Waking Of A World Chapter 1: Chapter 1: A Distain Past.

Read chapter 1 of Waking Of A World by Victor_WIlliam on NovelPedia.

Inside a large office room, a young man in his late twenties slouched in a high-backed leather chair, one leg casually crossed over the other. A magazine lay open across his face like a makeshift blindfold. The man had long black hair tied low at the back into a ponytail, and his face was marked here and there by thin, faded scars that looked more like silver threads than old wounds. He wore a striking ensemble dominated by crimson and red tones, layered in the elegant yet martial style of ancient eastern courts. Lying by his side was a simple oriental sword. The man’s arms were folded across his chest, his posture seeming relaxed yet somehow coiled. His breathing had slowed to the deep, even rhythm of sleep. Behind those closed eyelids, he was no longer in the office. He was dreaming of a distant past. “To kill or to be killed.” Those were the first words his father ever spoke to him. Ever since he was a child, all he remembered was standing barefoot in the snow-dusted courtyard of the old Qingyun estate, with a blunt wooden practice sword in his hands. From that day forward, his existence narrowed to a single purpose. “You are a weapon. Always remember that.” To become the sword for others to wield. To slash through obstacles. To burn what could not be cut. His father drilled the philosophy into him with the same relentless precision he used to hone steel. He taught him to be effective, emotionless, and unyielding. Every mistake was corrected. He still remembered the faces of those who watched him grow into his role. The Eight Swords of Qingyun stood like statues in their black and gold robes, their eyes narrowed in assessment. The Tianyuan Four Heavenly Generals were resplendent in ceremonial armor, their expressions a mixture of disdain, reluctant respect, and cold calculation. The courtiers and shadow officials of the Tianyuan imperial house whispered behind silk fans, weighing his worth like one weighs a newly forged blade. Some looked at him with contempt, a tool pretending at humanity. Some looked at him with pity, a boy who would never know anything else. Most looked at him with satisfaction. A perfect weapon had been forged, and it answered to their side. Then the dream shifted, as dreams do, to a certain day. The location was high in the misty mountains, where cherry blossoms fell like slow pink snow. His father stood opposite him, tall and iron-strong. No words were spoken. Only the soft ring of steel clearing scabbards. The duel was intense, beautiful in its brutality. Every movement carried the weight of decades of slaughter and relentless training. Crimson sprayed across white stone. Robes tore. Blades clashed and parted in showers of sparks. Pain burned through his body, his shoulder, and his leg. Deep cuts burned like fire, but he felt them only as distant, irrelevant sensations. In the end, he was the one left standing. The final strike came clean: a single line of red across his father’s chest. The old man looked down at him one last time, his eyes showing no anger, no regret. Only a faint, approving nod, as though the blade had finally achieved perfect sharpness. Then the light left those familiar eyes. His father’s body crumpled. Blood pooled at his feet, thick and steaming in the cold mountain air. He stood there, breathing hard, his body screaming from a dozen wounds. For a moment, he waited for something to come: grief, anger, anything. Nothing did. After all, this was what he was supposed to be, right? A weapon. A tool. Perhaps it was better that way. Just then, suddenly, a gloved hand reached out, plucked the magazine from his face, and delivered a firm smack to the top of his head. “Liang Shen!” A voice spoke out, not loud and not soft, but it seemed to be coming from directly in front of him. “Ah!” Liang Shen jolted awake with a small, startled sound. It wasn’t pain, it was more surprise. His eyes blinked open, momentarily unfocused, before focusing on the figure standing over him. He recognized the