The Sword Pavilion of Kshirapura was a place of reverence and sharp edges. It was a long, single-story building constructed from dark, oiled wood that had stood for centuries. Unlike the library, it did not smell of old paper, but of whetstone, polishing oil, and the cold, clean scent of high-quality steel. The air inside was still and heavy, imbued with the lingering intent of a thousand generations of sword practitioners.
Displayed on racks along the walls were swords of every kind—long, slender blades for dueling; heavy, broad blades for cleaving armor; short, quick blades for close-quarters combat. These were not just weapons; they were legacies, each with a history.
In the center of the hall, a lone figure stood practicing. It was Bhim, the second prince. Unlike Arjun, whose style was all fiery arrogance, Bhim's practice was a study in methodical, relentless power. He wielded a massive, two-handed battle axe, a weapon most would find unwieldy, but in his hands, it moved with a brutal grace. He was performing the Mountain-Cleaving Axe Art, a technique that emphasized overwhelming force. Each swing displaced the air with a deep thrum, the sheer power of it causing the floorboards to vibrate. He was a mountain in human form, solid and implacable.
When Amrit entered, Bhim stopped mid-swing, his axe held perfectly still. He turned, his broad, usually expressionless face showing a flicker of curiosity. Of the two brothers, Bhim was the simpler one. He understood the world through the lens of strength. Yesterday, he had witnessed a strength that defied his understanding, and it had intrigued him far more than it had enraged him.
"Little brother," Bhim's voice was a low rumble, like rocks grinding together. "You are here."
Amrit nodded. "Brother."
He walked past Bhim, his gaze sweeping over the racks of legendary swords. The system gave him a constant, low-level stream of information on each one.
[Item: Sword of the Weeping Willow. Grade: Spirit. Forged 200 years ago. Contains the sword intent of General Kai. Best suited for fluid, defensive techniques.]
[Item: Crimson Fang. Grade: High-Spirit. Forged with the fang of a Crimson-Maned Lion. Contains a trace of fire essence. Violent and aggressive.]
They were magnificent weapons, treasures that any other cultivator would kill for. But Amrit wasn't looking for a weapon. He was looking for a teacher. He walked to the very back of the pavilion, to a simple, unadorned rack. On it rested a single sword. It was plain, almost ugly. The blade was straight and unadorned, the hilt wrapped in simple black leather, the guard a simple iron disc. It had no name, no history. It was a basic training sword, the kind given to new recruits.
Bhim watched, a frown creasing his brow. "That is a practice blade. It is unbalanced. Its steel is common. It will break."
"All swords are just sharpened pieces of metal," Amrit replied, picking up the blade. He felt its weight, its imperfect balance. It was exactly what he wanted. A blank canvas. "A true swordsman does not blame his tool."
The words were not his own; they were a line from the very manual he had come to study, One Sword.
He walked to the archive section of the pavilion, a small, heavily guarded room where the technique scrolls were kept. The guard, recognizing him and knowing the King's new decree, bowed and allowed him entry without a word. Amrit located the scroll easily. It was old, dusty, and stored in a forgotten corner. He took it, along with the scroll for the incomplete Ghost-Flash Steps, and signed them out in the ledger.
Returning to the main hall, he found a quiet, empty space. He laid the training sword on the ground and unfurled the One Sword manual. The text was, as its reputation suggested, maddeningly esoteric.
"The sword is not in your hand. It is in your intent."
"To swing is to divide the world. The perfect swing leaves the world whole."
"Do not strike the man. Strike the space he occupies."
It was a philosophical treatise, not a set of instructions. Any normal cultivator would read it and be utterly baffled. To Amrit, whose mind had been expanded by the system, it was a profound truth waiting to be unlocked.
He closed his eyes, holding the scroll in his hands. System. Comprehend the principle of 'One Sword'.
[Profound Action: Studying a Conceptual Martial Art.]
[Target: One Sword (Principle Manual).]
[Crit Chance detected… High, due to Host's Spirit-Tempered Body and enhanced comprehension.]
[…Triggering a 5,000x Crit!]
A silent thunderclap echoed in his mind.
The cryptic phrases exploded into a universe of meaning. He didn't just understand the words; he understood the fundamental concept of "cutting." He saw how a blade separates matter, how a swing creates a temporary void, how intent guides energy along an edge. He saw the connection between the swing of a sword, the path of a falling leaf, and the orbit of a distant star. It was all the same principle: a line drawn through reality.
