When the last chill of spring had not yet faded, Xian Jianchen, at the invitation of the six great sects and clans of Tianxi Continent, traveled far to attend a banquet at Huawei Mountain.
In the third month, willow catkins drifted like snow along the mountain path, the cuckoo calling softly.
Fine down floated through the air, brushing against cheeks, leaving a faint itch behind. The woman beside Xian Jianchen wrinkled her nose and sneezed.
“Yueniang, if you’re not feeling well, we can go back,” Xian Jianchen said.
“When did I say I wasn’t feeling well?” Yueniang shook off his hand, reaching for the willow catkins drifting through the air. “We’ve come all this way—it’d spoil the trip to turn back now. Achoo!”
Xian Jianchen cast a small spell. The pure white, fluffy catkin drifted gently into her palm, then suddenly sparkled, like a firefly flapping its wings.
The girl said, delighted and curious: “Do it again!”
Xian Jianchen crossed his arms, quite proud of himself: “No more. Do it too much and it loses its charm.”
“Don’t be so stingy, just one more. Hey, you dare run!”
The two of them chased and played, walking and stopping along the way.
The four elders of Huawei Sect followed behind, exchanging looks heavy with unspoken worry.
Was Xian Jianchen deliberately delaying?
Why was he neither riding his flying sword nor commanding any artifact, walking up the mountain step by step with his wife instead?
Could it be he’d sensed something? Was he toying with them?
By Fading Water Bridge, Xian Jianchen suddenly stopped.
The girl crashed straight into his solid back, raising a hand to punch him.
“Don’t hit me today—you promised before we left out you’d give me some face,” Xian Jianchen said, turning around and muttering. “After all, I am, at least nominally, a Sword God.”
The girl pursed her lips and laughed softly, smoothing the front of his robe: “Good Sword God, let me pin one more red flower on you, all right?”
Xian Jianchen looked down to see that Yueniang had picked a wild peach blossom from somewhere, tender and vivid, trembling as it bloomed against his chest.
He said with distaste: “Why do you keep pinning flowers on me? A grown man shouldn’t wear flowers—it’s too feminine. If you want to wear it, wear it yourself!”
“Are you stupid? If I wear it, I can’t see it myself. I put it on you so I can look at it.” Yueniang looked him up and down, clapping her hands in satisfaction. “It really does look nice!”
Xian Jianchen frowned, plucked off the flower, and pulled her hand forward: “We’ll play again once we’re back!”
The red flower was tossed off Fading Water Bridge, startling a few idly swimming five-colored carp.
The girl looked back reluctantly: “I picked that for so long, why did you throw it away…”
Today, the liveliest place in the entire cultivation world was none other than Huawei Sect’s Qiankun Hall.
The number one sect of Tianxi Continent was holding a grand banquet for guests.
Fine wine and delicacies, colorful silks and splendid lanterns.
The honored guest was long in arriving, yet everyone continued to exchange pleasantries enthusiastically, though their smiles grew ever stiffer, cold sweat beading on their foreheads.
No one wanted to let the atmosphere go cold.
Only a plain-robed young man who resembled Xian Jianchen sat in a corner of the hall, eyes lowered, counting prayer beads.
The faint, rhythmic sound was like some kind of water clock, paired with the deliberately cheerful laughter filling the hall, making the atmosphere increasingly eerie.
“The Sword God arrives—”
Suddenly a Huawei Sect elder announced him, and white cranes startled into flight before Qiankun Hall.
Everyone rose to greet him. Xian Jianchen strode into the hall, robes billowing, calling out loudly:
“Everyone’s arrived so early!”
No one hearing this could feel anything but stifled—he was clearly the one who was late, yet he’d turned it around to say others had come early.
The woman beside him had no cultivation whatsoever, and though surrounded by high-level cultivators staring at her, her face showed only curiosity, no trace of timidity.
Huawei Sect’s current sect leader, True Man Pingyuan, was the first to speak:
“It’s been years, and the Sword God’s bearing remains as magnificent as ever. Qiankun Hall is truly graced with radiance today!”
He laughed warmly, and the other sects and clans present, seeing this, praised Xian Jianchen’s advancing cultivation and his beautiful new wife.
Xian Jianchen brushed off the pleasantries and scanned the hall: “Where’s Xian Jie?”
Three days earlier, Xian Jianchen had received an invitation.
Xian Jie, whom he had sent to Red Leaf Temple’s Demon-Suppressing Pagoda a hundred years ago to chant sutras and repent his sins, had now achieved true cultivation, and invited him to gather at Huawei Sect.
“Brothers separated for a hundred years should naturally drink together upon reunion, but as the temple is a place of purity, ill-suited for such gatherings, I have arranged the banquet at Huawei Sect instead. Huawei Mountain’s spring scenery is splendid, and it is where you and I first set foot on the immortal path. Fine wine and delicacies await—I hope you’ll honor this invitation, brother, so we may reminisce on days past.”
Xian Jianchen didn’t quite understand.
Though Huawei Mountain was where they had first entered cultivation, the memories left here held more bitterness than joy. Could Xian Jie want to relive hardship to appreciate sweetness now?
Why hold such a large gathering, with so many witnesses, for a reunion between brothers?
But he did genuinely want to see Xian Jie.
So he came.
“Brother. Long time no see.”
Xian Jianchen turned at the voice, pausing slightly in surprise.
The person approaching wore plain-colored cultivator robes, his expression gentle, his gaze clear, his temperament restrained—like a young scholar who had washed away all worldly gaudiness, untouched by dust.
Was this really Xian Jie?
He almost didn’t recognize him.
True Man Pingyuan laughed: “You brothers, separated for a hundred years, are finally reunited today in Qiankun Hall. This is a joyous occasion for Huawei Sect, and even more so for the entire cultivation world!”
With these words, it was as if Xian Jie had never been imprisoned in Red Leaf Temple, and Xian Jianchen had never broken from the sect in rebellion—as if the two brothers had simply gone on a long journey and now returned home in glory.
Xian Jianchen patted Xian Jie’s shoulder, but spoke sternly: “Since the cultivation world is willing to give you another chance, allowing you to reform and start anew, I will let bygones be bygones. But you must remain vigilant from now on—if you stray from the path again, even I won’t be able to save you.”
Everyone’s smiles froze on their faces, the hall’s atmosphere growing even stranger.
Xian Jie lowered his head: “I understand.”
Xian Jianchen still wanted to ask how he’d fared at Red Leaf Temple, whether he’d made any friends, whether anyone had bullied him—but with so many eyes watching, he found it awkward.
Never mind. There would be time later.
“Come meet your sister-in-law,” Xian Jianchen coughed lightly, quietly squeezing the hand of the girl beside him.
