LRAB Chapter 36 The Sword in My Heart
Chapter 36 The Sword in My Heart
Chapter 36 The Sword in My Heart
The night was as dark as ink, and all was silent.
Sudden--
"Everyone! The demon race has invaded!! Proceed to Nantian City immediately!! Immediately—!!!"
The piercing shout, like a thunderclap from the sky, shattered the tranquility of the night. Accompanied by a sharp whooshing sound, a figure riding a sword sped from the direction of Nantian City, then raced wildly along the winding mountain roads and villages into the deeper darkness.
The sword-wielding cultivator channeled all his magical power into his voice, each word like a heavy hammer blow striking the slumbering earth, echoing dully through the mountains. The panic, urgency, and unwavering resolve in his voice were more terrifying than any gong or alarm. He dared not pause for a moment along the way, pushing his magical power to its limit, leaving only this death-snatching cry above each village before transforming into a streak of light and continuing his journey to the next location.
Needless to say, everyone understood that disaster was imminent.
The village, which had been immersed in its slumber, was instantly awakened by the terror emanating from the sky. One, two—a dim, yellow light hastily flickered on in the darkness, forming a trembling sea of light. The barking of dogs, the cries of children awakened by fright, the panicked shouts of adults, the chaotic thrashing of chickens and ducks—all the sounds mingled together, erupting into a suffocating cacophony in the vacuum shattered by the broken silence.
People didn't even have time to put on their clothes or rub their sleepy eyes. The instinct for survival, like an invisible hand, gripped everyone's throat, driving them to action. They grabbed the dry food bags and water pouches they had prepared, stuffed their perhaps useless money into their pockets, picked up their still-crying, bewildered children, and helped the elderly with mobility issues—they stumbled and rushed out of their homes, merging into the equally panicked crowd.
No one had time to look back at their homes where they had lived for years. Jars and pots they couldn't take, livestock and poultry, even clothes left to dry were all resolutely left behind. The crowd surged forward like a disturbed swarm of ants, or a flock of sheep being whipped mercilessly, carrying a blind, crowded, and suffocating panic, toward the only possible direction—that distant gray city wall called "Southern Sky City."
Time lost its meaning in the struggle for survival. Until a sickly pale dawn appeared on the eastern horizon, the hazy light of day stingily shone down, barely illuminating this chaotic land.
Outside Nantian City, the scene resembled a prelude to the apocalypse.
Every avenue, path, and even field ridge leading to the city gates was teeming with a dark, dense flow of people. Countless feet kicked up clouds of dust, like giant, despairing, yellowish-brown pythons converging from all directions and coiling around the foot of the lonely city. Cries, screams, calls for lost loved ones, the terrified bellows of livestock, the shrill groans of old carts bearing their weight—all these sounds mingled together, rising up and mingling with the swirling dust, creating a heartbreaking and suffocating picture of despair.
City wall.
In the brisk morning wind, the old general, clad in full armor with graying temples, moved with a heavy, clanging sound as his armor plates clattered.
He knelt down on one knee, facing the figure standing by the railing in a scarlet official robe.
"My lord! Please make a swift decision!" The old general's voice was hoarse, yet it was like a blade scraping against iron and stone, every word imbued with the taste of iron and blood. "This humble general has selected fifty of his most loyal and valiant personal guards, each capable of taking on ten men! The secret passage beneath the west gate is clear; it can escort you to your immediate retreat! My lord—as long as the green hills remain, there will always be firewood!"
He abruptly raised his head, his face weathered by time, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the young official's retreating figure. In those eyes, there was the indomitable spirit of a soldier facing dire straits, the grief of witnessing the city's impending collapse, and even more so, the bitter resentment and anger of being betrayed by loved ones.
"The Shi family and the Chi family—they ran away long ago!" The old general spat out these words through gritted teeth, each syllable seemingly dripping with blood. "They no longer intend to keep this city! We—we've all been abandoned! My lord, there's no need, there's really no need to stay here—to wait for death!"
The young official did not turn around.
He simply gazed silently at the distant horizon. There, thick, inky clouds slowly writhed and piled up, like a colossal beast gradually awakening, opening its gaping maw to devour everything at this lonely city. The morning light attempted to pierce through the clouds, but only painted a strange, ominous dark red halo around them.
