Adventure of Zhāng Wújì 1

The iron sword answers his approach exactly as before, a hungry shiver running through the blade. The pulse in his meridians and the pulse in the weapon lock together, then the sword drinks.

Zhāng Wújì keeps training anyway. He settles into the Hall of Tempering, lets the crushing pressure settle over his frame, and forces his breathing to stay even while the parasitic pull tugs at his newly built strength.

Pain rolls through muscle, bone, and skin, but his stance does not break. The bond takes what it can from each cycle of effort, yet the body that remains keeps hardening under the strain.

The sword’s red glow deepens. Not a reward, then. A tether. His progress feeds the armory, and the armory feeds him just enough to keep him from collapsing.

Xùn remains in the shadows, ancient eyes fixed on the blade. Around Zhāng Wújì, the chamber’s light steadies, but the next breath already feels heavier than the last.

Zhāng Wújì straightens a fraction, not in defiance of the sword's pull, but in command of himself. His breathing slows into an even count, and the red glow stops answering his pulse.

The blade shivers once, then goes still. The pressure it was drinking from loosens, as if an unseen hand has pinned its hunger in place.

The drain does not vanish, but it submits. The sword now waits on his timing, no longer dragging his cultivation forward at its own pace.

Along the cracked monument, a fresh line of light crawls over the stone, and the blade's red sheen deepens into a controlled, obedient pulse.