“Little brother has wasted these years in idleness, while elder brother has built a family and career,” Xian Jie said with a smile, bowing. “Greetings, sister-in-law.”
Yueniang felt this young man spoke somewhat oddly, though she couldn’t say exactly what was off, and could only return the bow briefly, staying silent.
The honored guests took their seats, and the grand banquet finally began.
Three beats of the heavy drum, and the sound of zither, se, and pipa gradually rose.
The music was slow and solemn; dancers in heavy ceremonial robes entered, their postures dignified, movements uniform.
From their billowing wide sleeves flew specks of golden light, gathering into fluttering, dancing light-butterflies.
As the music rose and fell, the dancers’ steps gradually quickened. The golden butterflies gathered into golden cranes, then transformed into phoenixes.
Across Qiankun Hall, dancing sleeves fluttered, skirts spun, light and shadow intertwined, auspicious beasts shifting form.
Yueniang watched with fascination, exclaiming repeatedly: “So your cultivation world puts on song and dance performances too.”
Xian Jianchen leaned close, murmuring: “Probably something the host arranged—this is my first time seeing it too.”
True Man Pingyuan waved his hand, and two elders behind him presented brush and ink to Xian Jianchen: “Such a fine occasion and beautiful scenery—please, Sword God, compose an inscription for today’s banquet.”
Xian Jianchen shook his head: “No need.”
“Then please, Sword God, give a speech for the banquet.”
Xian Jianchen waved his hand again: “No need for that either. You said we came to drink—where’s the wine?”
“Of course there’s wine!” Xian Jie said. “Little brother will offer elder brother the first cup.”
He brought forward a bowl of amber wine, its rich fragrance spreading, filling the hall.
Xian Jianchen tilted his head back and drained it in one gulp: “Excellent wine indeed!”
“Bring the wine!” True Man Pingyuan clapped his hands.
Jars of wine in every color were brought out, treasured stores from every sect and clan piled up across Qiankun Hall.
The solemn, dignified ritual music suddenly turned rousing, the golden light at the hall’s center dispersing.
The dancers’ wide sleeves swept open, revealing cold glints of blades.
Graceful beauties held gleaming swords, whirling in dance, the golden hairpins in their hair chiming crisply.
Sword-light of every color crossed with swaying hair ornaments, wine’s fragrance mingling with laughter as it poured down every throat.
“Chi He of Mingxia Peak, Huawei Sect, offers the Sword God a cup.”
“Yuyang Zi of Chongwen Peak, Huawei Sect, bringing along a few unworthy disciples, offers the Sword God a toast!”
“Liu Zhou of the Discipline Hall, Huawei Sect, also offers the Sword God a cup.”
“…”
Only after all of Huawei Sect’s peak lords and elders at Nascent Soul stage or above had passed through did it come the turn of the other sects and clans of Tianxi Continent.
Before Xian Jianchen’s seat, those offering toasts introduced themselves one after another, an endless stream.
Xian Jianchen’s eyes grew bright, drinking faster and faster: “Haven’t drunk like this since I got married.”
Yueniang laughed: “Today I won’t stop you.”
Another person said: “Everyone here is a hero of Tianxi Continent. I’m a nobody—I’m afraid I’m not worthy to share this cup of wine with the Sword God.”
Xian Jianchen waved his hand: “Hero or dog, who cares—drinking wine isn’t a sword contest, why worry about being worthy? What wine did you bring?”
Du Qiuyue kept her head down, eating in silence, thinking privately that he spoke so recklessly it was a wonder he’d survived this long—purely because no one could beat him in a fight.
No matter who offered a toast, or what wine they offered, Xian Jianchen drained every cup.
The wine’s fragrance grew rich, the music rousing, the sword dances fierce, host and guests thoroughly enjoying themselves.
Xian Jianchen, carrying a wine jar, leapt onto the jade table and declared loudly: “After today, my wife and I will retire into seclusion. Whatever happens in the cultivation world, big or small, will no longer concern me!”
He had drunk too much, already seven parts drunk, his body swaying slightly.
But his voice rang out like sudden thunder, so loud it silenced the music and sword dances at once.
Everyone stopped their conversation, faces filled with shock and suspicion.
The mighty Sword God, the strongest fighter under heaven, who hadn’t even taken a disciple or founded his own sect—was he really going to retire, just like that?
How could he bear to give it up?
Could it be he’d already seen through today’s plot?
“If you’re leaving the cultivation world, what about the debts you owe?”
Someone spoke, unknown who, a cold laugh breaking the deathly silence.
Xian Jianchen raised an eyebrow, and the temperature in the hall dropped abruptly.
He asked: “What debt do I owe?”
“A debt of lives!”
“Owed to whom?”
“Me!”
A blade of sword-light slashed down from midair, a Nascent Soul-level pressure aura closing in an instant.
Xian Jianchen’s swaying figure suddenly stilled, and he flung out the object in his hand, meeting the lightning-fast sword-light head on.
“Crack!”
The sword-light faltered, shattering piece by piece.
A scream rang out as the assassin was flung back, slamming into a great pillar in the hall—only then did everyone see clearly.
It was the woman who had led the sword dance.
The other dancers surrounded her protectively, glaring at Xian Jianchen with hatred.
The wine jar Xian Jianchen had casually thrown returned to his hand, not a drop spilled.
“What are you doing?” he asked, showing no anger at being attacked, only some confusion. “With your level of cultivation, striking at me—if you’d actually hit me, my protective sword-qi would have rebounded and hurt you badly. If I hadn’t thrown the wine jar in time to shatter your sword, you’d have been reduced to ash!”
What he said was true, but to everyone else’s ears it sounded utterly arrogant.
The assassin spat a mouthful of blood: “Skill inferior to yours—kill me or maim me, spare me the words!”
Xian Jianchen found it absurd: “I don’t even know you!”
The woman smiled bitterly: “My father and brother both died at your hands, and yet I still had to dance for my enemy. Having suffered such humiliation today, how could I go on living?”
With that, she drew the sword from the dancer beside her.
“You!” Xian Jianchen flicked a finger, a blade of sword-qi flying out to stop her.
But his sword was fastest at killing, not skilled at saving—he could only watch helplessly as she breathed her last.
The other dancers wept in anguish. Another voice called out: “You owe so many lives in debt, and think a single careless sentence about leaving the cultivation world settles it? Our cultivation is too weak to kill you ourselves, but those with grudges and hatred against you are countless in this hall—surely one of us can manage it!”
With that, they threw themselves upon their swords all together, blood spraying across the scene!
Lives as brilliant and beautiful as blooming flowers, extinguished just like that.
Xian Jianchen stood as if struck by lightning, murmuring: “Why?”
The wine’s effect made his mind hazy and confused, unable to understand what was happening before him.
