloody fingers. The pain that ran down his arm felt muted and distant.

  “Your footwork is lacking,” he heard in a familiar voice.

  A deep breath relieved him of all emotions, thoughts, and raging feelings. He gripped his sword and—

  Nyx was thrown backward by the kick, which acted like a spring to throw him off balance further rather than delivering heavy impact damage.

  But he was calm. Relaxed and ready. His body twisted midair, barely landing on two feet that skidded backward through the road's gravel as Sol stabilized himself with his free hand.

  His sword snapped forward, slicing at the space before him, but the Sword God had not followed.

  Nyx’Sol did not know where this calm and collected feeling came from, but it felt natural. To just give in to his reflexes and instincts and let the blade do its work. A smile spread across his face, recognizing the familiar thrill of battle.

  A quick dash forward with an outstretched blade was nonchalantly parried and diverted. It seemed so effortless that Sol was unsure if he had even struck him with full force.

  For every slash the young demon tried to inflict, a slash of his opponent tore open his skin. A strike to the chest? The Sword God parried and sliced into his upper arm with ease. A stab to the center? He spaced out of it after having stabbed Nyx’s chest.

  Despite the absolute focus he found himself in, the swordmaster was simply more skilled.

  Stab after stab in an attempt to achieve something resulted in his upper body riddled with wounds, drenching his clothing with blood.

  One last feint was read through before Sol even started it, and a big gash opened across his chest. His sword flew through the air, and a kick sent him to the floor.

  His fingers gripped the gravel. If he just had more power, he could have enjoyed this for a little longer. He bit his lip in frustration as he slowly bled out.

  Was he even bleeding out? The wounds were not very deep and had avoided his vitals—another testament to the skill of his opponent, which somehow made this even more frustrating.

  “I thank you for our duel. But let me give you some advice,” the swordmaster spoke, standing above him. “You enjoyed this fight, this dance of blades, the pain that came with it. You lost yourself in it, without realizing that you had already lost something important.” He said this while storing away both his and Sol’s blades in his storage ring.

  Then he crouched and fed Sol a small green pill. As he swallowed, his wounds slowly started to close, and some semblance of strength returned to his legs.

  Krax'Ousay d'Enoy drew the smaller sword from his hip, his aura radiating out toward Sol. Compared to their earlier fight, now he could feel the pressure clearly.

  “When fighting a stronger opponent, only draw your blade with the intent to kill,” the swordmaster spoke after sheathing his sword. “Otherwise, you surrender the fight before it even begins. It is a minor thing, but it applies to more than just swordsmanship. If you intend to do something, do it right.”

  Nyx’Sol nodded, still too weak to try and sit. “Thank you for the advice, elder.”

  “Another thing,” the imposing man added. “I can feel how desperate you are to grow quickly. So many of us are when we are young. I will give you the same advice my own master gave me: ‘Become more of who you are before cultivation will make you more of who you are right now.’”

  Sol blinked. Right now, he was weak. Would quick advancement make him even weaker? How did that work, when everyone always aspired to grow quickly? “How?” He tried to shape the concept of the question properly, but his mind failed to supply the words, so he repeated it instead. “How?”

  “Yes, my master liked to speak in riddles. I would like to think that he meant that a strong foundation always has to come first. Do not advance. Stay humble and grow within your realm. Work on yourself until you are sure that you are ready to advance. Then rapid growth will come all on its own. A shaky foundation brings the whole house down. My earlier killing intent made the beasts in the area flee. If you wish to clean yourself, there is a stream in this direction.” He pointed toward the woods opposite Nyx’s earlier shortcut.

  The Sword God smiled fondly and nodded toward Sol. “Good day to you.”

  Then he continued his journey.

  Nyx could not help but call out after him. “What about my sword?”

  “You can come find me and challenge me for it. Anytime.”