The world beyond Wraithbone Hollow was hushed in endless white.
Snow hung thick on the crooked limbs of frost-petrified trees, blanketing the forest floor in a smooth, deceptive stillness. There was no birdsong. No wind. Only the faint crunch of Li Shen's steps as he trudged forward through the frozen wilds.
He moved slowly, every limb aching. The Eidolon Blade on his back radiated a cold deeper than the snow around him, and his soul felt worn thin—as if stretched by the weight of memory.
His Ocean Soul Blade rested sheathed at his side, but its presence now felt dulled, distant—like it too needed rest.
Li Shen pressed on.
For miles he walked beneath ice-latticed boughs and between frozen rivers. Strange markings were carved into some trees—runes half-buried beneath frost. They pulsed faintly with remnant qi, but their origin eluded him. Not from any sect he knew.
Eventually, he reached a clearing—circular, too perfect to be natural. The snow here was untouched, flawless.
No wind stirred.
No birds flew.
And then he noticed—
There were no footprints.
Not his. Not anyone's.
From the trees stepped a man—or what appeared to be one.
He wore robes of indigo and pearl, stitched in old patterns long forbidden. A woven mask covered his face, etched with tears of silver. His hair was bound in a high knot, and at his hip rested a sword of translucent crystal, its edge misting like a breath.
He walked forward… without sound. Not even the snow beneath his feet shifted.
"Li Shen," the man said, his voice like mist. "Bearer of three blades. Herald of the forgotten edge."
Li Shen drew Ocean Soul, though it hissed in protest. He narrowed his eyes. "You know my name."
"All swords know your name, now," the stranger replied. "You have awakened a lineage best left buried."
"What do you want?"
"I want to test your step. To measure your soul against the storm that comes."
He unsheathed his blade with a whisper of wind.
No killing intent flared from him. No bloodlust. Only an implacable silence that pressed into the earth.
And then—
He vanished.
Li Shen spun, barely catching the movement out of the corner of his eye. The silent traveler reappeared behind him and struck downward with a blade like falling starlight.
Ocean Soul's Third Form: Crescent Shield.
A wave of spiraling water rose to deflect the blow—but the crystal blade sliced through it as though it were smoke.
Li Shen staggered back, calling on Mirror Vale's Second Reflection: Echo Step, vanishing into a shimmer of illusion as he leapt sideways.
But the traveler struck again—his blade moving at odd, stuttering angles, as though guided by memory rather than motion.
Every strike was perfect. Every cut avoided vital points by a hair's breadth, not out of mercy, but precision.
Li Shen retaliated, slashing with a twin arc of Ocean Soul and Mirror Vale in tandem, then followed with a whirling draw of the Eidolon Blade.
The Eidolon did not sing.
Instead, the very air bent around it, swallowing light and color. The crystal blade of the traveler met it, and for an instant—
Time stopped.
Snowflakes hung suspended mid-fall. Even Li Shen's breath froze in his lungs. He heard voices. Saw a city of blades. The sky turned black.
Then it passed.
He stood alone.
The traveler stood unharmed, though his mask was cracked.
"You touched the seam," he said, voice softer now. "You are not ready for what lies beyond it."
"Who are you?" Li Shen asked, breath ragged.
The man lowered his blade. "I am called Ko Leng. Once of the Broken Prism Sect. The last swordwatcher of the Pale Archive."
Li Shen's eyes widened. That name—Broken Prism—belonged to a sect destroyed before the Era of Shattered Banners. A sect of sword-recorders and memory keepers.
Ko Leng continued, "I guard the crossing into the Vale of Mourned Stars. That is where your next trial lies, if you still mean to gather blades."
Li Shen nodded slowly. "I do."
The traveler sheathed his sword and stepped aside. "Then cross. But know this—each blade you bear will awaken its own echo. And echoes, left untamed, devour the voice."
Beyond the clearing, the forest descended into a long, narrow pass between knife-edged cliffs. The snow thinned. Ice gave way to frost-withered grass and ruined stone paths, broken by age and forgotten wars.
Li Shen passed beneath a shattered archway.
There, carved into black rock, were ancient words in dying script:
"To seek the Mourned Stars, one must surrender the self that entered."
He felt the Eidolon Blade hum—like a whisper from the deep.
He stepped into the Vale.
The stars above brightened unnaturally, flaring even through daylight skies.
And the wind began to sing.
Not in tones.
But in names.