Feastival Of Struggle

Fang Yuan stood in the center of the war goddess's temple, the eerie silence pressing down on him like a heavy shroud. In his hand, the ancient sword he had claimed from the feet of the dead war goddess hummed faintly, as if stirring from a long slumber. The blade was heavier than it appeared, its dark steel gleaming faintly in the dim light of the temple. There was power in it—an ancient, primal force that resonated with the temple itself, like a heartbeat pulsing through the stone.

The towering statue of the war goddess loomed over him, her stone eyes hidden beneath a helm. Fang Yuan could almost feel the weight of her presence, though the goddess had long since passed into her eternal slumber. Her scared majesty was still present.

The air in the temple began to shift, growing thick with an oppressive energy. The walls trembled, and the stone carvings of warriors and battles that adorned them seemed to ripple, their shapes distorting as if ready to spring to life. A low, rumbling noise echoed through the chamber, the sound of stone grinding against stone. Then, from the walls themselves, figures began to emerge.

War wraiths—spectral warriors, their translucent bodies draped in ancient armor, their eyes glowing faintly with an ethereal light. They stepped out of the stone as though pulled from another time, weapons in hand and battle in their blood. Their faces were obscured by ghostly helms, but their purpose was clear: they were here to challenge him.

Fang Yuan's grip tightened on the sword.

"Welcome to Feastival Of Struggle!" The sword hissed into Fang Yuan's ears.

This was his trial. His eyes flicked from one wraith to the next, assessing their movements, their intent. They carried weapons from across ages—swords, spears, axes, shields—all honed and ready. These were no ordinary specters. They were warriors who had died in battle, their souls bound to the temple of the war goddess.

The first wraith lunged.

Fang Yuan moved like a coiled snake, swift and lethal. His blade cut through the air with a sharp hiss, meeting the wraith's sword with a powerful clash. The force of the impact reverberated through his arms, but Fang Yuan held firm. The wraith's ghostly form flickered as the blades met, but it did not fall back. It pressed the attack, its movements precise and practiced, as though it had fought a thousand battles before this one.

Fang Yuan's eyes narrowed. These were no mindless phantoms. The war wraiths fought with skill, their strikes sharp and relentless. But Fang Yuan was not a stranger to war. His past life, filled with endless struggle, had forged him into a weapon as deadly as the blade he now held.

He parried the wraith's next strike, his body moving with fluid grace as he sidestepped its follow-up attack. With a swift motion, he drove his sword forward, slicing through the wraith's chest. The ghostly figure let out a low, hollow moan as its form dissolved into mist, disappearing into the air.

But there was no time to celebrate. Another wraith was upon him, this one wielding a massive battle axe. It swung the weapon in a wide arc, aiming for Fang Yuan's head. He ducked low, the axe whistling over his head, and thrust his sword upward, driving the blade into the wraith's midsection. The ghost flickered and vanished, just like the first.

The temple grew darker, the oppressive energy intensifying as more wraiths emerged from the walls. Dozens of them, spectral warriors armed to the teeth, their ghostly armor clinking as they surrounded him.

Fang Yuan's mind raced. He couldn't afford to fight recklessly. These wraiths fought with the skill and precision of the greatest warriors, and while their spectral forms were weaker than physical enemies, their sheer numbers would wear him down. The trial wasn't just about defeating these wraiths—it was about endurance. It was about proving his worth to the goddess, showing that he could overcome not just one battle, but many.

The trial of the war goddess demanded strength, yes—but also perseverance.

Fang Yuan pivoted, parrying a spear thrust from one of the wraiths and then spinning to strike down another that came at him with a curved sword. His movements were swift, his strikes lethal. Each time his sword met a wraith, their ghostly forms flickered and dissolved, but more continued to pour from the temple walls, surrounding him on all sides.

For any ordinary man, this fight would have been overwhelming. But Fang Yuan was no ordinary man. His mind was as sharp as his blade, calculating every movement with cold precision. He fought with the ruthless efficiency of someone who had lived and died in a world where only the strong survived. Every strike was measured, every parry calculated to conserve his energy.

The temple floor was slick with the misty remnants of the wraiths he had slain, but Fang Yuan showed no signs of slowing down. His breathing was steady, his eyes focused, his movements fluid and precise.

The war wraiths closed in once more, their weapons gleaming with spectral light. Fang Yuan didn't flinch. Instead, he embraced the chaos. He moved like a shadow, his sword cutting through the air with deadly accuracy. He deflected a spear thrust with the flat of his blade, spun on his heel, and brought his sword down in a sweeping arc that cleaved through three wraiths at once. Their forms disintegrated before they could even react.

One by one, the wraiths fell, their ghostly forms evaporating into the air. Fang Yuan fought with a calm, unrelenting ferocity, cutting down his enemies without hesitation. The battle was not about rage or fury. It was about control. He wielded the sword with the same cold, calculating precision he had used to survive in his previous life, each strike carrying the weight of his will.

The last wraith, larger than the others and clad in armor that shimmered with a faint gold hue, stepped forward. It wielded a greatsword, the blade nearly as long as Fang Yuan was tall. The wraith's movements were slower than the others, but far more deliberate. This was no ordinary warrior. This was a champion of the goddess, a final test.

The wraith raised its greatsword and swung it downward with crushing force. Fang Yuan sidestepped, narrowly avoiding the blow, and countered with a precise strike aimed at the wraith's exposed flank. The wraith parried the blow, its greatsword moving with surprising speed for its size, and then retaliated with a brutal overhead slash.

Fang Yuan raised his sword just in time, the clash of steel ringing through the chamber like thunder. The force of the blow sent a shockwave up his arm, but he held his ground. His eyes gleamed with cold determination. This was it—the final test of his strength and skill. The war goddess was watching.

The two figures clashed again and again, their blades a blur of motion. Fang Yuan's every strike was met with resistance, the wraith's greatsword deflecting his attacks with practiced ease. But Fang Yuan didn't falter. He could feel the rhythm of the fight, the flow of the battle. The wraith was strong, but it was also predictable. It fought like a warrior bound by tradition, following the same patterns and techniques that had served it in life.

But Fang Yuan was not bound by tradition. He was a survivor, a master of adapting to any situation.

He baited the wraith into a wide swing, then ducked low, allowing the greatsword to pass over his head. In one swift motion, he lunged forward, his sword flashing as he drove it into the wraith's chest. The spectral champion let out a low, echoing moan as its form flickered and began to dissolve.

The wraith's eyes, glowing faintly beneath its helm, locked onto Fang Yuan for one final moment before the light faded, and the ghostly figure crumbled into nothingness.

The battle was over.

Fang Yuan stood alone in the center of the temple, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths. The wraiths were gone, their spirits dispersed. The oppressive weight that had filled the temple had lifted, replaced by an eerie calm.

Slowly, the sword in his hand began to glow, the runes along its blade shining with a bright, ethereal light. The energy that had pulsed through the temple now flowed into the weapon, and Fang Yuan could feel its power surging through him.

"You have passed the Feastival Of Struggle." The sword hissed.

The sword had acknowledged him.

Fang Yuan lowered the blade, feeling the weight of it in his hand. It was no longer just an ancient relic. It was his now—his to wield, his to command. The sword had tested him, and he had proven himself worthy.

At this moment, the temple no- the reality started to tremble.

[You have passed the Feastival Of Struggle.]

[But the War God is dead and can't hear you.]

[War God stirs in her eternal slumber.]

[She sends her blessing.]