The swordsman drew his blade. The sound was not a heroic shing , but a rough, weary scrape.
They called it the "Weeping Citadel" now. Once, it had been the seat of the Azure Dynasty, a fortress of impossible spires and jade battlements. Now, it was a tomb for whispers and broken oaths. the misty ruins and the lone swordsman
But as he turned to leave, he did not look back. He had not reclaimed the Citadel. He had not resurrected the dead. He had simply walked into the mist, faced the ghost he had become, and refused to kneel. The swordsman drew his blade
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