Chapter 9: The Wound Below
The morning the tournament was set to resume, Andrew vanished.
No one saw him leave. No one dared follow.
Guided only by Mihai's cryptic words and Ashren's pulse, he rode past Caedros' sky gates and descended through the blackstone cliffs into the forbidden zone south of the capital—where the land itself was torn open like a scar: The Wound in the Earth.
A canyon older than empires. Carved not by nature, but by magic—and war.
The air grew thick with mana, but not the clean, cultivated energy of cities. This was raw, cracked magic. The kind that twisted beasts and buried memories.
It welcomed him.
The entrance was a shattered monolith: a temple once sealed, now broken. Runes long faded lined the walls—some Andrew could read without knowing why.
He stepped inside.
Ashren began to hum.
The walls narrowed, then opened into a colossal underground chamber. It was silent—but not empty. At the center, bathed in moonlight filtering through a hole in the earth, stood a black altar.
And around it… were swords.
Hundreds.
Broken, rusted, melted into the stone—each one stabbed into the ground like a grave marker.
Andrew walked slowly, reading the names etched on the hilts.
"Kaerith, Blade of the Firstborn."
"Velcras, the Kingslayer."
"Na'thar, Flamefang of Trel'vir."
All blades he'd seen before.
In his visions.
His past lives had faced these weapons… and won.
Ashren began to react—shadows pulling toward the altar.
Andrew stepped forward—and the moment his hand touched it, reality shattered.
He stood in darkness again.
But this time, he wasn't alone.
A hundred versions of himself stood around him—each different, each the same.
One wore royal armor, black and crimson. One was shirtless, with tattoos glowing like fire runes. One was just a boy, holding a dagger with bloody hands. And one…
The Endblade. Crown of shadows. Voice like thunder.
"You seek to wield what you once were?" the Endblade asked. "Then you must own it. Not fear it."
Andrew stepped forward. "I don't want to become a monster."
The Endblade smiled darkly. "Then don't. But know this: what you call a monster—others once called salvation. You burned the old world… to build a better one. And you will need that strength again."
The Endblade raised a hand—and Andrew felt his veins ignite.
He collapsed in the Wound chamber, gasping.
Ashren floated above him, glowing with new symbols.
A piece of the past had returned to him.
He now understood the first Form of the Endblade—Eclipsed Stance, a forgotten sword form built on speed, unpredictability, and overwhelming shadow.
Not just a technique.
A mindset.
A promise.
As he left the chamber, the swords around him whispered.
Not in fear.
In recognition.