“On a snowy night in the Northern Frontier, an old blacksmith pressed a rusted, broken sword into a young man's arms.
‘Remember, a blunt sword can be sharpened. But once a person grows dull, he's as good as dead.’
Three hours later, black-robed men from the Corroding Bone Path smashed through the blacksmith's door. They found the forge still burning, and a newly carved line on the sword stand:
‘I journey thirty thousand li to the Central Plains. I will not return home until I have severed a demon's head.’
What they didn't know was that, deep within the broken sword, a primordial sword aura that had slumbered for three hundred years was opening its ‘eyes’ for the first time, keeping pace with the boy's racing heartbeat.”