“May I ask the Sword God!” a Huawei elder stepped forward from the crowd, saying gravely, “Last year, on this very day, in Yanshan County, how do you explain the deaths of the ‘Soul-Chasing Blade’ Liu Yongshou’s family?”
Xian Jianchen came back to himself: “That father and son had obtained a demonic cultivation inheritance from some hidden treasure trove, using infant flesh and blood as secret sacrifices in their cultivation, secretly harming hundreds of lives—they deserved to die and more.”
“Fine, Liu Yongshou’s death is nothing to grieve. But what was his wife, Immortal Bai Yue’s, fault? Overnight, she lost both husband and son, her family’s reputation ruined—she couldn’t bear the blow, and died having lost her mind, deviating into a demonic path.” The elder pointed at a corpse on the ground. “And what of his daughter’s fault? Today she too died a violent death, because of you!”
Xian Jianchen: “…This too, is laid at my feet?”
Du Qiuyue swept her gaze across the hall, sneering: “Haven’t you realized yet? Today they didn’t invite you here to drink—they came to seek revenge.”
Xian Jianchen was about to speak, but heard another voice:
“Dare I ask the Sword God—three months ago in Baolin County, was the entire family of ‘Twin Thunder Maces’ Li Longyou killed by you?”
This time it was a clan elder-in-service who stepped forward.
“Whose entire family?” Xian Jianchen thought for a moment, then recalled such a person did exist. “He was an immortal official of Baolin County, yet he ran beast-fighting pits for entertainment, watching mortals fight monstrous beasts for amusement, and had his men rob and kill passing wandering cultivators. I stripped him of his cultivation level, but spared his life. As for killing his family, that’s utter nonsense. He was lucky—had I encountered him before my marriage, he’d certainly be dead!”
The elder-in-service pointed at another corpse in the hall: “This is his daughter! After he lost his cultivation, someone came for revenge that very night, wiping out the whole family, leaving only this one orphaned girl. The mighty Sword God—dare you not take responsibility for your own actions?”
Xian Jianchen closed his eyes.
Voices, some shrill, some coarse, rose from all directions, drilling into his ears.
He felt slightly dizzy, shaking his head: “This wine is really strong.”
“And also half a year ago at Tianqian Mountain, three years ago at Yugu Mountain…”
“Though the Sword God owes me nothing, allow this humble one to ask, on behalf of the wronged souls who died unjustly under the Sword God’s blade…”
“Since the Sword God wishes to leave the cultivation world, shouldn’t the debts of the past be settled?”
The voices grew ever more clamorous.
Xian Jianchen no longer answered.
He opened his eyes, his gaze turned cold.
His life-bound sword hummed within its sheath, unwilling to remain silent.
Suddenly he felt warmth on the back of his hand, and the sword was pressed back down.
Xian Jianchen looked down—it was Yueniang, patting his hand.
“Since debts are settled this way, then let’s settle them together.”
The girl’s voice, clear and pleasant, echoed through the hall.
Everyone found this astonishing. She was but a mortal—how did she dare speak at a time like this?
Du Qiuyue laughed: “Everyone here, even the youngest among you is over a hundred years old, yes? In your hundreds of years roaming the cultivation world, is there any among you who has never killed anyone, never made an enemy? Step forward and let me see.”
Someone snorted coldly: “Whatever we’ve killed doesn’t even amount to a fraction of what’s died under the Sword God’s blade!”
Du Qiuyue said: “So it’s measured by quantity, is it? I’ve heard that Huawei Sect’s founding patriarch, in order to seize this auspicious plot of land that is Huawei Mountain, fought and killed across Tianxi Continent for months before the local sects submitted. Among everyone present, how many of your ancestors’ generation died under his blade?”
True Man Pingyuan was momentarily at a loss for words: “This—this is only rumor…”
“You yourselves can’t even settle your own tangled debts of grudge and vengeance—how dare you presume to settle someone else’s account? It seems only I, a mere mortal, have clean, unblemished hands! Sword God, I’m the only one here who could kill you!” Du Qiuyue pointed at herself.
She still had the mood to joke around.
Xian Jianchen threw his head back and laughed, tipping the wine jar back and gulping it down.
Du Qiuyue glared at him: “You cultivators arguing is no different from the rascals in our village bickering.”
Xian Jianchen said helplessly: “The affairs of this world are all much the same at heart. Cultivators, aside from living longer than mortals, only have more grudges and greed than mortals do.”
The girl looked out toward the spring scenery through the window: “If I’d known it would be this boring, I wouldn’t have come. Might as well have gone to a temple fair.”
Xian Jianchen jumped down from the jade table, pulling her hand: “Then let’s go to a temple fair.”
They chatted as if no one else were around, walking together toward the hall’s door.
“Sword God, stay—”
A shout rang out, accompanied by the whistling wind of approaching artifacts.
Xian Jianchen didn’t turn, didn’t respond, simply raised his left hand.
An empty wine jar flew over his shoulder, backward.
The jar burst in midair, twelve blades of sword-qi shooting out, knocking down twelve incoming artifacts.
Just as the two were about to walk out the hall door, a curved blade struck at Du Qiuyue.
Xian Jianchen swept it aside with his sleeve, turning back in anger: “Shameless!”
This flash of anger stirred his blood and qi, his spiritual meridians suddenly aching sharply, and he couldn’t help a muffled groan—more than half his drunkenness sobered at once.
“Xian-lang! Are you all right?!” Du Qiuyue wiped the blood from his lips, her eyes reddening instantly.
“I’m fine,” Xian Jianchen coughed lightly. “With such trivial tricks, how could they possibly harm me?”
These people had been stalling for time, waiting for the poison in the wine to take effect.
But what poison in this world could harm him?
Xian Jianchen swept his gaze across the hall, but found no sign of Xian Jie.
Xian Jie must have been used by these people.
Years ago, worried that Xian Jie, having had his demonic cultivation stripped away, might be bullied by the demonic and heterodox forces within the Demon-Suppressing Pagoda while imprisoned alone, he had gone to the Blood River Valley’s secret realm to find a green-leaf bodhi fruit, leaving it for his brother.
The pagoda forbade the use of spiritual energy, and eminent monks guarded it, strictly prohibiting physical combat—even if some demonic figure wanted to bully a newcomer, they could only poison him in secret.
“This object can dispel a hundred poisons and a hundred gu-worms in this world, and can preserve your life once. But never touch alcohol—if poisoned while drinking, even I cannot save you.”
Xian Jie, his arms pinned down by his guards, had raised his bloodshot eyes and sneered coldly: “So it turns out there are things even the Sword God cannot do.”
“I’m just a cultivator, not a true god,” Xian Jianchen had said, turning away, no longer looking at him. “Go.”