His voice rang out, unbelievably calm, even carrying a gentle, soothing tone characteristic of a scholar's study, forming a stark contrast to the clamor of despair below the city and the impassioned old general behind him: "General Qin, how long have you been stationed in Nantian City?"
The old general was taken aback by these words, remaining silent for a moment, the clatter of his armor plates making a heavy sound. He straightened his back, his voice deep and resonant like a muffled drum: "My lord, it has been a full forty years. When I was ordered to garrison this place, it was the year my southern border was at its most formidable—the border line made its final southward advance, and the cornerstone of the last 'new border town' was laid by my own hands."
"Forty years—" the official repeated softly, a sigh escaping his lips, only to be dispersed by the morning breeze carrying the scent of distant gunpowder. "Yes, a hundred years ago, the place where you and I stood was the edge of the southern border of humanity. In the hundred years that followed, the talents of our southern border shone like stars in the sky. Wherever our swords pointed, the southern wilderness retreated, and our territory expanded by three thousand miles—what a joy, what a magnificent sight that was!"
His voice gradually lowered, as if dragged down by the weight of that magnificent picture in his memory, finally turning into a bitter laugh in his throat: "Who could have foreseen that a glorious century-old foundation would one day retreat to this place? Dark clouds obscure the sun, all communication is cut off, and even the powerful families that should have been guarding this place like mountains—have fled first. How ironic."
He slowly turned around.
The morning light brushed across his handsome profile, illuminating a face devoid of fear, yet imbued with an almost utter exhaustion and a tranquil calm after the dust had settled. This tranquility was so profound that it made one's heart tighten.
"General Qin, I am but a scholar," he began, his tone calm, as if stating a fact unrelated to himself. "I am neither strong nor capable of lifting heavy objects. All I have ever relied on in my life are a few old books and a set of writing skills. Whenever I think of this, I feel indignant. Apart from this official robe and the relatively clean ink on my pen, at this critical moment of life and death, I have nothing else to rely on."
He paused, then looked past the old general's shoulder and down at the city walls.
There, an endless stream of people, as insignificant as ants, were surging in terror through what might not have been a sturdy city gate.
Cries, pushing, dust, despair—all merged into a blurry, trembling chaos.
"But," he changed the subject, his gaze suddenly focusing, becoming exceptionally clear and gentle, yet like tempered iron, containing an unyielding resolve, "there is at least one thing that I am certain I can do."
He suddenly opened his arms, the wide sleeves of his crimson official robe filled with the fierce wind, billowing out like two flames hanging from the sky, as if he wanted to embrace the entire city and its weeping people.
"Stay with them," he said, his voice low, but each word struck the cold brick wall, "and die together."
"To go to the Yellow Springs with my people. I imagine—that road won't be too desolate and lonely."
He looked at General Qin again, his eyes clear and open, so frank that it was almost unbearable to look directly at him: "Since I am the parent of this city, I cannot—and should never—abandon them and live on my own."
"General Qin, things have come to this. Let fate decide our fate." His tone regained an almost indifferent calm. "I have left a letter on the desk in the main hall, and the imperial seal has been affixed. If you leave, you may take it directly to the Emperor. The fall of Nantian City is the fault of fate, of the aristocratic families who abandoned their posts, and of the Dao Alliance who had no support. But—it is not your fault for failing to defend the city. His Majesty is wise and will not punish you."
He paused briefly, then spoke again, his voice even softer, yet carrying a resolute determination that severed all escape routes: "I was born into a humble family, but His Majesty spared my life and promoted me to this position. My mother passed away last year, and I have no more worldly ties. If one day there is any turmoil in the court, and someone tries to use the fall of this city as a pretext, General, you may place all the blame upon me alone. When a person dies, it is like a lamp going out; what is the point of posthumous fame?"
General Qin knelt frozen on the ground, as if encased in ice. He gazed up at the excessively young face before him, his Adam's apple bobbing several times, yet no sound came out. He had always thought this young nobleman, who had risen so rapidly through imperial favor, would be the most valiant and life-loving person in the world. Who would have thought that such a thin, frail body harbored such a fierce, resolute, and willing-to-die soul!
