Ever since I could remember, my father had told me the story of the Fate-Defying Cultivator.

  And not once—not once—had I ever grown tired of it.

  It was my favorite story. Whenever I was sick, when I couldn’t fall asleep, when the nights were too quiet or too cruel… I would ask for it. Sometimes more than once in the same night. And he never refused to tell it. He would smile, lean back against the wall, and begin to recite the tale as if it were scripture.

  "No one ever knew his true name," he’d always begin. "To most, he was simply remembered as the one who dared defy the heavens."

  "Born in the lowest corners of the mortal realm—among farmers and beggars, raised in hardship—his soul weapon was revealed at birth. It was the most common, uninspiring weapon imaginable: a plain sword. Not gilded, not engraved. No mythical aura, no unique form. Just a soldier’s sword—predictable and unworthy of attention. Because of that, the world had already written his fate for him."

  "They told him he would amount to nothing—that his soul weapon doomed him to a life as a low-ranked soldier or, at best, a city guard. 'You'll never reach beyond the first realm,' they said. 'Even if you cultivate for a hundred years, your sword will never carry you beyond the soil you were born on.'"

  “But he didn’t accept that. When the Golden Ascension Gate opened, he walked among the hopeful, a face in the crowd like any other. Yet unlike so many others, the gate let him through.”

  “The heavens did not reject him. But neither did they favor him.”

  “Inside the cultivation realm, he found no masters who would take him in. No sects welcomed him. No scroll or tablet of martial wisdom responded to his touch. His soul weapon was too plain, too simple. His constitution was unremarkable, his meridians average, his spirit veins dull.”

  “No one would teach him. So he taught himself.”

  “Day by day, wound by wound, he shaped his own path. He meditated under waterfalls until his skin split from the cold. He sparred with his own shadow, burned his hands on spirit flames, and endured heavenly lightning to understand how energy moved through the body, among many other trials. With time, he forged his own cultivation method—The Path of Severance—a path built not upon divine guidance, but through pain, trial, and relentless will.”

  “He created his own sword techniques shaped purely by instinct and observation. He learned to read the flow of battle, the currents of Qi in the air, the slightest twitch in an opponent’s breath. And slowly… he began to grow.”

  “He rose through the realms one step at a time, with no backing, no guidance, no blessing from heaven. Word of his progress began to spread. At first, it was mockery. Then disbelief. And eventually… awe.”

  “Disciples of great sects began to whisper his name. Cultivators who once looked down on him now watched in silence as he broke past realms that should have been forever out of his reach.”

  “But the heavens do not forgive defiance. The more he rose, the more they pushed back.”

  “Jealousy brewed in the hearts of those once stronger than him. Fear took root in the powerful. How could someone without a gifted soul weapon or sacred lineage stand shoulder to shoulder with them—or even above them?”

  “So they plotted. Betrayal came from where he least expected it—friends, brothers-in-arms, even a lover he once trusted. When he was on the cusp of entering the highest realm—one step away from immortality—they struck.”

  “He fought back with everything he had. Legends say the battle lasted three days and three nights. That entire valleys were torn asunder by his sword. That he stood alone against sects, clans, and divine spirits. But one man can only stand against the world for so long.”

  "At the height of the battle, the heavens themselves intervened. His cultivation core shattered under their deceitful judgment. With a scream that split the heavens, he fell from grace."

  “His enemies thought him dead. But somehow, he lived. Crippled, broken, his cultivation ruined… but alive. He vanished into the mortal realm once more, never to be seen again.”

  “Some say he died nameless and alone, buried beneath the same dirt he once rose from. Others claim he became a wandering swordsman, teaching the next generation in secret. And a few whisper that he still lives—that his soul never stopped cultivating, even after death, and that one day, he will return.To defy fate once more.”

  Whenever I heard his tale… or told it, like I just had, I couldn’t help but lose myself within it. I would close my eyes and imagine every detail—the rain-slicked mountains he trained under, the vast battlefields where he stood alone, the divine light that crashed upon him when the heavens struck him down. I imagined the pain, the triumph, the loneliness… the unshakable will.

