Rise of the Peerless God of War

Chapter 25

Draven couldn't sleep.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the auction house, the scrying crystal, the dozens of witnesses who had seen him use the Flower Blade technique.

Stupid. Reckless. Exactly the kind of thing I promised myself I wouldn't do.

He sat up in bed, moonlight streaming through the dormitory window. Jin was snoring softly in the next bed, blissfully unaware of his roommate's midnight crisis.

The Echo Heart pendant pulsed gently against Draven's chest, almost like it was trying to reassure him.

Great. Now I'm being comforted by jewelry.

Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had changed. The fragment at the auction, the way his pendant had reacted to it—there was more to the Echo Heart than he'd realized.

I need answers.

Dawn found him in the academy library, hidden in the restricted section where ancient texts on magical artifacts were kept. After his adventures in the catacombs and Sakura Valley, the librarians had stopped questioning his presence there.

"Echo Heart... Echo Heart..." he muttered, scanning dusty tomes that hadn't been opened in decades.

Most accounts were frustratingly vague—legends of a pendant that could channel the voices of the dead, rumors of a War God artifact, tales of heroes who could borrow the strength of fallen comrades.

Nothing about fragments or a complete artifact that had been broken.

Until he found it, tucked away in a crumbling journal written by a scholar who had spent decades researching War God Tianlong's battle techniques.

"The Echo Heart was shattered during the Great Celestial Invasion," the journal read. "Its pieces scattered to prevent the power from falling into enemy hands. Tianlong himself carried one fragment to his grave, while the others were entrusted to his most loyal disciples."

Shattered deliberately. To protect the power.

Draven's mind raced. If the Echo Heart had been broken into multiple pieces, and each piece still carried a portion of its power...

The fragment at the auction. Someone else might already have a piece of the Echo Heart.

The implications were staggering. Were there others like him out there? Others who could absorb the memories and skills of the dead?

Or worse—were there those who had twisted that power for their own purposes?

He was so lost in thought that he didn't notice the figure watching him from the shadows of the library, observing his research with calculating eyes.

Far from the academy, in a hidden compound where cherry trees bloomed year-round regardless of season, an ancient man sat in meditation. His face was deeply lined, each wrinkle marking a decade of mastery in the sacred arts of the Hidden Plum Flower Clan.

Before him knelt three disciples, heads bowed in respect and fear.

"Speak," the Patriarch said, his voice like rustling leaves.

The lead disciple placed a scrying crystal on the floor between them. "Patriarch, we witnessed something impossible at the city auction house."

With a gesture of gnarled fingers, the Patriarch activated the crystal. A three-dimensional image formed in the air above it—Draven, hands wreathed in burning sakura petals, executing a perfect form of the Flower Blade technique.

The ancient man's face remained impassive, but the air in the room grew cold enough to make the disciples shiver.

"Our sacred art," he said quietly. "Our most closely guarded technique. Used by an academy student."

The lead disciple nodded. "We believe he is a first-year student named Draven Ashworth. Our sources at the academy say he was considered talentless until recently."

"Talentless." The Patriarch's laugh was brittle as old bones. "No one wields the Flower Blade technique without a lifetime of training. Unless..."

He fell silent, ancient eyes staring at the frozen image of Draven.

"Unless what, Patriarch?" one of the disciples dared to ask.

"Unless he is a thief of the highest order," the old man said. "Someone who has somehow stolen the accumulated knowledge of our clan."

He rose to his feet with a grace that belied his apparent age.

"Find him. Bring him to me." The Patriarch's voice hardened. "No outsider steals our sacred art and lives."

The disciples bowed deeply and withdrew, leaving the old man alone with the image of Draven suspended in the air before him.

"Most interesting," he murmured to himself. "Most interesting indeed."

Draven decided to skip afternoon classes. His head was too full of Echo Heart fragments and potential threats to concentrate on magical theory.

Instead, he found himself wandering the city streets, seeking fresh air and space to think. The busy marketplace, the crowded taverns, the hustling merchants—all of it helped distract him from the weight of responsibility that seemed to grow heavier with each new discovery.

I just wanted to be normal. To not be the hollow prince anymore.

Now he was anything but normal. War God techniques, the Echo Heart pendant, the memories of hundreds of academy heroes—he'd traded one kind of isolation for another.

Lost in thought, he didn't notice the subtle changes around him. How the wind carried cherry blossom petals despite there being no cherry trees nearby. How shadows moved against the flow of the setting sun. How passersby unconsciously gave him a wider berth, sensing something dangerous in the air.

It wasn't until a perfect circle of pink petals formed around him on the cobblestone street that Draven finally snapped back to awareness.

I'm being hunted.

Captain Marcus Hale's combat instincts kicked in, alerting him to the presence of multiple assailants. They were good—very good—at concealing themselves, but the memories of academy heroes had taught him what to look for.

A flicker of movement on the rooftop to his left. An unnaturally still shadow in the alley to his right. The faint scent of cherry blossoms growing stronger.

They're surrounding me. Boxing me in.

He casually turned down a less crowded side street, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword. The feeling of being watched intensified, and more petals appeared, swirling around his feet like a warning.

Or a signature.

Whoever these people were, they were connected to the Flower Blade technique. They moved like the petals themselves—fluid, graceful, deadly.

Draven tensed, preparing for the attack he knew was coming. The memories of a dozen master swordsmen flowed through his mind, calculating angles of approach, planning countermoves, identifying escape routes.

That's when he heard her voice.

"You look like you're expecting trouble."

He turned to see a young woman leaning against a nearby wall, arms crossed casually over her chest. She was perhaps a year older than him, with dark hair pulled back in a practical braid and eyes that missed nothing. Her clothes were expensive but practical—the attire of a merchant's daughter who preferred function over fashion.

"Isabella," she said before he could ask. "And you're Draven Ashworth. The hollow prince who isn't so hollow anymore, from what I hear."

She knows who I am. Is she with them? A distraction before the attack?

"This isn't a good time," he said, still scanning for threats. The petals were multiplying, the trap closing.

Isabella pushed off from the wall, moving to stand beside him. "You look like you could use some saving, being all alone out here."

"I don't need saving," Draven said flatly.

She smiled, a flash of perfect teeth. "Everyone needs saving sometimes. Even princes."

Before Draven could argue further, the attack came. Figures in dark clothing materialized from the swirling petals, moving with inhuman speed. One moment the street was empty save for Draven and Isabella, the next they were surrounded by members of the Hidden Plum Flower Clan.

This is bad. Very bad.

"Step away from him," one of the attackers said to Isabella. "This doesn't concern you."

Isabella didn't move. Instead, she drew a slender blade from a sheath at her hip. "I decide where I go and who I stand with."

Great. Now I have to protect a civilian who thinks she's a hero.

The Plum Flower assassins attacked as one, moving like a single organism with many parts. Draven drew his sword, the Flower Blade technique already awakening in his blood, burning petals erupting around his hands.

The battle was joined, and somewhere in the shadows, scrying crystals recorded every move for the eyes of the waiting Patriarch.