He never imagined that this single thousand-year spirit medicine, which Xian Jie had never used, would end up swallowed by himself today.
“He, Xian Jianchen, wishes to leave the cultivation world—if any of you have vengeance to seek, seek it today!”
“Whatever scores remain unsettled, settle them now before he retires!”
“Xian Jianchen, you are stubborn and self-righteous, cruel and lacking virtue—you truly don’t deserve the title of Sword God.”
Everyone’s hearts, held in suspense all day, finally settled, and now spoke with a hundred times more boldness than before.
“Huawei’s Five Peaks, heed the order,” True Man Pingyuan commanded. “Open the formation!”
The five peak lords simultaneously summoned their life-bound artifacts, five pillars of strange light piercing through the hall’s roof, shooting toward the sky.
A fierce wind blew open every carved lattice window and door, extinguishing the thousand splendid lanterns within the hall.
The pure white sea of clouds transformed into heavy, dark clouds, gathering and surging like an approaching tsunami.
Sun and moon lost their color, Huawei Mountain trembled faintly.
Within the hall, a ghostly wind swept through, gauze curtains rolling and twisting—yet there stood Xian Jianchen, drawing his sword, laughing:
“Good! Since this one first took up the sword, every unjustly ended life in this world—lay it all at this one’s feet! Are you only afraid you dare not settle the score, or afraid this one cannot bear the weight?”
“BOOM!”
One sword drawn from its sheath, like a fire dragon rising from the sea.
The blade’s body blazed with purple fire, illuminating the pitch-dark hall.
The sword-qi surged straight to the ninth heaven, transforming into a bolt of thunder that split open the cloud formation.
The five peak lords’ faces turned ashen, retreating in haste.
Xian Jianchen had clearly already been poisoned—yet he remained this arrogant? Could it be the poison hadn’t taken hold of him?
As everyone hesitated, a piercing, explosive sound suddenly rang out, and two figures crashed through the formation, tumbling into the hall, landing right before Xian Jianchen.
They were two gravely wounded young monks.
Their robes were tattered, bloodstained, barely recognizable as the base color of Red Leaf Temple’s monk robes.
One of them shouted at Xian Jianchen: “This is that demon’s trap—Sword God, flee at once!”
The other looked around, seeing the hall bristling with drawn blades: “Too late—it’s already too late. Xian Jie, come out!”
Xian Jianchen helped them up, feeding them spirit medicine and channeling spiritual energy into them, an extremely ominous suspicion forming in his heart: “What exactly has happened?”
Everyone in the hall exchanged glances, expressions varied.
The corpses filling the hall, mixed now with fresh bloodshed, made everything even more ill-omened.
“That demon Xian Jie never reformed at all. He tampered with true scriptures, fabricated texts, secretly gathered followers, and taught demonic arts. Three days ago, the abbot discovered this—Xian Jie beat him to serious injury, broke open the Demon-Suppressing Pagoda, killed the pagoda-guarding master, and fled down the mountain! The abbot lies unconscious, and the temple has been sealed by a trapping formation he set—we couldn’t send word out. We barely managed to break through the formation, only to find his followers ambushing outside the temple…” The young monk choked with grief. “Our fellow disciples have all died in battle—only the two of us managed to fight our way up the mountain!”
The other said: “The temple’s negligence brought about this disaster, failing to fulfill the Sword God’s trust. Xian Jie is treacherous and vicious beyond redemption.”
Xian Jianchen’s chest heaved violently, shock, fury, and regret intertwining, further accelerating the poison’s effect.
He hated himself for sending that person to the temple, and hated that person for causing such a catastrophe.
He swallowed a mouthful of blood, looking around at faces either indifferent or evasive:
“Xian Jie, come out!”
The cultivators present neither moved to capture Xian Jie nor met his gaze:
“Hearing this grievous news, we too are deeply pained, but matters must be resolved one at a time.”
Someone said with sarcastic insinuation: “Xian Jie is your own younger brother, and you personally sent him into that temple—it’s you who brought this calamity upon Red Leaf Temple.”
One might have thought that with Xian Jianchen busy channeling spiritual energy to save the two monks, he’d have no time to respond to provocation.
Yet Xian Jianchen suddenly turned his head, and a streak of purple-red light flew out from his waist.
The speaker paled in shock, flinging himself aside in evasion, but the sword came too fast—in an instant it broke through his protective spiritual energy, hovering at his throat.
Under the blazing pressure, he couldn’t move a single hair. Had Xian Jianchen so much as blinked, his life could be taken in an instant.
The sword’s body bore intricate patterns, like a hundred flowers blooming at once, breathtakingly beautiful.
The flames along the blade sent waves of heat rolling through Qiankun Hall, as if everyone were falling into a pit of fire.
“Elder Zhang!”
“True Man Zhang!”
His fellow disciples could only shout in alarm, unable to step forward to save him.
Everyone here had witnessed or heard of Xian Jianchen drawing his sword, and had imagined today’s events many times over.
But Xian Jianchen’s life-bound sword was strong beyond imagination—had True Man Zhang been replaced by anyone else present, who could have withstood this single strike?
Things had gone this far—like an arrow already loosed from the bow, there was no turning back. All that remained was to swallow the regret in one’s heart.
“Xian Jianchen, even with a hostage, you won’t be leaving,” True Man Pingyuan said coldly.
True Man Zhang, thinking himself certainly doomed, stiffened his neck and shouted: “Don’t mind me! The world has suffered under Xian Jianchen long enough—take my life today, as a sacrifice for the greater cause!”
Xian Jianchen suddenly flicked his sleeve, and his life-bound sword transformed into a streak of purple light, returning to his hand.
True Man Zhang, his spiritual meridians shattered by the sword-qi’s residual force, vomited blood without pause.
His fellow disciples rushed forward wailing, only to find he still had one breath left.
“I won’t use this sword to kill you,” Xian Jianchen said in a deep voice. “If anyone today wishes to seek vengeance against me, come forward. But Yueniang is only a mortal—you need not trouble her. The grudges and enmities of the cultivation world are things she has no understanding of at all.”
With a resounding boom, the long sword drove into the floor tiles.
The smooth floor tiles cracked like breaking ice, fissures spreading across the entire Qiankun Hall.
The cloud-sea formation trembled without pause.
Xian Jianchen said flatly: “Let her go down the mountain, and this one will face your finest moves without this sword!”
The assembled heroes were struck with shock. Fear and hidden resentment turned into secret joy, and for a moment the hall fell silent, only the long sword humming ceaselessly.
“Brother. It’s rare to see you lower your head and speak such soft words.” A light, calm voice rose from behind the crowd.
