Hope’s eyes fluttered open again, the room bathed in a dim, silvery light that slipped through the cracks of a wooden shutter.

His vision was hazy at first, but as it cleared, he realized the space was empty. The soft glow of the spiritual lamps had faded, leaving only the pale light of the moon to illuminate his surroundings. He could hear the distant chirping of crickets, a sound that seemed almost alien in the eerie quiet of the night.

As he shifted slightly on the bed, a faint metallic gleam caught his attention. In the far corner of the room, leaning casually against the wall, was a sword. Its blade reflected the pale light, but the details were impossible to make out in the darkness. Still, its presence was commanding. It stood there like a silent sentinel, radiating a quiet, unyielding strength.

Hope’s gaze lingered on the weapon for a moment before he turned his eyes to the ceiling, thoughts swirling in his mind. The events of the trials replayed in vivid detail.

The bloodstone test, the Duskwalker, and the overwhelming power he had unleashed—all of it weighed on him. But what lingered most were the doubts that had surfaced during the first trial. Doubts about his path, about his purpose. Questions he had buried long ago had come rushing back to the surface. Why had he chosen this road? Why was he so desperate to keep walking it?

He closed his eyes, drawing a slow, steady breath. The answers didn’t come easily, but he forced himself to confront the doubts head-on. He thought of his family, the expectations they had placed on him, the sacrifices they had made. He thought of the pain of trusting others only to be abandoned. And then, he thought of himself. His desire to rise above it all, to carve his own path, no matter the cost.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he opened his eyes. His expression was resolute, his will like tempered steel. “I chose this road” he whispered to himself, the words barely audible in the stillness of the room. “And I will see it through to the end.”

As those words left his lips, something shifted.

A warmth spread through his chest, radiating outward like ripples on a still pond. The world around him seemed to change. Colors grew sharper, the faint light of the moon suddenly felt vibrant and alive. The energy of the world, the essence that surrounded everything, felt closer, almost tangible. It was as if a veil had been lifted, revealing a deeper, more vibrant reality.

He immersed himself in this newfound clarity, letting the sensations wash over him. The colors, the energy, the sounds of the night—everything seemed more vivid, more real.

He wasn’t sure how long he remained in that state, but it felt like mere moments. When he finally pulled himself out of it, he noticed a soft, golden hue creeping in through the shutters. Dawn had arrived, painting the horizon with streaks of amber and crimson.

It was then that he noticed the change within himself. His essence realm cultivation had broken through. He had gone from the peak of Body Transformation to the early stage of Soul Resonance. The realization hit him like a surge of energy, filling him with a vitality he hadn’t felt in days. His body, which had been battered and broken, now felt rejuvenated. The rapid recovery was thanks in no small part to his body cultivation technique, which had worked tirelessly to repair the damage.

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Hope swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet touching the cool stone floor. He felt stronger, sharper, as if every cell in his body was brimming with newfound energy. His soul was now more attuned with the energy around him, he felt like he could deepen his understanding of destruction if he meditated on it for a while.

Standing up, he stretched, feeling the satisfying crack of his joints as tension melted away.

For the first time in what felt like forever, he truly felt alive.

His eyes drifted back to the sword in the corner of the room. He had earned it—a prize from the trial, a testament to his will and power. Moving toward it, he reached out, his fingers brushing the hilt.

The sword felt cool to the touch, its surface smooth and flawless. As he lifted it, the weight felt perfect in his hand, neither too heavy nor too light. In the dim light of dawn, he could finally make out its details. The blade was sleek, with intricate runes etched along its surface, pulsating faintly with an inner light. The hilt was wrapped in dark leather, worn yet sturdy, and the guard was shaped like a pair of outstretched wings.

Hope studied the sword, his fingers tracing the runes. There was a power within it, dormant but unmistakable. He could feel it resonate with his own energy, as if the weapon recognized him as its master. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips. This was no ordinary blade. It was a weapon worthy of the path he had chosen.

Just as he was about to swing the sword experimentally, the sound of footsteps echoed from outside the room. They were steady and deliberate, growing louder with each passing second. Hope’s body tensed instinctively, his grip on the sword tightening. He turned toward the door, his senses heightened, ready for whatever might come.

The footsteps stopped just outside the door. A moment of silence passed before it creaked open, revealing Joran standing in the doorway. The old warrior’s gaze immediately fell on Hope, and a faint smile crossed his face.

“You’re awake” Joran said, his voice gruff but tinged with relief. “Good. I was beginning to think you’d sleep the entire day away.”

Hope lowered the sword slightly, relaxing his stance. “How long was I out?” he asked, his voice hoarse from disuse.

Joran stepped into the room, crossing his arms. “A little over a day. Given the state you were in, I’d say you’ve recovered remarkably fast. Lyra was also surprised.”

His eyes flicked to the sword in Hope’s hand. “I see you’ve taken a liking to your new weapon.”

Hope nodded, lifting the blade slightly. “It’s... remarkable. I can feel its power, even now.”

Joran’s expression turned serious. “That sword is no ordinary weapon. It’s been forged with ancient techniques, it’s stronger than an average mid-mystic grade weapon. But be warned: a sword like that will invite greedy eyes of others, if that happens I hope you will be strong enough to defend yourself.”

Hope met Joran’s gaze, his expression unyielding. “I understand.”

Joran studied him for a moment before nodding. “Good. I like your determination. It’s best if you keep resting for a while.”

Hope hesitated, glancing down at the sword in his hand. “I don’t have time to rest. If I stop now, I’ll fall behind.”

Joran turned to him, his expression stern. “Pushing yourself too hard will do more harm than good. Strength isn’t just about power; it’s about knowing when to act and when to wait. Trust me on this, boy.”

Hope considered his words for a moment before nodding reluctantly. “Fine. I’ll rest. But only for a little while.”

Joran smirked. “That’s all I ask.”

As the old warrior left the room, Hope sat back on the bed, the sword resting across his lap. He stared at it, his mind racing with thoughts of what lay ahead. He couldn’t sit still he needed to keep improving.

‘My body is already fully healed. I don’t feel tired at all. Actually, I feel like I’ve never been better.’

Hope rose from his bed, grabbed his new sword, and strapped it to his waist. He opened the window, and as he jumped out, he said,

“It’s time to hunt.”