My name is Mo Liang.
I was born a commoner in a brutal, patriarchal martial world. In a land where power determines worth, the weak are left behind to rot in the gutters. That's what happened to me.
My parents left me on the street when I was still a child. Another mouth to feed, they said. Less burden on the family. From that moment on, I survived on my own—never relying on anyone.
But not everyone was cruel.
There was one girl.
Li Yueran.
Even though she had barely enough food for herself, she always shared with me. One bun split in half. One bowl shared between us. Every day, no matter how hungry she was, she would make sure I had something to eat.
She was the first woman I ever loved.
We grew up side by side, two orphans scraping by on the streets of Jinghu City. Sleeping beneath broken stalls. Running from guards. Holding each other through storms. In that cold, unforgiving world, she was my only warmth.
One day, when I was about ten, Yueran took my hand and told me she wanted to show me something. I thought she had found food. Or maybe a place to sleep without rats.
But fate had other plans.
That day, we met him.
A martial master—wandering, cloaked in worn robes, with a long blade tied to his back. The people of the street whispered about him: The Wandering Warrior. A nameless swordsman who roamed the land, testing fate and training worthy disciples.
He looked at me with sharp, ancient eyes. "Boy," he said, "do you want to follow me?"
I hesitated. I looked at Yueran.
She clenched my hand and whispered, "Are you going to leave me just like that?"
Her voice shook something inside me.
I turned back to the master and said, "I will go with you—but only if you take Yueran as your disciple too."
At first, he refused. "She has no talent," he said. "She is weak."
But I didn't back down.
And finally… he sighed.
"Very well. Both of you shall follow me."
That was the beginning of our journey.
We traveled from city to city, mountain to mountain. I trained every day under Master's guidance. Sword forms. Breath control. Qi techniques.
I was a fast learner. I fought beasts and bandits, climbed cliffs and meditated under waterfalls. My blade grew faster, my qi stronger.
Yueran, though… she struggled.
She had no talent for cultivation. Her qi channels were weak. No matter how hard she trained, she couldn't progress. But I never left her behind.
I started earning money from missions. Hunting beasts. Escorting merchants. Catching criminals. I used that money to buy her herbs, pills—anything to help her grow stronger.
Even when she failed, I encouraged her.
Because I loved her.
I didn't care if she was weak. She was kind. She was mine.
Years passed.
I earned a name across the martial world.
They called me the Dark Sword Emperor—a shadow that cut through corruption and chaos.
With my master and Yueran, I founded a sect—Heavenly Sword Sect. What began as three people in a cave became one of the Five Great Sects of the Jinghu Region.
We built it from nothing.
Brick by brick. Blade by blade.
I made a promise to myself: one day, I would make her my wife.
The wedding was arranged. The banners were raised. Our sect was at its peak.
But the night before the ceremony... everything crumbled.
She poisoned us.
Me and Master.
The tea we shared to celebrate—the same tea we drank a thousand times before—was laced with a paralytic poison that froze our limbs but left our minds awake.
Master collapsed first.
I turned to her, confused, but unable to move.
"Yueran?" I choked out. "Why…?"
She looked at me—and the face I loved twisted into something grotesque. Her eyes were cold. Her lips curled in disgust.
"How could a mere roadside worm like you ever think you were worthy of me?" she sneered.
My chest tightened. "What… are you saying?"
She laughed.
"You really believed all that? That I cared for you? Fed you out of kindness?" Her voice was sharp, venomous. "I only fed you back then because I planned to sell you to a slave trader for coin. But you were pretty. Useful. And stupid."
I shook my head, breath catching in my throat.
"You gave me martial techniques, status, and a whole sect. You made it easy."
She stepped closer, crouching in front of me.
"The Demonic Cult gave me the technique," she said. "A qi-draining art that extracts power from others. I planned this for years. And now, I'll drain your master's qi first... then yours."
I watched, helpless, as she placed her palm on Master's chest.
A red glow shimmered. His body convulsed. His life force vanished like mist in the wind.
He was dead before I could scream.
"Stop..." I gasped.
She turned to me next.
"I always hated you," she said. "You, with your talent. Your kindness. Your useless loyalty. You made me feel small."
She placed her hand over my dantian.
"And now... you'll make me transcendent."
Pain exploded through my core. I felt my qi being ripped from me. My dantian—my foundation—shattered.
I blacked out.
When I woke, I was chained in a cart, heading to the countryside.
She didn't even bother killing me.
She sent me away—to be sold as a slave.
My martial life was over.
I tried to train again, but without a dantian, I was nothing. A third-rate thug beat me in a street brawl. My body trembled when I tried to control qi. My hands—once steady and sharp—were now weak and clumsy.
I was useless.
I was broken.
I started hating women.
All of them.
I began to believe none of them were sincere. That every woman had an intention. A knife behind her smile. A trap behind her kindness.
Then, one day, as I lay in a run-down inn, a stranger barged in.
"You're Mo Liang, right?" he asked.
I nodded.
"I lost a bet," he said, grinning. "And they said I'd get back what I lost if I killed you."
He stabbed me.
No warning. No grand battle. No glory.
And just like that, the Dark Sword Emperor died—not in war or honor, but over a bet.