Shattering the Celestial Loom

High on a viewing platform overlooking the grand training field, hidden from the sight of the common disciples, stood a figure who had witnessed the entire, bizarre spectacle. He was not a prince or a king. He was an old man, his back ramrod straight despite his age, his face a roadmap of ancient scars. His left sleeve was empty, pinned neatly at the shoulder. He was Jian, the one-armed Sword Master of Kshirapura.

For forty years, Jian had been responsible for the sword education of the royal family. He was a veteran of a hundred battles, a man who had earned his title not through flashy techniques, but through a lifetime of blood, sweat, and a profound, pragmatic understanding of combat. He was a Spirit Sea master, but his true deadliness came from his sword intent—a sharp, uncompromising aura forged in the crucible of real warfare.

He had taught Arjun since the boy was old enough to hold a blade. He had personally guided him through the intricacies of the Silver Serpent's Dance, celebrating his talent while trying to temper his arrogant spirit. He knew Arjun's every strength and every weakness. He knew the boy was a proud, fiery prodigy, a powerful but flawed weapon.

And he had just watched that weapon be dismantled by a child with a wooden stick.

Jian's single hand, resting on the railing of the platform, was clenched into a white-knuckled fist. His mind, usually as sharp and clear as his lost blade, was a maelstrom of disbelief.

He had heard the rumors swirling through the palace—of the third prince's miraculous recovery, of the incident in the cultivation chamber, of Arjun's first public humiliation. He had dismissed most of it as exaggerated court gossip. He had assumed the third prince had stumbled upon a powerful, single-use artifact or some other form of trickery.

But what he had just seen was not a trick. It was not an artifact. It was not an overwhelming burst of Prana.

It was skill.

It was a level of pure, unadulterated swordsmanship that made his own forty years of dedication feel like a child's playtime.

"Impossible…" Jian whispered, the word a puff of air. His single eye, usually sharp and discerning, was wide with confusion.

He had watched every moment of the "dance." He had seen Amrit's posture—relaxed, yet flawless, with no wasted tension. He had seen his footwork—minimal, yet always placing him in the perfect position. And he had seen the parries. Oh, the parries.

They were not blocks. A block was a contest of force. What Amrit had done was something else entirely. He had used the wooden sword to find the fulcrum of each of Arjun's attacks, the precise point where the minimum amount of effort could yield the maximum result. He had treated Arjun's raging storm of steel not as a threat, but as a complex equation, and had solved it, again and again, with a calm, elegant simplicity.

This was not something one could learn in a day, or a year, or even a decade. This was the kind of insight that came only after a lifetime of true life-and-death battle, of facing a thousand different opponents and surviving. It was the wisdom of a centenarian grandmaster, residing in the body of a fifteen-year-old boy who, until a few days ago, had been too frail to even lift a sword.

The contradiction was so profound it made Jian's head ache.

As Amrit walked away from the arena, leaving the broken Arjun in his wake, Jian made a decision. He was a man of the sword. When faced with a mystery of the sword, there was only one way to solve it. He had to feel it for himself.

He descended from the platform, his movements silent and efficient. He intercepted Amrit near the arched exit of the training grounds, his solitary figure a sudden, imposing presence.

Amrit stopped, his calm eyes taking in the old, one-armed master. He recognized him instantly. Sword Master Jian was a legend in the palace, a man respected even by the King. He was a living symbol of martial dedication.

"Master Jian," Amrit said, giving a respectful nod. He could feel the old man's aura. It was different from his father's or his brothers'. It wasn't about raw power; it was sharp, focused, and honed, like the edge of a razor. It was the aura of a true killer.

Jian's single eye scrutinized Amrit, searching for any hint of deception, any trace of the demonic energy or hidden artifacts he had suspected. He found nothing. All he saw was a calm young man with an unnervingly deep gaze, and the faint, peaceful scent of lotus blossoms clinging to him.

"Prince Amrit," Jian's voice was gravelly, like stones grinding together. "I oversaw your brother's training for fifteen years. He is arrogant and hot-headed, but his skill with a blade is genuine. He is one of the finest young swordsmen in this region of the kingdom."

He paused, his gaze intensifying. "You just made him look like a first-year disciple who had picked up a sword for the first time. And you did it with a piece of wood."

Amrit did not reply. He simply waited.

"I do not understand what I saw," Jian stated bluntly. "My senses tell me it is impossible. My eyes tell me it is true. There is only one way to reconcile this. You and I will spar."

It was not a request. It was a declaration from a senior master to a junior, a demand for a lesson.