The knowledge of every sword art ever conceived—from the clumsy chop of a bandit to the divine slash of a god—unfolded in his mind, not as a series of techniques to be memorized, but as variations on a single, perfect theme. He had not learned a single stance or movement, but he now understood the soul of swordsmanship better than any grandmaster in the kingdom.
He opened his eyes. The world seemed different. He looked at Bhim, who had resumed his practice. He no longer saw a man swinging an axe. He saw the lines of force, the arcs of intent, the subtle shifts in reality created by each powerful swing.
Amrit picked up the cheap training sword. It felt different in his hand now. It was no longer an unbalanced lump of metal. It was an extension of his will, a tool to draw a line.
He stood still, holding the sword loosely at his side. He didn't assume a stance. He simply was. He thought back to his fight with Arjun, to the moment he had stepped aside. He had evaded. Now, he would learn to attack.
His first action was not a swing. It was a taste.
He focused his intent. He drew a minuscule thread of his new, potent Spirit-Prana from his dantian. He guided it out of his body and into the hilt of the sword. This was the first, most basic step of any weapon-based cultivation: infusing a weapon with Prana. It was a process that normally took months of practice to do smoothly.
The thread of Spirit-Prana flowed into the common iron of the training sword.
[Basic Action: Prana Infusion.]
[Target: Common Iron Training Sword.]
[Crit Chance detected…]
[…Triggering a 1,000x Crit!]
The result was subtle, yet earth-shaking.
The 1,000x-crit-infused Spirit-Prana did not just coat the sword; it transformed it. The common, flawed iron underwent a rapid, violent purification at a molecular level. Impurities were burned away, the crystalline structure of the metal was forcibly realigned into a perfect, impossibly strong lattice. The Prana did not just sit on the surface; it fused with the very essence of the steel, turning the mundane metal into a Spirit-Conducive alloy of the highest grade.
The plain, ugly training sword began to change.
A soft, ethereal hum filled the air around it. The dull grey blade took on a deep, obsidian sheen, as if it were absorbing the light itself. Faint, silver lines, like miniature circuits, spread across its surface, pulsing with a gentle light. The sword, which had been unbalanced and crude, now felt weightless yet indestructible in his hand, a perfect conduit for his intent.
He had not performed alchemy. He had simply taken a taste of Prana and, through a critical success, elevated a piece of junk into a divine weapon that would be the envy of the King himself.
Bhim, who had been focused on his own practice, suddenly stopped. His head snapped up, his eyes wide. He sniffed the air. The faint, metallic scent of the pavilion had been overpowered by a new fragrance—a clean, sharp smell like ozone after a lightning strike, mixed with the faint scent of lotus blossoms. He looked at Amrit, and his jaw went slack.
The sword in his little brother's hand was no longer the piece of scrap metal he had picked up moments ago. It was glowing. It radiated an aura of profound sharpness and power that made the Spirit-Grade axe in his own hands feel like a child's toy.
"What… what sword is that?" Bhim asked, his voice rough with disbelief. "Where did you get it?"
"It is the same one," Amrit said, his voice calm as he admired the transformed blade. The obsidian sword felt alive in his grasp.
He looked at Bhim, then at a solid stone practice dummy in the corner of the yard, used for testing the durability of weapons. It was a ten-foot-tall block of solid granite.
He took a single step forward. He did not assume a fancy stance. He did not roar or gather his power in a flashy display. He simply brought the obsidian sword up in a smooth, simple, upward arc. It was the most basic cutting motion imaginable.
But guided by his transcendent understanding of One Sword and fueled by a wisp of his transformed Spirit-Prana, this simple swing was something else entirely. It was a perfect line drawn through reality.
There was no sound. No boom, no crack, no clang of steel on stone.
The obsidian blade passed through the granite dummy as if it were made of mist.
For a moment, nothing happened. The dummy stood intact. Bhim stared, confused.
Then, a perfectly straight, infinitesimally thin line of black appeared on the surface of the granite. The line ran from the base of the dummy to its top. A second later, the entire ten-foot block of solid stone slid apart, its two halves separating with a whisper-soft shhhh before crashing to the ground with a deafening BOOM.
The cut surface was not rough or shattered. It was as smooth as polished glass.
Bhim stared at the two halves of the dummy, then at the obsidian sword in Amrit's hand, then at his brother's calm, impassive face. The axe slipped from his nerveless fingers and hit the floor with a loud clang.
The world, as Bhim understood it, had just been cleaved in two.