Xian Jie had been sitting cross-legged in a corner of the hall the whole time, his aura suppressed to near nothingness, and now finally emerged from the shadows:
“Since you’re willing to give up your life-bound sword in exchange for her life, how could your brother refuse?”
The moment he spoke, everyone tacitly deferred to him as their leader, and no one raised objection. True Man Pingyuan nodded as well.
Seeing this, Xian Jianchen understood everything now—his heart sank even further.
He looked at the monks who had brought word from Red Leaf Temple: “Please, both of you, ride my sword and take my wife back to the temple with you. The matter of Xian Jie, I will settle here myself.”
The two young monks, healed swiftly by his treatment, glared with hatred at Xian Jie, and bowed to Xian Jianchen:
“We will not fail the Sword God’s trust!”
Du Qiuyue shook her head: “Xian-lang, when we bowed to heaven and earth together, didn’t we say we’d live and die as one? Have you forgotten?”
“Don’t talk of life and death.” Xian Jianchen took out a protective cloak and fastened it around her, saying gently, “Yueniang, if today Duo Qing Zi, Wu Qing Zi, and Nian Ru Shen had all come, only then could they claim to have a chance against me. With just the people here, they’re no match for me at all. If you stay, it’ll only tie my hands. There’s nothing I fear for myself—I only fear frightening you.”
There were no fewer than a hundred Nascent Soul cultivators present, and twenty or thirty at Lesser Ascension and Greater Ascension stage as well—mostly senior figures who had made names for themselves and dominated their territories for years—yet he dismissed them all as worthless, no match for him at all.
Everyone was furious, resentful, and astonished all at once: Xian Jianchen actually had such a tender side. With disaster looming, these two, hand in hand gazing at each other, seemed less like cultivator spouses and more like the star-crossed lovers of some opera.
“Besides myself, you’re the only person in this world who can use this sword,” Xian Jianchen said, handing his sheathed life-bound sword to his wife, the corner of his mouth curving into a smile. “Let it protect you both. Once I’ve settled things here, I’ll come get you, and we’ll go to the temple fair.”
Du Qiuyue held the long sword, and turned back as she crossed the hall’s threshold: “I’ll be waiting.”
Through the layers of shifting figures, Xian Jianchen couldn’t see her expression, only the vermillion cloak flying in the fierce wind, like blazing fire.
True Man Pingyuan, true to his word, gave a light wave of his whisk.
The interlocking, precisely operating Huawei formation opened a passage.
The three of them rode away on sword-light, vanishing into the dark clouds.
Xian Jianchen stood empty-handed, alone amid the encirclement.
Though he’d spoken with such confidence before his wife, in truth he had no certainty whether he would live or die today.
These people had all come prepared—there was no telling what other tricks Xian Jie still had in reserve.
The Huawei formation had been driven to its utmost limit, five beams of splendid light bearing down upon him, as if an entire mountain were pressing down.
Suddenly he heard Xian Jie say: “Brother, why must we fight? If you’re willing to leave behind the Water-Reversal Sword…”
Before he could finish, True Man Pingyuan interrupted: “We agreed it would be the Sovereign’s Sword, Chunqiu—when did it become Water-Reversal?”
The other sects and clans also shouted at Xian Jie, each with a different demand.
“So you all want my sword!” Xian Jianchen laughed loudly, finding the whole thing absurdly ridiculous.
Since taking up the sword, I’ve charged through countless dens of dragons and tigers, mountains of blades and seas of fire—who would have thought that at a small banquet on Huawei Mountain, I’d be openly asked to hand over my sword?
If I don’t die today, who will dare disturb my peace ever again? Might as well let loose and fight to the fullest.
With this thought, a surge of heroic spirit rose within him, and the gloom weighing on his heart swept clean away.
“Let’s see if you have what it takes!”
Xian Jianchen grasped empty air with his right hand, and the Chunqiu sword appeared in his grip; his left hand snatched up the wine jar on the table, tilting his head back to gulp it down.
“Don’t waste words on him, everyone attack together!”
“He’s poisoned—he can’t hold out much longer!”
Artifacts of every color flared bright and dim, the magnificent Qiankun Hall thrown into chaotic splendor, unlike anything of the mortal world.
The jade table toppled, gauze curtains shredded, roof beams collapsed, great pillars snapped.
Shouts, curses, and screams intertwined; the immortal palace above transformed into an eighteenth level of hell.
The Huawei formation drove rolling clouds of qi into the hall, engulfing Xian Jianchen.
He could no longer make out anyone’s face or expression, only the light of blades and artifacts.
Enemies surrounded him on every side, above and below—kill one, one fewer remained.
His life-bound sword was not with him, but he still had eleven divine weapons.
“The formation can’t hold! The hall is going to collapse!”
“Block him before Fading Water Bridge—if he escapes today, not one of our clansmen or sect members will survive!”
The magnificent immortal palace was reduced to broken walls and ruins, wine spilled everywhere, fierce fires burning.
Everyone fought with bloodshot eyes, casting off the guise of cultivators, like a pack of beasts gone mad.
Xian Jianchen had forgotten time and pain, his ears no longer registering any sound.
He lost count of how many swords he’d used, how many people he’d killed, how many jars of wine he’d drunk.
The cloud-sea formation turned red with blood; looking toward Huawei Sect’s main peak, no immortal cranes or auspicious clouds crowned its palace anymore—only a vast, boundless sea of blood remained.
Corpses and severed limbs fell from the bridge, fought over and devoured by the five-colored carp.
Not until every strong cultivator of Huawei Sect’s current generation had exhausted themselves to death did the mist of the cloud-sea formation finally disperse.
Xian Jianchen looked out to see corpses strewn across Fading Water Bridge.
At the western sky’s end, the setting sun was blood-red, crows flying askew.
He heard the mountain wind pass through broken bones, like a hoarse, mournful flute.
“Who else?!” His sword-qi swept out, and the sated five-colored carp burst into blossoms of blood.
“Xian Jie!” Xian Jianchen shouted at the top of his voice. “I know you’re still here—come out—”
His eyes were bloodshot, his whole body drenched in blood, like some malevolent ghost crawled out of a pile of corpses, not a trace of the Sword God’s former bearing remaining.
Suddenly, a voice rang out behind him: “Xian-lang!”
“Yueniang!” Xian Jianchen’s heart trembled, and unconsciously the corner of his mouth curved upward as he turned to greet the familiar figure.
The long sword pierced through his chest in that very instant.
“You—”
Xian Jianchen opened his mouth, looking up to see the girl’s vacant, empty gaze.
The demonic art of the Western Seas—the Soul-Seizing Technique.
He staggered backward, slamming against the railing of the bridge. In that flash of electric-light clarity, he understood many things at once, and even a thought flashed through his mind:
“Seeing this sword from this angle for the first time… so this is what it feels like to be wounded by one’s own life-bound sword.”
