In the misty gray memory, a beam of light suddenly appeared.

This beam of light shone on Chai Sang’s face, like a glimmer of hope in a desperate situation, finally bringing a trace of the living to the craftsman’s face that had been lifeless for so long.

Zanxing walked to his side, her gaze falling on that yellowed, tattered scroll.

When Chai Sang was young, he had once tried to become the Yuezhi Kingdom’s greatest swordsmith, like his ancestors. So he often spent much time searching everywhere for special swordsmithing diagrams. Some were picked up from unwanted miscellaneous items in farmers’ homes, and others were casually given to him by wandering knights in exchange for weapon money. Those old scrolls stored his youthful dreams. However, as time passed, the old books were put away and piled together with countless diagrams left by his father’s generation, never to see daylight again.

After all, supporting his family was more important.

Among those diagrams, some were real, some were fake, and some looked more like random scribbles written in jest, impossible to implement. He had read through these over and over in his youth, but hadn’t opened this box for many years.

And now, he held the scroll in his hands like he was holding all the hope in the world.

The craftsman knelt on the ground, trembling as he opened the scroll.

Zanxing sat beside him, watching together with him.

As the scroll was opened, perhaps because it had been forgotten for many years, a damp, decaying smell immediately wafted out. Yet within that decay was hidden a thought-provoking fragrance, very peculiar.

The writing was bright red, like bloodstains left on the scroll, making anyone who saw it shudder.

Zanxing was slightly stunned – this wasn’t a swordsmithing diagram.

She followed along as Chai Sang turned the pages, becoming more alarmed the more she read.

This was indeed a book about swordsmithing, but unlike ordinary diagrams, this was a manual telling people how to nurture a sword spirit.

Sword spirits were formed when spirit artifacts gained consciousness. Most weapon spirits appeared naturally through heaven and earth’s nurturing, or followed their masters on journeys and occasionally gained enlightenment. But they absolutely couldn’t be forged by ordinary mortal craftsmen – ordinary worldly swordsmithing materials couldn’t nurture a sword’s soul.

Yet this scroll recorded a method: as long as the swordsmith used his blood to nourish and temper the forged sword for three hundred and sixty-five days continuously, it might be possible to nurture an extraordinary sword.

Of course, this alone wasn’t enough.

Because without cultivation refinement and without opened spiritual wisdom, ordinary swords, even if nourished with blood, would only be empty shells.

Chai Sang turned to the last page of the scroll. Zanxing’s breath caught, and she couldn’t help but cry out: “No!”

Mortals couldn’t possibly nurture sword spirits – there was only one method.

The final step in tempering a sword spirit was to sacrifice the swordsmith’s soul, offering oneself to the forged sword, becoming that “sword spirit” oneself.

This wasn’t swordsmithing – in a sense, this was a transaction. Using one’s soul to exchange for a “divine sword” with a sword spirit.

How could such a diagram exist in the world? The swordsmithing method recorded in this scroll was strange and evil, obviously a trap at first glance. A divine sword born from a swordsmith sacrificing his soul and nourishing it with his blood would very likely be an evil sword. When Chai Sang truly became the “sword spirit,” who knew whether he could retain his original memories and consciousness, or if his entire body and heart would be devoured and completely exploited by this sword?

Looking at it now, this was indeed the case.

Zanxing wanted to stop the craftsman’s next actions, but her outstretched hand passed through his shoulder like touching illusory air, leaving no trace.

She couldn’t change what had already happened.

As a swordsmith, Chai Sang understood this better than anyone. He knew this diagram was strange, that the recorded method was ominous, and that the consequence of such a dangerous gamble would very likely be paying the price of his soul.

But this was his only hope.

What did soul or no soul matter? Perhaps from the moment Wuyou died, he had already been an empty shell.

The courtyard again rang with ding-ding-dang-dang sounds.

But this time, no little girl was sitting at the door watching him work.

Those ding-ding-dang-dang sounds of swordsmithing had originally been full and crisp, but now they became chaotic and dull, striking people’s hearts with each sound, making them uneasy. He worked regardless of day or night. When neighbors passed by, they opened their mouths in surprise: “Chai Sang, how did you become like this?”

How did he become like this?

He had originally been just short and ugly, but now, using his blood daily to nourish and irrigate the sword body, his physique rapidly wasted away. His skin turned sallow, his cheeks became so thin they were just skin and bones. At a glance, he seemed like a soulless walking corpse.

When the neighbors saw him like this, the children were frightened and avoided walking near him. Busybodies pointed and whispered behind his back: “So what if his daughter died? He’s just a commoner – it looks like he’s given up.”

The general’s son still lived in luxury. For nobles like them, causing the death of a young girl was insignificant. When occasionally hearing people mention it, he would only scornfully laugh: “Oh, still not dead? That waste.”

When these voices reached the craftsman’s ears, he remained unmoved.

He only concentrated wholeheartedly on forging the most vicious sword in the world. This sword could help him take revenge and seek justice for his daughter.

Chai Sang became increasingly strange and reclusive. He no longer went out, kept his main gate tightly closed, and didn’t interact with people. People could only hear the day-and-night “ding-ding-dang-dang” sounds from his courtyard to guess that he was still alive. They all thought he had gone mad.

Zanxing felt Chai Sang wasn’t far from madness either.

He forged that sword very carefully.

The sword body was a beautiful silver-white, made small and delicate in shape, very light and nimble. He carefully carved a small frost flower on the sword hilt, made of white crystal. For this piece of white crystal, he had sold everything in the house that could be sold.

Zanxing sat in the courtyard, watching him hold that piece of white crystal, painstakingly carving it bit by bit. That translucent stone slowly bloomed into a fragile crystal flower under his fingertips, beautiful yet fragile.

This sword was the same as the one Wuyou had wanted.

And he had developed feelings for this sword.

Sometimes Chai Sang would talk to himself while facing this sword, murmuring something in a low voice. Sometimes he would silently shed tears facing this sword, sometimes he would laugh loudly at the sword. But more often, he would just gaze at the sword’s body for long periods, his eyes gentle and devoted, as if looking at something else through this sword.

He became thinner day by day, more withered day by day. Sometimes Zanxing felt he didn’t look like a living person, making one wonder how such a frame could move around daily doing his unfinished work.