The Cunning Treasure Hunter

Her sword rose and fell in a graceful arc, slow to the eye but impossible to evade or block.

Shrrkk!

Blood sprayed forth in a crimson arc as Darian Flamestrike's chest was split open. He staggered, his eyes wide with disbelief, locking onto Vera as though searching for an answer.

"This… this is… at least… Peak Stage…" he muttered, his voice a choked gasp.

Vera stared at her bloodied blade, her face expressionless. She felt nothing—no fear, no guilt, no remorse for the life she had just taken.

Why? Why did it feel this way?

"...Perhaps because you're not human," she murmured coldly.

Darian's breath hitched, his failing body trembling. "Kh… Wh-what… are you… saying…?"

"The reason killing you feels no different from stepping on an ant," she continued, her voice devoid of emotion.

Aiden stood silently nearby, observing his disciple. Her first kill. What would she do now?

Vera approached the kneeling Darian Flamestrike, his saber discarded and his strength failing. Blood poured from his mouth, and his death was inevitable. Yet she didn't flinch.

"…My lord," Vera said softly, standing before her fallen enemy.

"Yes," Aiden replied, his tone steady.

"I've heard the martial world is a place where debts and grudges are always repaid," she said, glancing briefly at her master.

Aiden nodded. He knew what she was about to say, and he had no intention of stopping her. Valen Flamestrike, of the Fiery Blade Sect, had killed Aiden's lover—and Vera's father.

"This grudge… if I settle it by taking this man's head, will there be any issue?" Vera asked.

Aiden's gaze didn't waver. He, too, believed that some losses demanded an answer in kind.

"Do as you wish," he said simply.

The rain began to fall.

The drizzling drops extinguished the flames that had consumed the village. Most of the homes had already been reduced to ash, but a few had survived—either spared by chance or saved from the fire early on. The village elder offered one of these houses to Aiden and Vera for the night.

The bodies of the dead were buried by Aiden—head and torso separately. It had been Vera's idea. Some might have called it cruel or vindictive, but to her, it was justice. She had once held a funeral for her father without his head, stolen by the Fiery Blade Sect.

As night deepened, Aiden quietly lay down on a blanket spread over the cold, hard floor. The chill seeped into his bones.

"…Are you really going to sleep on the floor, Master?" Vera asked, blinking at him. She was freshly bathed, her damp black hair shimmering under the dim light of an oil lamp.

"Should I let my fourteen-year-old disciple sleep on the floor instead?" he replied, his tone dry but not unkind.

"…Thank you, Master," she murmured.

"Sleep well," he said. "When we return to Suncrest Sect, eat plenty. That's the only way to grow taller, isn't it?"

"I'm already fourteen, Master," she said with a faint pout.

He wasn't wrong, though. Given her height—or lack thereof—she wouldn't grow much even by the time she turned nineteen. At most, she might reach just over five feet.

Vera shook her head lightly to dry her hair further before crawling into the blanket Aiden had prepared for her. The cold strands of her hair tickled her neck as she settled in.

The thought of waking up tomorrow without having to handle rags or pour wine for others still felt unreal.

"…I'm finally escaping," she whispered to herself. "Truly."

Her life had been one of quiet resignation. A life where she hadn't dared to dream of escape, knowing no other place would take in someone as fragile and young as her. Yet even in resignation, she had dreamt.

Even those who surrender to reality still dream. Dreams are harmless, like butterflies unable to cross the sea.

For some reason, tears began streaming down her cheeks. "…Hnng."

She tried to stifle her sobs, pressing her face into the pillow and hiding behind her black hair. But her body betrayed her, the quiet sounds of her crying filling the small room.

"…Hic, hnnng, sniff…"

Aiden had not yet fallen asleep. Lying on the hard floor, he listened silently to his disciple's muffled cries.

He said nothing. There was no comfort he could offer her—not even a hollow reassurance. And yet, he felt something close to relief.

This child, burdened by the Celestial Blade Star, still knew how to cry.

The martial world is a place ruled by clear grudges.

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth—justice was measured in severed heads and spilled blood. This was the way of the Central Plains.

"…If only she didn't have to understand that at such a young age," Aiden thought, his eyes softening.

And yet, Vera wept not out of regret, but to preserve the memories of her parents. She cried because she had finally escaped the harrowing circumstances of her servitude. Her tears were an affirmation of her humanity, even in a world that sought to strip it away.

One day, even after she had slain the leader of the Fiery Blade Sect, after fracturing the golden world of the Martial Unity, she would need a place to return to.

'Hopefully, that place is Suncrest Sect,' Aiden thought.

A sect could be a second home. For many, it became a place of belonging more profound than the one they were born into.

Aiden had chosen Vera to be the blade of rebellion, the one to challenge the heavens. But he didn't wish for her life to be consumed by endless killing. Once it was over, he wanted her to return to Suncrest Sect—to find a life where she could build friendships, take on disciples, and live as if she weren't burdened by the Celestial Blade Star.

As if she were simply another martial artist in the Central Plains.

"…There's still a long road ahead," he murmured.

At some point, Vera's sobs quieted, replaced by the soft, steady rhythm of her breathing. Aiden raised himself slightly to check on her. At some point during the night, she had kicked off her blanket, revealing her thin, white sleeping clothes.

"She'll catch a cold," Aiden muttered to himself.

Even though martial artists were generally sturdier than ordinary people, Vera was an exception. Nine parts of her internal energy came from her father. She hadn't fully assimilated it yet, and her harsh routines and sparse meals had left her physically frail.

Quietly, Aiden pulled the blanket back over her shoulders and chin, tucking her in gently. Then, he returned to his spot and tried to sleep.

In just a few more days, they would reach Suncrest Sect. Things would improve—at least slightly. Turmoil would follow, of course, but it couldn't be worse than this night: burying an executioner in a burned village.

That night, Aiden dreamed.

In a sky that was eternally bright and blue, a single Black Dragon rose and brought forth the night. Under its wings, the moon shone brighter than he had ever seen before.