“Lucien! Hey, Lucien!”
The voice crashed through the illusion, pulling Lucien out of the dark void and slamming him back onto the cold stone floor of the family armory.
His vision snapped into focus.
The rows of steel weapons, the scent of grindstone dust, and the ambient sunlight pouring through the armory windows returned all at once.
His hand was still wrapped white-knuckled around the coarse black leather grip of the massive, six-foot blade.
Sweat dripped steadily down his temples, soaking the collar of his training robe.
Reiner stood right in front of him, his hand hovering over Lucien’s shoulder, his face pale with concern.
“By the heavens, little brother, you terrified me,” Reiner breathed, exhaling heavily.
“You touched the hilt and completely froze for ten full seconds. Your eyes turned completely vacant. What happened?”
Lucien blinked, slowly regulating his breathing and loosening his vice-like grip on the hilt.
“It’s nothing, Reiner. I… was just caught off guard by the balance. My thoughts drifted for a moment.”
Reiner frowned, glancing between the absurdly oversized slab of steel and Lucien’s pale face.
“Are you sure? If that blade is too heavy, don’t force it. We can pick a light saber—”
“No, I want this one,” Lucien said, his voice quiet yet leaving no room for debate.
He effortlessly lifted the eighty kg single-edged blade, resting its flat spine against his shoulder as if it weighed no more than a wooden branch.
“Though I think we should hold off on swordsmanship practice until tomorrow. My foundation breakthrough was only a few hours ago, and fatigue is catching up with me.”
Reiner scratched the back of his head.
He was clearly baffled by Lucien’s sudden daze and the freakish ease with which the boy hoisted an eighty-pound iron slab, but seeing Lucien’s tired demeanor, he nodded.
“Alright. Rest up today. Tomorrow morning at dawn, meet me in the eastern courtyard. Don’t push yourself, little brother.”
“I won’t. Thanks, Reiner.”
Returning to his quiet courtyard, Lucien secured the latch on his door and placed the massive greatsword across his cedar study table.
He leaned in close, inspecting every inch of the metal.
He ran his fingers along the dark, four-finger-wide blade, tracing the spine down to the pommel.
He checked for hidden formations, bloodline seals, or ancient spiritual residues left behind by an eccentric master.
Nothing.
It was forged from standard cold-rolled star-vein steel, devoid of spiritual consciousness—a standard Mid-Rank Mortal weapon.
Lucien sank back into his chair, staring at his trembling palms.
The vision had not come from the sword.
Just like the Primordial Genesis Art, the memory had been unlocked directly from within his own soul the exact moment his martial intent aligned with a blade. The source of this chapter is novelping.com.
A storm of unanswerable questions swirled in his mind.
Why are these heaven-defying scriptures buried in my head?
Who was that man with snow-white hair and flowing white robes?
Was he “The One” referenced in the cosmic epitaph—the primeval entity who claimed to be the living cosmos?
Or was he someone else entirely?
And could a cultivator truly achieve such absolute, godlike supremacy—cleaving a galactic predator vast as multiple star clusters with a single, casual flick of a wrist?
Lucien took several slow, measured breaths.
He closed his eyes, banishing the useless speculation into the back of his mind.
Wondering about the summit of existence was pointless when he stood firmly at the bottom.
He directed his consciousness inward, unfurling the newly unlocked memory:
Genesis Sword Art — Volume One.
To his surprise, unlike standard sword manuals that contained dozens of complex forms, footwork routines, and defensive parries, this scripture possessed only three maneuvers.
The first was Flawless Basic Swordsmanship.
As the name declared, it stripped away all unnecessary flair, refining every thrust, slash, parry, and step into an absolute, untouchable standard of mechanical perfection.
The second was the Sword of Severing.
It was not an attack powered purely by brute force or elemental fire, but an execution born of pure conviction.
According to the scripture, so long as the swordsman’s resolve was unyielding and his comprehension of reality deep enough, there was nothing under heaven that could not be severed.
The third was the Sword of the End.
It was a terminal, catastrophic strike that concentrated the practitioner’s entire reservoir of physical might, stamina, and dantian Qi into the microscopic edge of the blade.
A singular, decisive blow that drained the user dry, leaving absolute annihilation in its wake.
Finally, the scripture revealed its sovereign core: Volume One provided the mental architecture to cultivate and elevate Genesis Sword Intent from Rank 1 all the way to Rank 9—the supreme, undisputed number-one sword intent in the entire boundless cosmos.
Sword Intent?
Lucien opened his eyes, his dark brows furrowing in confusion.
He had spent years reading the mortal scrolls in the David Clan’s common archives, yet the term “Intent” had never appeared in any text he had encountered.
In the afternoon, Lucien made his way back to the Patriarch’s private residence.
Lucas David was sitting behind his mahogany desk, stamping merchant permits with the family seal.
Seeing Lucien enter, the imposing patriarch set his brush down with an affectionate grin.
“Lucien! Shouldn’t you be resting or letting Reiner wear you out with a practice blade?”
“Grandfather, I have a question about the martial path,” Lucien said respectfully, taking a seat across from the desk.
“What is Sword Intent?”
Lucas froze.
His hand paused in midair, his dark eyes narrowing with genuine surprise.
“Sword Intent?” Lucas stared at his grandson, stroking his beard thoughtfully.
“Where did you come across that term, boy?”
“I was skimming through an old, torn travelogue in the clan archives earlier,” Lucien answered smoothly, his expression composed.
“It mentioned masters wielding something called ‘Intent,’ but offered no explanation.”
Lucas let out a quiet sigh, leaning back in his heavy timber chair.
“It is no surprise the scroll didn’t explain it. In a remote border city like Aurora, even the strongest elders have never seen a wisp of it in their lifetimes. The concept is simply too high above our heads.”
Lucas tapped the mahogany desk.
“From what I understand, Intent is an ephemeral, legendary state born when a cultivator completely transcends the physical craft of their weapon. When their will, spirit, and blade merge into one undeniable concept, their attacks carry a terrifying, conceptual weight that ordinary martial skills cannot match.”
The patriarch shook his head, a wry smile touching his lips.
“I only know of it because of merchant tales from the Royal Capital. They say a handful of supreme geniuses in the King’s Court have grasped Level 1 or Level 2 Intent. Whether there are higher ranks above that, or how far it truly reaches, our little Triad Kingdom is far too backward to know.”
Lucas looked at Lucien warmly.
“Mastering Intent requires absurd comprehension. Don’t worry your head over such distant legends, Lucien. Focus on tempering your body and mastering basic mortal forms first. The foundation comes before the sky.”
“I understand, Grandfather. Thank you for the guidance,” Lucien bowed politely and excused himself.
Walking back through the courtyard under the amber afternoon sun, Lucien looked down at the calloused grip of his right hand.
His grandfather believed Level 1 or Level 2 Intent was the unreachable peak of the Royal Capital’s legends.
Yet quietly slumbering within his sea of consciousness was the blueprint to forge the Genesis Sword Intent through nine full ranks—the paramount intent of the cosmos.
A quiet, dangerous fire ignited in Lucien’s blue eyes.
The Annual City Martial Competition was only a week away, and the Lewis Clan was already barking at their gates.
It was time to train.