“Yueniang.” He reached out his hand, catching the girl as she collapsed into his arms.
“What’s wrong with you? Did I hurt you?” Du Qiuyue’s eyes were vacant and blank, her hand reaching out, searching.
Xian Jianchen couldn’t stand, collapsing onto the cold Fading Water Bridge, holding the girl and patting her gently: “Just a light prick—how could that hurt me?”
The girl blinked: “Where are we? Why can’t I see anything?”
She had first had her meridians shattered by the soul-seizing technique, then been wounded further by Xian Jianchen’s own protective sword-qi in return. Blood flowed from all seven orifices, her bones and tendons shattered.
Having consumed many spirit medicines before, and protected by her cloak, she clung to one last breath.
Xian Jianchen looked at her, the wound on his chest agonizing, as if his body had been split open alive.
The earth, sky, setting sun, and sea of blood all began to spin in that instant.
“We’re… we’re on our way to the temple fair. It’s gotten dark already.”
“What about those people? Weren’t you fighting with someone?”
Xian Jianchen said hoarsely: “I chased them all off.”
The girl beamed: “I knew you’d win!”
Her true and false memories were confused; she couldn’t smell the stench of blood, couldn’t see the mountain of corpses and sea of blood before her, and couldn’t feel the pain either.
“I am the Sword God, after all,” Xian Jianchen said, smiling, tears falling. “I’m the strongest under heaven.”
The carefree, unrestrained days of the past, wandering freely with sword in hand, faded away rapidly, leaving only endless regret in this life.
He still had ten thousand words left to say, but suddenly could not utter a single one.
The girl’s body began to glow with a purple-red light, catching fire from her feet upward, turning to ash inch by inch:
“I want to sleep for a while. When I wake up, let’s go somewhere no one knows you, build a little cottage, plant some vegetables, grow some flowers, dig a small pond, and have two more children…”
Xian Jianchen nodded: “Good, sleep then. When you wake, we’ll have arrived.”
The girl gently stroked the wound on his chest, as if pinning another wildflower on him: “It looks so nice.”
Xian Jianchen reached out to hold her.
A handful of scorching ash slipped through his fingers.
The girl, in her red cloak, burned into a ball of flame.
Ash to ash, smoke to nothing.
However many means he’d left to protect himself, none could guard against his own sword-qi.
“Brother. You can’t beat me.” Xian Jie’s voice sounded from behind him. “I understand you too well. I know what kind of trap you’d fall for. I know how to lie, how much truth to mix with how much falsehood, just right. Tell you seven parts truth, and you’ll naturally believe it. But you never guessed that the ones who came at the risk of death to bring you news weren’t from Red Leaf Temple at all—they were my followers.
The moment you walked into Qiankun Hall, you’d already stepped into my scheme. For this day, I knelt in Red Leaf Temple for a hundred years.”
He threw his head back and laughed wildly, laughing until tears came.
Xian Jianchen knelt on the cold Fading Water Bridge, his eyes hollow and empty, letting the other approach from the bridgehead.
Xian Jie looked down at him from above, pity in his gaze: “First the medicine you gave me, then letting you drain your spiritual energy to save people, spill blood to kill them… these tactics are enough against others, but you’re the Sword God—the only thing that can kill you is your own life-bound sword. What a pity—a hero all your life, victorious over the whole world, and in the end you die at your own spouse’s hand. Xian Chen, someone like you should never have married.”
“AHHH—” Xian Jianchen roared skyward, his disheveled hair flying wild.
The howl was shrill and desolate, shooting straight up to the clouds, echoing again and again across Huawei Mountain, not like a human sound at all, but like the despairing howl of some wild beast.
“Crack!”
He actually broke his own life-bound sword with his own hands.
Half the broken blade in his chest he forcibly drew into his purple mansion; the other half he held in his hand.
Xian Jie was shocked, instinctively sensing danger, and fled at once.
Xian Jianchen, leaning on the broken sword, rose to his feet. Between heaven and earth, fierce winds howled, sword-qi crisscrossing every direction.
Xian Jie, a moment too slow, felt a gash open along his ribs from the sword-light, blood pouring out instantly.
He fled with all his spiritual strength, but could not escape that broken sword.
The sun set and the moon rose, the stars shifted through the sky.
Two blood-colored figures raced across ten thousand miles, crossing mountains and rivers, charging into boundless snowy wastes, over wind-torn ice chasms, until they reached the continent’s farthest edge.
Xian Jie, struck through front and back by the sword, countless wounds cut deep to the bone.
He spat mouthfuls of blood, falling from the clouds.
He no longer fled—this was already beneath the Sky-Bearing Tree.
Thick fog stretched all around, no path forward; yin and yang cut off from each other—where else could he flee?
Xian Jianchen stood before him, the blood on his body long since dried, his expression relatively calm, showing no sign of madness.
But Xian Jie knew—this man had already gone mad.
“Why?”
He heard Xian Jianchen ask, and suddenly began to laugh: “You ask me why? Have you forgotten? From childhood on, I was always the cleverer one, the one who could think of ways to earn money, the one who kept us alive! Why should you be the one with peerless spiritual roots? I can’t become an immortal, and I still had to stay behind watching you ascend? The day I achieved my demonic cultivation breakthrough was the happiest day of my life. Why did you have to show up and ruin everything I had!”
Xian Jianchen said nothing.
Xian Jie laughed, coughing blood: “Do you know what kind of days I lived through in the Demon-Suppressing Pagoda? Do you know what kind of demons and monsters were imprisoned there? If I hadn’t used some tricks, how could I have gotten out? It’s just that those monks were too easily fooled, believing I’d truly cultivated Buddha-nature. It’s just that those people in Qiankun Hall were foolish and greedy, deserving to be used as pawns.”
In most cases, when a child shows precocious talent, appearing more clever and quick-witted than peers of the same age, it’s due to spiritual roots within the body.
But there are always exceptions.
Some in this world show great promise young but fail to achieve much; others achieve greatness late in life.
Xian Jianchen’s gaze grew distant: “A hundred years ago, I shouldn’t have sent you to Red Leaf Temple.”
He advanced, broken sword in hand, blood trailing behind him.
Xian Jie leaned back against the Sky-Bearing Tree, suddenly shouting: “Xian Chen, I’m your own younger brother, your only blood relative in this world—will you really kill me?”
Xian Jianchen remained unmoved. Cold light flashed across the broken sword’s edge.
Xian Jie’s face was covered in bloody tears, shouting hoarsely: “Back when the two of us first arrived at Huawei Sect, you were resented and nearly pushed off Broken Mountain Cliff—it was I who risked everything to pull you back up. You said yourself you owed me a life debt—doesn’t that count anymore? Don’t you remember?!”