The struggle was like that of a caged beast pounding in an iron cage. After a long silence, the old general finally managed to squeeze out broken words from his dry throat: "My lord—your noble character is beyond compare, this humble general—I bow in submission." He clasped his hands tightly in a fist salute, his armor clanging, and bowed his head deeply, almost touching the ground. When he raised his head again, his eyes were even more bloodshot, but filled with a desperate plea: "But—this humble general dares to humbly request that my lord—lend my private seal for a moment! This humble general—will only affix it to a letter home, and return it immediately!"
Upon hearing this, the young official actually raised the corners of his lips slightly.
It was a faint smile that instantly illuminated all the gloom between his brows, like a ray of sunlight suddenly pouring down through a crack in the dark clouds, pure and serene.
"What's so difficult about that?"
He untied the personal seal, carved from warm, lustrous jade and bound with a faded silk sash, from his waist, and gently stroked it with his fingertips, as if bidding farewell. Then, as if discarding an ordinary trinket, he casually tossed it to the old general.
"These possessions are of no use to me. I'll give them to the general as a keepsake."
As soon as he finished speaking, he turned around.
As the dawn grew brighter, it outlined his straight, pine-like back and his fiery red official robes, creating a clear and solitary silhouette that stood firmly between the ancient city walls and the ever-approaching, billowing demonic clouds. His figure stood motionless, as if he had become one with the city that was about to face its end.
The small mountain village was not spared from the wave of panic.
The sky was just before dawn, a hazy gray-blue light seeping through the window paper. Mu Mie, still half-asleep, suddenly felt a strange pang in his heart, as if something heavy was pressing down on his chest, or as if a cold gaze had pierced through his dream and pinned him down. He shifted uncomfortably, then groggily opened his eyes.
Before his blurry vision cleared, he first saw a tall, backlit figure standing out in the distance outside the window!
Mu Mie woke up instantly, all sleepiness gone. He curled up abruptly, his heart pounding in his chest. He stared wide-eyed, trying to make out what was happening.
It was an unfamiliar old man. His figure was as upright as a pine tree, and even through the window, one could feel the solemnity and authority of someone who had long held a high position. His face was thin and his features were hard and cold. Most striking was the single, closed, pale golden vertical line on his forehead, exactly like the one he remembered about his cousin, Yang Yitan!
The Heavenly Eye!
"Who are you? Who are you?" Mu Mie's voice was hoarse from just waking up and filled with undisguised fear.
The old man's gaze, almost tangible, slowly swept across his face, finally settling on his forehead. Mu Mie felt a slight burning sensation between his brows, as if the golden mark Yang Yitan had activated was subtly echoing it. The scrutiny lasted only a moment before the old man withdrew his gaze, his voice low and deep, offering no explanation or pleasantries: "I'll wait for you outside."
After saying that, he didn't even wait for Mu Mie to react before turning around and leaving the window, his footsteps disappearing steadily outside the door.
Mu Mie lay frozen on the bed, his heart still pounding. Only then did he notice that his mother had silently stood in the bedroom doorway. She hadn't turned on the light; she simply stood quietly in the shadow cast by the doorframe, watching him. The morning light sparingly outlined her features. Mu Mie had never seen such a complex expression on his mother's face—solemn as iron, sorrowful as water, yet deep within which surged something resolute, almost liberating. All these emotions were mixed together, making her seem unfamiliar and distant.
"Mother—" Mu Mie called out unconsciously, his voice filled with dependence and doubt.
Yang Yan's gaze fell on his face, and the complex expression seemed to have subsided, transforming into a deep weariness. Her voice was very soft, as if afraid to shatter the last tranquility before dawn: "He is your maternal grandfather."
"We need to leave here."
Outside, the eastern horizon had just been pierced by a pale glimmer of light, and the thin rays of dawn seeped through, barely dispelling the last vestiges of night. The air was filled with the unique, crisp, and damp scent of vegetation characteristic of the mountains, but today, this scent seemed to carry a faint, distant anxiety.