  After I finished the tale, I turned to my father. And just like every time before, he was smiling.

  That same quiet, proud smile.

  Even when he could barely speak, even when his body trembled from weakness, he never forgot the words that always followed the end of that story.

  ‘Shen, Do not let others dictate your path.’

  He had said it so many times.

  Always… without fail.

  Without fail...

  “…Father…”

  My voice trembled, the word barely more than a breath.

  I reached out with a shaking hand, hovering it just above his face. My fingers curled slightly in hesitation, lingering uncertainly above his nose.

  I didn’t want to confirm it. But life… life doesn’t wait for permission.

  Slowly, I lowered my hand, resting it gently over his nose and mouth. There was no breath. No warmth. Just stillness.

  My chest tightened.

  I moved my hand upward, brushing softly over his eyelids, and closed them with as much care as I could muster. Then, I reached for the edge of the worn blanket, lifted it quietly, and pulled it over his head.

  “…Thank you,” I whispered. “Thank you for everything.”

  And just like that, the tears came.Silently at first, trailing down my cheeks like the rain outside. Then more. Heavier. Because at that moment, I knew: This place was no longer a home. It had become a memory.

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  Death for mortals was inevitable.

  Perhaps that was the greatest reason so many longed to walk the path of cultivation—to escape the sorrow of aging, the cruelty of watching loved ones wither away while time showed no mercy. To defy death, to reach beyond its grasp… it was a dream so many chased. A dream that drove them to kneel beneath the golden gate, to cast aside their given lives in pursuit of something greater.

  But for most of us, death came all the same.

  Only a handful—if they even exist—have ever truly lived beyond its reach.

  And when death came, so did the final act of severance.

  A soft glow began to bloom over my father’s chest—a gentle pulse, like a heartbeat made of light. From within that light, a sword began to manifest. Not summoned by force, nor called by will—it simply rose on its own, emerging from his chest as if drifting up from his very soul. It hovered just above his still body, silent and steady.

  A simplistic sword.

  Silver steel, plain and straight, a grip wrapped in faded cloth. Not a weapon of legend, not a blade that changed the world.

  But it was his.

  I knew this sword well. I had seen it countless times—watching him train quietly behind our home, slicing through the air with calm, deliberate motions. He never used it to fight, only to maintain it. It was a quiet ritual of his, a gesture of peace between him and the soul he was born with—a companion that had grown with him from the very beginning to the very end.

  I always knew why he loved the story of the Fate-Defying Cultivator so much. It wasn’t just the tale itself he admired. But also the sword he used to defy fate.

  Father saw himself in that legend.

  After a few quiet moments, the sword above my father's chest began to shimmer. The light pulsed softly—once, twice—and then started to dissolve. Thousands of tiny particles of light drifted upward like fireflies scattered by the wind. Each fragment floated gently, silently returning to the Soul Realm, where it would rest until the cycle of rebirth called it forth once more.

  I watched in silence as the last of his presence faded.

  “Goodbye… Father.”

  ‘My son… I believe in you.’

  “Father!?”

  I jerked upright, eyes wide, scanning the room.

  But there was no one.

  Only the candle's flickering flame. Only the sound of rain beyond the roof. Only silence.

  The voice… it had been so clear. As if spoken directly into my mind. As if his spirit had lingered just long enough to whisper one final message before departing. Or maybe it was just my grief playing cruel tricks.

  Either way… I accepted it with a bittersweet smile.

  He always believed in me. Even when the world didn’t. Even when I didn’t. And I knew what he meant by those final words.

  I looked down at my empty hands. For a moment, it was just skin and bone, wet from drying tears. But then… light. A dim glow began to gather in my palm, sluggish, reluctant—nothing like the smooth manifestation of my father’s sword.

  The light condensed, and with a strained flicker, my own soul weapon took form.

  It landed in my hand with weight, not just physical but emotional—the kind of heaviness that wraps around your heart and reminds you of what you are.

  A sword. But not like my father's.

