Paragon of Destruction

His techniques were like a reflection of his growth over the years, bearing the marks of friends and enemies both, every experience shaping his skill and style.

But now, what he needed was for these influences to be purged from the techniques.

He took a deep breath, realizing what he had to do.

First, he identified the techniques he had originally learned from Master Zhao. There were only a few dozen, each of them originally simple yet effective. Combined, they could be barely considered the skeleton of a style.

When he finished determining which of his techniques originated from Master Zhao, he began to remove the outside influences that had shaped them over the years.

The first influence he stripped from his techniques was Doran’s. He had learned much from the adept in just a month of training, and as he meticulously purged the adept’s influences from his techniques, he could see them grow simpler — as well as weaker.

Next was Brightblade. To Arran’s surprise, despite half a year of training with her, she had barely even left a mark on his techniques, instead merely honing what was already there. This was no accident, he knew — she had clearly been careful to limit her influence.

Still, he removed what little she had changed, then moved on to the next target.

He worked ceaselessly in the hours that followed, performing techniques without pause as he stripped away layer after layer of influence.

The crazed battle against the army of Body Refiners, his joyous sparring matches against Darkfire, his training with Snowcloud — each had shaped his skills, and each of these influences he now ruthlessly removed.

Had anyone been watching him, he would have looked like an expert swordsman steadily losing his skill, growing less competent with each passing hour.

Engrossed in the slow labor of purifying his techniques, he didn’t notice it when evening fell, and he continuing his work without pause even as the sky grew dark above him.

Beneath the ink-black mountain sky, he purged more influences, his techniques steadily losing their power and complexity with each step forward.

The months he had spent training with Jiang Fei at Lord Jiang’s estate, the time he had spent training at the Windsong monastery — piece by piece he stripped away what he had learned.

Finally, as the sun began to rise again, all of it was gone. His techniques once more resembled the slow, clumsy movements he had used so long ago, years of growth and refinement stripped away to reveal the foundation Master Zhao had given him.

Yet as Arran tentatively swung his sword, he found no enlightenment. There was only weakness and inexperience — the techniques of a beginner, lacking any sort of insight.

Forehead creased in a frown, he came to a halt.

He had been certain he would find something useful, but instead, all he discovered were basic sword strokes, awkwardly formed and executed.

He did not allow himself to be disappointed. Instead, he set to work on practicing this seemingly useless sword style, meticulously executing each movement while silently hoping that some great truth would yet be revealed.

But in an hour of practice, the only truth he found was that the style was exactly as useless as it seemed.

He considered this for some moments, and soon recognized his oversight. He had stripped the techniques down to what he had learned — but that was not the same as what Master Zhao had taught him.

His original foundation wasn’t formed when he trained under Master Zhao, but many years before that, when his father had first made him pick up a sword. As a guardsman, Arran’s father had expected his son to follow in his footsteps, and much of Arran’s youth had been spent practicing swordplay.

While he treasured the memories, he could now see that his father’s flawed teachings still pervaded his techniques, shaping his movements and hindering his ability.

The realization caused him some pain. Some of the happiest moments in his youth had been when his father patiently taught him the sword, but now, his only way forward would be to erase every trace of what he had learned back then.

Pain or not, he clenched his jaw and set to work once more.

Stripping his techniques of their foundation proved much more difficult than stripping them of later influences, and he knew that only his years of experience made it even possible.

Engrossed as he was in the challenging task, the hours passed quickly. He worked through another night, gradually distilling Master Zhao’s teachings from all that surrounded them, steadily carving away everything but the techniques themselves.

Another night passed without his notice as he slowly drew closer to his goal. By now, any excitement he had felt earlier was long gone. In its place, there was a single-minded focus that bordered on obsession.

As another dawn bathed the green valley in its bright light, he knew he was finally nearing his destination.

The techniques he had started out with were long gone, replaced with stripped-down movements that were almost laughably simple. There was no guile or cunning to them — they were plain to the point of austerity, condensed as if every hair’s breadth of excess movement would cost him a king’s ransom in gold.

But for all their simplicity, Arran could tell that these techniques were powerful. There was a purpose to them, almost a will. They were created to sever, to cut, to destroy all in their way, brooking neither resistance nor deflection.

After going days without sleep, he was neither surprised nor pleased with this realization.

Rather, what he felt was a faint sense of recognition. Although he had not previously realized it, his swordsmanship had contained a trace of this ever since his training with Master Zhao, affecting every strike of his sword over the past years.

This hidden strength had doubtless saved his life more than once, but now that it had been brought into the open, for the first time he could feel its true power.

But at this moment, the power was of little interest to him. Because behind it, he could vaguely make out what he had been searching for — a sliver of insight.

