The Crimson Heaven Sword descended onto White Lotus Peak under a grey, overcast sky. The mountain was quiet, save for the constant, rhythmic sound of wood striking wood echoing from the training yard.
Su Ming walked past the bamboo grove and paused at the edge of the stone plaza to look at the training yard. Wang Tian stood near the center, holding a standard training sword made of ironwood. The boy's face was pale, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps, and his robes were dark with dried sweat.
Every swing of his sword was sincere, his muscles trembling under the strain of his damaged body, but his grip remained tight, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the empty air before him. His knuckles were raw, scraped, and bruised from the rough grain of the wooden hilt, and a trickle of fresh blood smeared the ironwood where his palm rubbed against the guard.