Xian Jianchen stopped, looking down at the bleeding tip of his blade:
“Even if I kill you, those who died at your hands won’t come back. Those who died at mine won’t come back either.”
Xian Jie’s despairing eyes suddenly brightened: “Brother, let me go one more time! I swear I’ll change this time! I know you’re angry that I harmed Yueniang—I’ll find you one exactly like her…”
A blade-shadow swept down!
Xian Jianchen said flatly: “From this day forth, you shall remain beneath the Sky-Bearing Tree to reflect and repent, never to emerge again!”
The broken sword struck, the heavens shattered, the earth split open!
The ground was forcibly cleaved open into a bottomless chasm.
“Ahh!” Xian Jie’s chest was pierced through by the broken sword, his body, riddled with countless wounds, flung outward by the force.
Blood sprayed through the air like a crimson shooting star.
He fell into the abyss: “No—”
To be buried forever beneath the earth—wasn’t that worse than death?
The abyss closed slowly but surely.
Xian Jie struggled to reach out a hand, but the broken sword in his chest pressed down on him like a great mountain.
“BOOM!”
Beneath the Sky-Bearing Tree, the earth sealed shut.
His final howl, distant and faint: “Xian Chen! You can’t hold me here forever—”
Xian Jianchen turned amid the billowing dust, tears at the corners of his eyes falling onto the thousand-year frozen earth, leaving no further trace.
He summoned his shadowless sword, flying up into the boundless sky.
…
Huawei Sect had lived through a nightmare.
The entire Tianxi Continent was caught in this same nightmare.
Anyone who had attended the banquet, anyone who knew what had happened in Qiankun Hall, was now dead.
Huawei Sect’s strongest cultivators were all gone, leaving only elders, stewards, and disciples below Nascent Soul stage.
Elders who had previously held no real power were pushed forward to take charge, clearing away the broken walls and the corpse-strewn bridge.
While everyone was still shaken and unsettled, that same person came singing, wearing flowers, drinking wine, walking right back in.
He sat down on the half-cleared ruins, smiling cheerfully:
“Don’t be afraid. I really don’t want to kill you. The demon has already been executed by my sword. You were deceived by him—I won’t wipe you all out. I won’t come back again after this. Huawei Sect is yours to manage now.”
Huawei Sect’s elders, still enveloped in the lingering sword-qi, had believed disaster was inescapable. Yet, unexpectedly, a turn for the better came, as that person set only one condition: “From now on, never mention my name in this hall, understand?”
But everyone was too terrified; only one person spoke up, his voice extremely faint.
“What’s your name?” Xian Jianchen asked, carrying his wine jar, somewhat impatiently.
That Golden Core elder trembled uncontrollably: “I—my secular surname is Chen, my master gave me the Daoist name ‘Xuyun.'”
Before he could finish, Xian Jianchen cut him off with a wave: “You’ll do. You’ll be sect leader from now on.”
Xuyun stood stunned, instinctively catching the wine jar Xian Jianchen tossed to him, his knees nearly giving way beneath him.
He wouldn’t have to die? And he’d become sect leader?
After the initial elation came terror—he, a mere Golden Core elder, with no cultivation power and no backing, how could he possibly hold together the shattered Huawei Sect?
Taking on this role of sect leader—what future could there possibly be? What if this man came back one day drunk and killed again—would there be any way to survive?
Xuyun chased after him, wine jar in arms, all the way to Fading Water Bridge, and suddenly fell to his knees, kowtowing: “My master is dead. I am willing to take the Sword God as my master.”
Xian Jianchen’s mouth curved slightly, laughing lightly: “Your master died at my hands, and you still want to take me as your master?”
Xuyun kowtowed again, shouting hoarsely: “I am willing to follow the Sword God! Please, Sword God, become the leader of Huawei Sect!”
No response came for a long while; only his own voice echoed through the mountains.
He slowly raised his head, seeing only endless blue sky, no trace of the sword’s shadow.
From above the clouds fell a single curse: “Go join your ancestors!”
Xuyun nearly ground his teeth to dust, humiliation, despair, and hatred surging up like a tide in his heart.
He staggered to his feet, when suddenly a bright flash of insight crossed his mind:
“Join my ancestors… the ancestral hall?!”
Xian Jianchen had only killed the bodies, not destroyed the souls. The remnant souls, drawn by the formation, would surely return to the ancestral hall.
And the remnant souls of Huawei Sect’s past strong cultivators were also enshrined there, receiving offerings of incense!
Xuyun ran with all his strength, rushing into the ancestral hall, kneeling before the ancestral tablets and swearing:
He would devote his entire life to making the sect flourish and prosper!
After this incident, Huawei Sect’s vitality was severely damaged.
The sects that hadn’t attended the banquet rejoiced greatly, wanting to take advantage of Huawei Sect’s weakness, yet held back with some hesitation:
“That sect leader was, after all, personally chosen by the Sword God. Now that the Sword God has made his pick, if we go make trouble for them now, wouldn’t that be disrespecting the Sword God?”
Xuyun deliberately had people spread word that Xian Jianchen had originated from Huawei Sect, and out of some lingering sentiment for his roots, was unwilling to wipe them out entirely.
Using people’s fear of Xian Jianchen, Huawei Sect managed to protect its spiritual veins, mines, and treasured artifacts.
By the time other sects gradually realized Xian Jianchen had no intention of ever returning to Huawei Sect, that all the rumors had merely been a stalling tactic, Huawei Sect—under Xuyun’s painstaking, trembling management—had already reclaimed its position as the number one sect.
From then on, old grudges having formed, Huawei Sect’s upper echelons avoided all mention of that person, and that banquet, as a taboo subject.
By the time Xuyun had settled firmly into the position of sect leader, he heard that person had acquired a new divine weapon, one capable of countering others’ self-detonation, named “Qiezhu”—his collection of eleven swords became twelve.
A few years later, he heard that the three divine weapons specialized in killing demonic beasts had been destroyed, leaving his twelve swords at only nine.
But the Sword God remained the Sword God, an unspoken fear in the depths of countless hearts.
Until people heard that he had been wounded, that his life-bound sword was no longer with him.
But he had gained a disciple.
This disciple was even more formidable to deal with than he himself had been in his youth, and from then on took up his nine swords, escorting him all the way to the edge of the continent.
Before Xian Jianchen met Song Qianji, he had traveled alone, often speaking to his swords: “After I’m gone, you’re all destined to scatter to the ends of the earth. What a pity.”
The first time Xian Jianchen met Song Qianji, the latter was surrounded on all sides, fighting with bloodshot eyes.