Yang Yifang stood outside the simple fence of Mu Mie's house, his back to the rising light. He didn't look at the house behind him, nor at the chickens and ducks that had begun to squawk in panic. His gaze was fixed on the equally simple wooden house across the way, and on the old bamboo chair under the eaves, on the figure that seemed to have grown out of the chair.
The bamboo chair swayed gently, emitting a monotonous creaking sound. The person in the chair had his eyes closed, holding a half-empty wine jar in his hand, completely oblivious to the growing commotion around him, or rather, completely ignoring the oppressive gaze. He was shrouded in a deep, dreary atmosphere and silence, incongruous with the early morning.
Yang Yifang stared at him for a few moments before finally speaking. His voice wasn't loud, yet it strangely pierced through the air in the courtyard, each word clear and devoid of any emotion, simply stating calmly: "Lone Peak Sword."
The person on the bamboo chair didn't even flinch.
Yang Yifang continued, his tone still calm, but beneath that calmness seemed to lie a dull, rusty blade, slowly and forcefully scraping at the listener's nerves: "Everyone says that you died in the Southern Border. Your body was never found, your soul scattered."
Zhou Yi's chest rose and fell slightly with his breathing, his rhythm perfectly steady, as if he were truly fast asleep, or as if these words were merely irrelevant whispers passing by his ears.
"But look at yourself now," Yang Yifang's voice finally revealed a faint, almost cruel sarcasm, "It would have been better if—you had died cleanly and neatly back then. At least then you could have left behind the title of 'hero' with everything intact."
The mockery sank like a stone into a deep pool, without stirring up the slightest ripple. Zhou Yi didn't even tighten his grip on the wine jar, displaying his utter and unyielding indifference to the fullest extent.
Just then, the courtyard gate behind them made a soft sound.
Yang Yan led the still somewhat bewildered Mu Mie out. Mu Mie tightly clutched the newly refurbished "Lone Peak" longsword in his arms, while his mother held his other hand. In Yang Yan's other arm, she held the still-sleeping Dongfang Qinlan, who was completely unaware of the changes in the outside world.
Yang Yifang finally shifted his gaze from Zhou Yi to his daughter and grandson. He didn't say anything more, just nodded slightly, and with a seemingly casual flick of his sleeve—a gentle yet overwhelming invisible magical power quietly emerged, steadily supporting Yang Yan's figure.
"Walk."
He spoke succinctly, turned around first, and without any visible movement of his feet, he was already airborne, his clothes fluttering, speeding towards the northern horizon, leaving a faint trail of air in the low sky.
Only then did Zhou Yi, sitting on the bamboo chair opposite, slowly open his eyes.
Those eyes, always half-closed and filled with dejection and the effects of alcohol, opened now, revealing a clarity that was almost icy. He didn't look at Yang Yifang who had flown away, nor at Yang Yan who had been carried away; his gaze fell on Mu Mie, who was still somewhat at a loss.
He put down the wine jar and stood up. His movements were slow, even somewhat sluggish, like a long-dormant mechanism starting to operate again. Then, with his only remaining right hand, he reached out and grabbed at the air in the direction of the wooden sparrow.
Mu Mie felt a sudden tightness around him, as if enveloped by an invisible, warm hand, and his feet instantly left the ground. Before he could even cry out in surprise, he had already landed steadily beside Zhou Yi, along with the sword in his arms that seemed to have suddenly become heavier.
"Stand firm." Zhou Yi's voice rang out softly, devoid of emotion, yet strangely calming Mu Mie's panicked heart.
The next moment, Mu Mie felt a lifting force beneath his feet, and the scenery in front of him suddenly sank and receded—they were also carried into the air, chasing after Yang Yifang's figure that was almost disappearing into the morning mist.
The wind high in the sky was far more biting than he had imagined, howling and lashing against his face with a chilling force. Mu Mie, however, paid no heed to his fear. He gripped the corner of Zhou Yi's black robe tightly, his knuckles turning white. Part of his grip was due to the discomfort of the altitude, and the other part was due to the unprecedented surge of emotions churning within him—a sense of shock, confusion, and a vague fear of the unknown future. Strangely, the thrill of riding the wind somewhat diluted these feelings.
