Back at the grand Han Family Hall, the air was heavy with tension and whispers. Golden lanterns lined the marble pillars, casting trembling reflections over the crowd gathered below. The elders of the Sword Shandian Sect stood in a perfect circle at the center, their long silver robes rippling slightly with the faint breeze that moved through the open ceiling.

At the heart of that circle stood Han Zhanjian, his figure calm but his pulse pounding under his ribs. The hall, usually a place of feasts and family gatherings, had turned into a sanctum of judgment. Hundreds of servants lined the outer walls, their hands clasped tightly before them, their voices trembling with soft murmurs.

"Will Young Master Zhanjian awaken it?" one whispered.

"I heard that if one possesses the Sword Eyes, even the heavens would tremble," another murmured.

"Han Zukong failed earlier. If the youngest doesn't have it either, the Han Family might lose the sect's favor," a servant said in a worried tone.

"Shh, quiet," someone hissed, "don't let the Patriarch hear."

The murmurs layered upon each other like waves, growing, breaking, merging into one overwhelming hum that filled Zhanjian's ears. He stood still, his fists clenched at his sides, pretending not to hear—but every word stabbed into him. He could feel their expectations, their pity, their doubt. His heart thumped painfully against his ribs.

"Begin the ritual," said the leading elder, his voice deep and resonant, slicing through the whispers like a blade through silk.

Instantly, the hall fell silent. The air grew thick, almost suffocating. The Sword Shandian Sect elders raised their swords and pointed the tips toward the ceiling. Their movements were slow and deliberate, their expressions solemn.

Then, they began to chant.

Low at first—just a faint murmur, like the whisper of blades being unsheathed in a faraway storm. But slowly, their voices rose, layer after layer of ancient verses intertwining, vibrating through the hall. The rhythm was strange, hypnotic, like countless swords clashing and harmonizing at once.

Each word they spoke carried weight. The space trembled. The swords they held began to glow faintly, lines of spiritual light forming a pattern around Zhanjian's body. A circle of pale silver runes appeared beneath his feet, spinning slowly, the symbols reflecting against the polished floor like living light.

The servants gasped as spiritual wind rushed outward, scattering flower petals from the altar and making the hanging banners whip wildly. Han Zhanjian's hair fluttered around his face, his expression strained but steady. The chanting deepened, echoing with a thunderous rhythm that shook the very foundations of the hall.

The pressure grew heavier. A sharp hum filled the air. The entire chamber resonated as though a thousand swords were vibrating at once.

And then—

A sound like the unsheathing of an enormous sword split the silence.

The silver light around him burst upward, spiraling into the air like a column of sword qi piercing the heavens. The floor cracked beneath his feet. The marble walls groaned. Several servants stumbled backward, clutching their chests as the force pushed them away. Even the elders of the Sword Shandian Sect took a step back, their faces tightening in surprise.

The chanting faltered for a moment, but the light only grew brighter.

A gust of sharp wind swept across the hall, cutting through the air with slicing sounds that left faint marks on the walls and pillars. The servants screamed and ducked for cover. Sparks flickered as the spiritual pressure intensified, and then—suddenly—it exploded.

BOOM.

A shockwave rippled outward, shattering lanterns, tearing at the banners, and sending fragments of light soaring. The storm of sword qi was blinding, violent, unstoppable.

Gasps filled the hall.

"Is that... is that the Sword Eyes awakening?" a disciple shouted.

"The power—it's stronger than young master Han Zukong's test!" another yelled.

"Could he really have it?"

"Look! The air—it's cutting!"

The crowd's awe turned to chaos as thin slashes appeared in the air itself, lines of pure sword energy slicing through the light like invisible blades. The elders looked at one another, astonished. For a moment, no one dared move.

Han Zhanjian stood in the middle of it all, breathing heavily, his vision flickering between brilliance and darkness. The energy surging from within him felt too familiar—like an old friend trying to break free from a cage. He could feel the Sword Eyes stirring inside him, trembling, trying to open.

But then, something went wrong.

The storm began to collapse. The light dimmed sharply, as if swallowed by an unseen force. The air grew cold, still, lifeless. The glowing runes flickered once, twice—and then vanished entirely.

The chanting stopped.

Everyone waited, holding their breath. The silence after that immense power was almost deafening.

And then, slowly, one elder lowered his sword. His brows furrowed. He turned to the others. One by one, the elders followed, lowering their swords, their expressions grave.

The light in their eyes dimmed as they exchanged silent glances. Then the lead elder sighed quietly and shook his head.

"It's… not the Sword Eyes," he said softly.

A murmur of confusion rippled through the hall.

"What?"

"How could it not be?"

"But that pressure—!"

"Impossible…!"

Han Zhanjian's breath caught in his throat. His hands trembled slightly. He stared at them, at their calm faces, their quiet disappointment. He wanted to scream.

He knew it wasn't true. He had the Sword Eyes. He could feel it pulsing behind his vision, sealed and restrained—but alive. He could sense the invisible shackles twisting around it, the ones his eldest brother Han Ji had placed long ago. A seal that even the Sword Shandian Sect could not see through.

The elders turned to Han Cui, the Patriarch of the Han Family, and bowed respectfully.

"Patriarch Han," the lead elder said, "though your sons do not bear the Sword Eyes, their sword potential is remarkable. High-Class Sword Talent in both—rare indeed. With proper guidance, they may still reach the peak of the Sword Path."

Han Cui nodded, forcing a polite smile. "The Han Family appreciates the Sword Shandian Sect's kindness. Please, take some rest before your journey."

The elders gave courteous bows, their expressions unreadable. The atmosphere was heavy, bitter with disappointment. The servants whispered quietly among themselves again, this time with pity instead of awe.

Han Zhanjian kept his head low, his jaw clenched tightly. Inside, he felt the heat of humiliation burning like fire. His nails dug into his palms, drawing blood. He wanted to tell them the truth. He wanted to shout that he was not talentless—that his brother had stolen everything from him. But what good would that do?

He could only smile faintly, pretending calm.

As the Sword Shandian Sect began to prepare their departure, the tension began to ease. The air grew quiet again, the whispers fading to tired sighs. Some servants moved to clean the shattered lanterns, others hurried to open the large hall doors.

Then—

The ground trembled.

At first, it was faint. Just a soft vibration underfoot, like the hum of a distant earthquake. A few servants froze, confused. One of the elders paused mid-step, glancing toward the floor.

Then it grew stronger.

The marble tiles began to rattle, tiny cracks spider-webbing across them. The walls groaned. The hanging lanterns swung violently, their light scattering in dizzying patterns.

"What's happening?" a servant screamed.

"Is it another test?" someone shouted.

"No, this isn't spiritual energy—it's coming from below!"

The tremor deepened into a roar. Dishes crashed from the tables. Dust fell from the ceiling beams. The Sword Shandian Sect elders immediately formed a defensive stance, their swords drawn. Han Cui barked orders for everyone to step back, his voice sharp and commanding.

Han Zhanjian's eyes widened. He could feel something from beneath the floor. Something vast. Something ancient.

The tremors reached their peak. The ground cracked open right in front of him, the sound echoing through the entire hall like thunder. Servants screamed and stumbled backward.

Then, in the blinding dust and shattered stone—

A hand emerged from the ground.

Han Zhanjian could only stare, his heart pounding violently in his chest.

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