Amrit considered the old man. Jian was different from Arjun. He was not driven by ego, but by a pure, unadulterated dedication to the Way of the Sword. This would not be a fight; it would be a conversation between two swordsmen, spoken in the language of steel.

"I would be honored, Master Jian," Amrit replied.

They returned to the now-empty central arena. Arjun had already stumbled away, his shame too great to remain. The watching disciples had been shooed away by the guards, sensing that what was about to happen was not for their eyes.

Jian walked to the weapon rack and picked up a wooden bokken identical to the one Amrit had used. He did not need a real blade. For a man like him, anything could be a lethal weapon.

"No Prana," Jian said, his voice a low command. "No tricks. No ghostly steps. Just the sword. Let me see what you truly know."

"As you wish," Amrit said, picking up his own wooden sword once more.

The two faced each other in the center of the arena. An old, one-armed veteran, his spirit honed by a hundred battles. A young, fifteen-year-old prince, his knowledge gifted by a cosmic system.

Jian assumed his stance. It was a simple, beautiful thing—low to the ground, perfectly balanced, his single arm holding the bokken in a grip that was both relaxed and unbreakable. His entire being seemed to focus, his presence vanishing and concentrating into the single point of the wooden sword's tip. This was the stance of a man who had faced death and chosen to live.

Amrit simply stood there, relaxed, his bokken held loosely at his side.

Jian's eye narrowed. The boy's lack of a formal stance was either supreme arrogance or supreme mastery. He suspected it was the latter.

"Begin," Jian said.

He did not charge. He took a single, gliding step forward, his wooden sword tracing a line through the air. It was a simple, probing thrust, but it was executed with a lifetime of experience. It was perfectly timed, aimed at the precise center of Amrit's mass, and carried an almost imperceptible feint designed to draw out a predictable response.

Amrit's response was anything but predictable. He didn't parry or dodge. He took a small half-step to the side, and at the same time, used his own bokken to gently tap the side of Jian's attacking blade.

Clack.

The sound was identical to the ones he had made against Arjun. But the effect on Jian was cataclysmic. He felt the tap not as a blow, but as a subtle, incredibly precise vibration that traveled up the wood, into his arm, and disrupted the kinetic flow of his entire technique. His perfect, life-honed thrust was nudged off-course by a millimeter, but at the speed he was moving, a millimeter was a mile. The attack failed.

Jian's eye widened in shock. This was impossible. Arjun was a novice who telegraphed his every move. Jian was a master whose intent was concealed until the moment of impact. How could the boy have read his attack so perfectly?

He disengaged and attacked again, this time with a complex, swirling combination that flowed from a high guard to a low sweep. It was a technique designed to disarm and cripple.

Amrit met the swirling storm with a calm, minimalist defense. His bokken moved in tiny, efficient arcs, tapping, guiding, redirecting. He never met force with force. He was a pebble in a river, effortlessly guiding the powerful current around himself. Every move Jian made, every feint he attempted, Amrit seemed to anticipate it a fraction of a second before it happened, his response already in motion.

Jian felt a growing sense of disbelief that bordered on vertigo. He was not fighting a boy. He was fighting a mirror. A perfect mirror that reflected not just his moves, but his intent. It felt like Amrit was inside his head, reading his thoughts before they had even fully formed.

After a dozen exchanges, Jian leaped back, his heart pounding in his chest. He lowered his wooden sword, his face pale.

"You are not predicting my movements," Jian said, his voice strained with the effort of grasping the impossible truth. "You are reading my spirit. My killing intent. The moment I decide to attack, you already know the attack's nature."

Amrit gave a slight nod. "The sword is merely the tool. The intent is the true blade." He was quoting the One Sword manual, a text Jian himself had dismissed as philosophical nonsense decades ago.

The disbelieving Sword Master stared at the fifteen-year-old prince. The rumors, the gossip, the wild tales… none of them came close to capturing the terrifying reality of the boy standing before him. The world had produced prodigies, geniuses, monsters. But this… this was something else. This was a fundamental violation of the laws of learning, of experience, of martial arts itself.

Jian slowly, reverently, placed his wooden sword on the ground. Then he did something he had not done for anyone, not even the King, in thirty years.

He bowed.

It was a deep, formal bow of a junior disciple to a senior master.

"Today," Jian said, his voice filled with a humility he thought he had long since lost, "this old man has seen the true meaning of the sword. I am no longer qualified to be your teacher, Prince Amrit." He paused, then corrected himself. "In fact, I must ask… would you be willing to teach me?"