The insight hidden within Master Zhao’s sword techniques was like the opposite of that within the seal. Where one sought to bind, the other sought to sever. Where one embodied immovable stasis, the other embodied unstoppable movement. Where one attacked, the other defended.

But different though they were, Arran instantly recognized that both were parts of a greater whole. On their own, neither was something he could understand — like a sentence ripped in half, the true meaning remained hidden.

And finally, Arran had both parts.

The combination formed something that was like a tiny crystal of knowledge within his mind — a nascent insight into the nature of reality. It was so weak it seemed like it could vanish at any moment, but its presence was unmistakable.

Fearful of letting it slip away, Arran immediately began to execute Master Zhao’s sword techniques once more, his attention spread between the techniques and the seal.

He continued this for several hours, and gradually, the crystal of knowledge he had found grew brighter. Studying the two opposing forces, he slowly began to comprehend that they were truly one — two sides of a coin, neither capable of existing without the other.

Only when the insight had solidified into something that would not suddenly disappear did he come to a stop.

He took several deep breaths to clear his mind, then turned his attention to the seal. If he was right, this newfound insight would finally allow him to defeat it.

He readied himself to attempt it, but stopped himself right before attacking the seal. Recognizing his mistake, he shook his head in frustration.

While he might have a chance of defeating the seal, he could not do so. Not yet, at least. Once it was gone, he had no confidence in recreating it, and without it, he would no longer be able to draw upon the insight it contained.

Simply destroying it was not an option.

He sheathed his sword, then pondered the problem for some minutes. Finally, he came to decision.

Without delay, he headed for the mansion, then sought out a small room at its back. Simple and lacking both windows and furniture, it was well-suited for his purpose — he needed a place without distractions.

He sat down on the floor and closed his eyes. He already knew what he must do — learn to create the seal himself, then destroy the original only when he was fully confident in recreating it.

Yet to do so he would need to seal one of his other Realms, and the question of which to choose caused him some difficulty. If he succeeded in copying the seal, whichever Realm he sealed would be cut off until he was able to break it. And although he believed he could do so, the risk was obvious.

After some moments of thought, he chose his Wind Realm. His Shadow Realm wasn’t an option, and of the three that remained, Wind was the one that mattered least.

He banished any worries he felt, then began to recreate the seal that had vexed him for so long.

Almost immediately, he discovered that he need not have worried about closing off his Wind Realm. The seal he created lasted barely a second before it spontaneously collapsed.

He tried again, and the result was the same. Yet he would not stop now, and after several dozens of tries, he managed to create a seal that lasted just long enough for him to break it.

Then, he repeated the feat.

Dozens of attempts soon turned into hundreds, then thousands, and with each new attempt he improved. Yet he was still far from reaching his goal — so far, neither the creation nor the destruction of the seals contained any of the insights he had gained yet.

But he did not relent, and gradually, his skill at both erecting and destroying the seals improved. And after countless thousands of attempts, he managed to imbue a shield with the tiniest shred of insight.

It was too little to provide any true strength to the seal, but to his surprise, the nascent insight he had gained previously seemed to strengthen in response. And soon after, the same happened when he shattered a seal with an insight-imbued attack.

If he had previously been eager in progressing, now, he grew zealous. Again and again he erected shields only to tear them down moments later, each attempt slightly better than the last.

His sense of time and place faded as his focus was fully drawn to that ever-expanding spark of knowledge. While his mind continued to erect and shatter endless thousands of shields at the edge of his consciousness, all he could do was marvel at that tiny shred of reality he gradually came to comprehend.

He did not know how much time passed, nor did he care — all that mattered was the bright crystal of awareness that allowed him to see a minute part of the world for what it really was.

Binding and severing — within these simple opposites lay an ocean of knowledge whose existence Arran had never dreamed was possible, forming a single thread that pervaded reality. And as his comprehension grew, he came to realize that a tug on that thread could shake all of existence.

Yet as the spark grew brighter, he could sense that this thread was just one of many. He could not see what others there were nor what they did, however, with their existence remaining hidden just beyond the boundaries of his mind.

This realization filled him with frustration, and he desperately tried to see what lay beyond that horizon. But it was no use — whatever there was, it remained beyond his reach.

As his focus moved back to the bright spark of knowledge that now existed in his mind, he became aware that it was no longer expanding. Instinctively, he knew that he had learned all he could.

He turned his attention to his Wind Realm, and found it was covered by a perfect copy of the seal on his Destruction Realm. He had no recollection of creating the seal, but it didn’t matter. With a single thought, he shattered it.

Then, with a second thought, he opened his Destruction Realm.