  Rusted brown from hilt to tip. Cracks spiderwebbed across the blade as if it had been shattered and poorly mended. The hilt was wrapped in weathered, uneven cloth, barely holding together. It wasn’t just unremarkable—it was pitiful. Dull. Blunt.

  This was my soul weapon—a broken sword.

  Since the passing of my father, years have passed.

  I moved through life without a clear path—but with a single purpose that kept me moving forward. A thought that never left my mind, a whisper that echoed with every breath I took:

  I will ascend.

  Even the plainest of soul weapons had their place in this world. But mine… had none. A first. An unheard-of existence.

  It could not be categorized in any known path—not because it was so extraordinary that no single role could contain it, nor because it was so great that it could fit into every life path.

  But because it was the opposite. It was worthless. There was no path for someone like me. No calling. No place. Because no path would accept me.

  Still, I believed… or rather, I wanted to believe—that fate could be changed. That if one's will and heart were strong enough, they could carve a new road through the mountains of destiny.

  That’s why I came here today.

  To the Golden Ascension Gate. Like the Fate-Defying Cultivator.

  That story… the reason I loved it so deeply, the reason I clung to it so desperately, was because I wanted—no, I longed—to follow in his footsteps. To rise like he did, from nothing. To forge my own way through the heavens' decree. To prove that even someone like me could break through.

  But now… I saw the truth. Compared to him… I had nothing.

  His soul weapon, while plain, was whole. Mine was broken.

  He was underestimated, yes—but accepted. The heavens opened the Gate for him. They had slammed it shut on me.

  He had a place to start from, however small. I had no foothold. No entry. No beginning.

  And maybe…I had been lying to myself all this time. Telling myself I believed in the story. That I could walk the same path. But even at the beginning of his journey, the Fate-Defying Cultivator had been granted at least a chance.

  I wasn’t.

  Yet as I lay there, soaked in the rain and surrounded by silence, my thoughts refused to quiet. The image of the cultivator loomed in my mind—his words echoing with the weight of truth I didn’t want to accept. He had spoken with such calm certainty, as though heaven itself stood beside him, nodding in agreement, while I had screamed back with nothing but emotion. I had no strength to challenge him, no cultivation to my name, no backing or fate that supported my claim. And still, despite everything, I had denied his words—not because I had the right to, but because I had to.

  But despite that, as the storm continued and the cold bit deeper into my bones, something in me began to shift. Not from pride or hope or some romantic dream—but from something more far stubborn. Something heavy. Something angry. It was the part of me that refused to stay down, the part that had survived every beating, every rejection, every moment I was told I was worthless. I didn’t know if I would spend the rest of my life standing before a door that would never open, guarding a path I would never be allowed to walk—its contents sealed, locked to someone like me.

  But to hell with that! If that door won’t open for me—then I’ll break the damn thing down!

  And so, I stood.

  I forced my legs to move, step by step toward the now-closed Golden Ascension Gate. The golden light was gone, the pull of its energy vanished, leaving nothing but a silent gate towering above me. I approached it anyway. I stood before it, rain cascading between us like a curtain, and I called forth my soul weapon. My broken sword—rusted, cracked, barely holding together—appeared in my grasp, and with it, I raised my arm and swung.

  The blade met the gate with a resounding Cling!, sparks scattering across the drenched earth, but the gate did not budge. My sword shook violently in my hands, a fracture deepening along its length. Still, I swung again, and again. With every strike, splinters of steel chipped away, pieces of my soul weapon falling to the mud below.

  "If you’re locking me away from the path I chose for myself," I growled through gritted teeth, each word soaked in rain and fury, "then I’ll shatter the gate with my own hands. If you deny me the key, I’ll carve my own entrance, whether the heavens allow it or not. And if I’m to die here—if this is all I will ever amount to—then I will die facing the path I was never meant to walk, and I will leave behind a broken blade as proof that I never gave in.”

  And still, I swung.

  With every blow, the cracks on my sword widened, but I no longer cared. The gate remained untouched, unmoved—but so did I. I had nothing left but this: my defiance, my grief, my unshakable refusal to vanish quietly without putting on a fight.

  I would keep striking. Until the blade broke… Or the heavens did.