Amid this struggle between life and death, he chanted the name-incantation, releasing a swarm of dancing, fluttering spirit-butterflies.
Just like the butterfly dance he had once watched at the Huawei banquet, the year he had just gotten married.
…
While tilling the soil, Song Qianji found the other half of the broken sword.
He had coveted the land beneath the Sky-Bearing Tree for a long time now. Here was Qianqu’s soil, the Sky-Bearing Tree’s vitality, and water from the Deathless Spring.
His true form, the tree, was tall and broad-crowned, standing at some distance from the other trees in the forest.
It seemed a waste to use this empty plot of land only for growing potato flowers.
Song Qianji’s hands itched, and his heart itched even more.
The day the golden fruit dropped from the branches with a plop, he had eagerly planted himself a new patch, to his heart’s content.
Now, in the third year since bearing fruit, his new body had stabilized enough that he could walk out from beneath the Sky-Bearing Tree’s… fields.
In just three years, a wheat field flourished at the edge of the continent. The wheat grew unusually tall, gleaming with brilliant gold under the sunlight.
The shrunken Chaos slept beneath the wheat, snoring softly, occasionally flicking its tail.
The narrator within the Sky-Bearing Tree was greatly astonished: “Isn’t this your former domain?”
Song Qianji narrowed his eyes, enjoying the breeze and sunlight:
“Seems like it.”
The narrator exclaimed: “Your original domain is gone, and you’ve grown a new one yourself. Song Qianji, worthy of your reputation—the world’s foremost master of farming!”
Song Qianji continued turning the soil, chuckling at this: “Learning has no bounds. The way of farming is broad and profound—I’ve only grasped a little of its surface.”
Suddenly, the arm swinging the hoe stopped.
The narrator teased him: “Hey, what’s wrong? Did you dig up gold?”
Song Qianji didn’t answer, carefully directing his roots, pulling up from underground something pitch-black and lusterless.
It had been buried so long, its spiritual energy long since dissipated, nearly merged with the earth itself.
Song Qianji wiped the surface dirt off with his sleeve, holding it as he slowly sat down, then directed his branches to retrieve something stored in his canopy.
Each hand held half of the broken sword.
The break-lines aligned, the intricate, beautiful patterns fitting together perfectly, forming one complete long sword.
A flash of light passed through, the patterns on the blade’s body regaining their luster, blooming like a hundred flowers.
“Spring… flower,” Song Qianji murmured, touching the ancient characters on the blade’s body, speaking to the sword. “I once guessed what character would follow ‘spring.’ Turns out it was simply ‘spring flower.'”
The Sword God’s life-bound sword actually had such a simple, ordinary name.
Though, admittedly, Xian Jianchen’s naming skills really weren’t very good.
Who in their right mind would add an ominous weapon’s name to their own name?
Song Qianji lightly tapped the blade’s body, and on sudden impulse, flipped it over—on the same spot on the reverse side, two more faint ancient characters appeared:
“Autumn moon.”
“Spring flower, autumn moon.” Song Qianji laughed, shaking his head repeatedly.
Only someone like Xian Jianchen—who spoke in such an insufferable way, loved wearing flowers, and still gave his sword such a name.
“I once had a sword too, also broken by my own hand.”
He kept laughing, then suddenly raised a hand to touch his brow bone.
The brow bone was smooth, long since free of that red mark he’d once so deeply despised.
The master-disciple contract seemed as though it had never existed.
“You’re the first one here today—what are you doing standing there?” Meng Hezhe bumped Ji Chen’s shoulder. “Playing scarecrow?”
He joked while warily scanning his surroundings, checking whether the other had set up any hidden formations.
Every time they came to the edge of the continent, it was the moment their brotherly bond was at its most fragile.
Ji Chen said quietly: “Brother Song is polishing his sword. I didn’t want to disturb him rashly.”
Meng Hezhe retorted without thinking: “Impossible—since Brother Song became a tree, when has he ever touched a sword!”
Song Qianji hadn’t touched a sword in many years.
“If you don’t believe me, go look for yourself,” Ji Chen said.
Meng Hezhe certainly wouldn’t risk going over there himself, so he looked toward Wei Zhenyu, who was running over:
“The Harvest Festival is about to start—we can’t let Brother Song miss it. You go.”
Qianqu’s Harvest Festival gathered farming experts from every agricultural brigade, master craftsmen from every workshop, merchant caravans and traveling scholars from every region, as well as representatives from cultivation sects allied with Qianqu.
This day was not only a grand event for the cultivation world, but also for the farming world, the craftsmen’s world, and the scholarly world alike.
Wei Zhenyu glanced at the two of them: “Do I look that stupid?”
He gave a whistle, calling out to the dozing Chaos not far away.
In the past, Chaos would hear this sound and know it meant food. To eat the roasted-meat-flavored “Inexhaustible Fire,” it would immediately spread its wings and swoop over.
Now Chaos merely rolled over, lazily flicking its tail at him, quite at ease.
Wei Zhenyu laughed in exasperation, rolling up his sleeves as he walked forward: “I’ve fed you for all these years, and now that you have wheat to eat, you pretend not to know me?!”
Ji Chen murmured to himself: “Brother Song calls it ‘Good Boy,’ but you only call it ‘Stupid Chaos’ and ‘Silly Chaos.’ Do you think it can’t tell the difference at all? It’s actually quite clever… it still remembers its former master, but it won’t stay trapped in the past. The person from before isn’t coming back—the living Chaos still has to look forward.”
Song Qianji, hearing the commotion, put away the Sword God’s life-bound sword and looked up.
Wei Zhenyu, who had been chasing and roughhousing with Chaos, immediately withdrew his hands: “It—it scratched me! It was trying to bite me too!”
In the distance, Ji Chen and Meng Hezhe, who had been watching and pointing, straightened up as well:
“Brother Song.”
“Brother Song.”
Song Qianji called out “Good Boy,” and the rolling Chaos leapt up eagerly, carrying all three of them aloft on its wings.
Four wings piercing clouds and chasing wind, they swept past the golden Sky-Bearing Tree and wheat fields, the pitch-black ice chasm and pure white snowy plains, flying toward Qianqu.
Mountains and rivers flashed by in an instant.
Song Qianji sat on Chaos’s back, letting the wind blow past him, and took out the nine swords, wiping each one clean in turn.
“Master, though they’ll be farming with me from now on, I’ll take good care of them.”
These swords Xian Jianchen had left behind each had their own difficult temperament, hard to master—yet the world was vast, and divine weapons could always find the right master in time.
Spring flowers, autumn moons—how many more will there be? The rolling river of time surges on, its waves washing away all heroes.
Beneath the boundless sky held up by the Sky-Bearing Tree forest, the curtain slowly rises on a new legend—the story never truly ends.