Shadow Throne: Rebirth Of The Silent Sovereign

Steel clashed under moonlight.

Sparks flew as blades scraped against old stone. The forest clearing behind the Lin Clan's training ridge echoed with the sound of a fight—unofficial, unrecorded, and very, very personal.

Lin Shu grunted as his blade swung through air, missing its mark.

Again.

"Stop running, you bastard!"

But the boy he fought wasn't running.

He was drifting.

Weaving between shadows, moving without noise, ducking beneath wild slashes as if gravity obeyed him differently.

Lin Feng breathed through his nose—calm, smooth, fluid. He didn't need to win yet. He just needed Shu to grow tired.

And Lin Shu was tiring.

His strikes were forceful, but messy. Built for tournaments, not survival.

And survival, Lin Feng knew, required patience.

An hour earlier, a message had arrived.

Slipped under his door, written in trembling script.

"If you want your answers—come to the hollow shrine. Midnight. Come alone."

A trap, obviously.

But Lin Feng welcomed traps. Traps revealed teeth. Teeth could be broken.

And now, in this clearing, he had baited his first sword.

The first of many.

Lin Shu lunged again, sweat pouring down his neck. His blade carved through the air with a shriek.

Lin Feng sidestepped effortlessly.

Too effortlessly.

Something changed.

Lin Shu's face twisted.

"I don't know what kind of freak you are, but you're no cultivator!"

He pivoted and drew a second dagger from his sleeve—a poisoned one.

Flicked it forward with practiced aim.

Lin Feng let it fly.

The blade grazed his arm, slicing open skin.

He winced. But only for a heartbeat.

Then, he smiled.

"Pain makes us honest," he said softly.

"Let me show you what else I remember."

He stepped forward.

Once.

Twice.

Then vanished.

Lin Shu blinked. The boy in front of him was gone.

Then—CRACK.

A knee to the spine.

Then a boot to the ribs.

Lin Shu coughed blood, his sword falling.

He turned wildly, slashing—

But Lin Feng caught his wrist mid-swing.

And squeezed.

Bone popped.

Shu screamed.

Then Lin Feng leaned in, whispering:

"That dagger you used came from a Northern sect. I recognize the venom—slow, cruel, and cowardly. Just like your methods."

He let go, letting Shu collapse.

"The next time you raise a blade to me, Lin Shu… it won't be your wrist that breaks."

He turned away, bleeding, but calm.

The pain in his arm was real. Sharp. But his Qi moved better now. His body was beginning to adjust.

The cultivation path of shadow was unlike others. It demanded pain. Memory. Sacrifice.

He had given all three.

And now?

Now he would begin to take.

Two days passed.

No one mentioned Lin Shu's absence from morning drills. Not publicly.

But servants whispered.

"He can't hold a cup.""Cries in his sleep.""Won't speak of what happened."

Good.

Let them whisper.

Fear was faster than fact.

In the inner sanctum, Elder Qian raged.

"This is the second incident! Another heir, another humiliation. We must act—cut him off before he poisons morale!"

But the Patriarch remained still, fingers steepled.

"What do you fear more, Elder Qian? That Lin Xun is dangerous? Or that he's no longer yours to control?"

Qian paled.

"He's a threat to the clan's order—"

"No," the Patriarch said calmly."He's a test. Let's see who breaks first—him, or the boys you pampered."

Meanwhile, Lin Feng stood at the edge of a crumbling bridge, staring into the river below.

He held a shard of metal in one hand. Rusted. Dull.

It had once been a spearhead.

Now, it would become something else.

He knelt beside the river and pulled out a pouch of crushed black roots.

Whisperbark.

Rare. Toxic. When combined with Qi during reforging, it could form a semi-living weapon—bound not by bladecraft, but by memory.

He lit a fire and placed the shard inside a cracked bowl of clay.

Then, he cut his palm.

Blood dripped onto the metal.

He whispered old words from a dead language, older than the current cultivation cycle.

"I give you purpose.""I give you shadow.""I give you vengeance."

The bowl trembled.

A faint glow emerged—black and violet, dancing like frost over iron.

He didn't forge a sword.

He bound it.

To himself.

To the silence within.

By dawn, he wrapped it in cloth and tucked it beneath his robe.

It wasn't sharp.

Yet.

But like him… it was awakening.

That morning, a messenger arrived from the clan's courier division.

"Outer-branch disciple Lin Xun," the man said, frowning at the scroll in his hand. "You're summoned."

Lin Feng tilted his head.

"By whom?"

"The Pill Sect delegation. They're testing disciples for selection."

The Pill Sect—one of the Seven Minor Halls. Known for alchemy and healing, but also information gathering.

Why would they call him?

He read the scroll again.

At the bottom was a different seal.

A private mark.

He recognized it.

From his past life.

"So," he whispered, "even the ghosts remember me."