The wind was so strong that he had to shout at the top of his lungs for his voice to carry: "Mother! Where are we going—?"
Ahead, Yang Yan was supported by magical power, her figure swaying slightly in the wind. Her voice came against the wind, broken and indistinct: "Go—to the place where Mother grew up—"
Mu Mie struggled to process those words, his gaze involuntarily drifting to the elderly man at the front, whose back was as straight as a spear, leading the way. He muttered to himself, "Is this the house of that—that fierce-looking old man?"
"Call me Grandpa! You brat!"
Yang Yifang's irritating snort was like muffled thunder. Although it was some distance away, it hit Mu Mie's ear clearly, startling him so much that he shrank back and dared not make another sound.
The group fell silent, walking through the increasingly bright sky. Below, familiar mountains, streams, and villages receded rapidly, shrinking into blurry patches of color. Only the wind howled eternally in their ears.
After flying for an unknown amount of time, the scenery beneath our feet began to change. On the flat plains, the outline of a city slowly emerged from the dissipating morning mist.
Nantian City.
Even from high above, one could sense the city's solitude. It stood on the plains, defenseless on all sides, its walls gleaming a pale gray in the morning light. On the city walls, tiny, ant-like figures could be vaguely seen moving about, and—a striking, vibrant splash of red.
That was the official robe of a young prefect.
He was leaning on the railing, gazing into the distance, perhaps observing the movement of the demonic clouds, or perhaps simply bidding a final farewell. He seemed to sense something, slightly raising his head to look at the figures flitting across the northern sky.
He stood there quietly, his red official robes fluttering fiercely in the increasingly strong morning wind, his posture as upright as a pine tree, as if he wanted to stand as the last landmark of this lonely city, watching these figures disappear into the northern horizon.
On his young face, there was no envy, no resentment, only a deep, still calm.
Just as their figures were about to sweep across the sky above the city, leaving that red figure completely behind, Zhou Yi, who had been flying steadily, stopped without warning.
He hovered in mid-air, his robes billowing in the air currents created by the sudden stop. Yang Yifang, ahead of him, seemed to notice as well, and paused slightly.
Zhou Yi's voice rang out, not loud, but exceptionally clear, reaching everyone's ears. His voice was utterly devoid of emotion, so calm—it sent chills down one's spine.
"Let's leave it here."
Yang Yifang, who was ahead, suddenly stopped, turned around sharply, and his eyes flashed like lightning.
The next instant, his pupils contracted slightly as he saw Zhou Yi gently push with his right hand, sending Mu Mie beside him flying as if handing him an object. Almost instinctively, Yang Yifang reached out, a gentle force pulling the still somewhat bewildered Mu Mie steadily to his side. His brows furrowed, his gaze piercing like a knife as he stared at the dark figure: "What do you mean?"
Yang Yan's heart sank suddenly in her chest, as if gripped tightly by an icy hand. The dim light by the window that day, Zhou Yi's deep voice, and the words "You will understand in the future"—an ominous premonition exploded within her at that moment.
She saw Zhou Yi raise his only remaining hand, his five fingers slowly running through the slightly disheveled black hair on his forehead, combing it back. This simple action seemed to peel away an invisible layer of dust and despondency. He revealed a smooth forehead, and his eyes, no longer half-closed or cloudy, were now clear as a deep, cold pool, sharp as a tempered sword, all traces of drunkenness and weariness completely gone!
Mu Mie was then surprised to realize that Uncle Zhou's face was clean-shaven today, and his black outfit accentuated his figure. Although his left sleeve was empty, he stood tall and straight like a lone pine tree on a cliff. The morning light fell on him, polishing the long-dormant sharpness inch by inch, revealing a chilling and awe-inspiring demeanor.
"I'm staying," he said. His voice wasn't loud, but it was firm and unwavering, leaving no room for negotiation.
"Stay?!" Yang Yan's voice instantly rose, sharp and almost shattering, filled with incredulous astonishment and a sudden burst of rage. "Stay here for what?! To defend this doomed, isolated city?! Who do you think you are?! Are you the once mighty Dongfang Guyue who shook the southern border, or Wang Quan Shouzhuo who wielded royal power and established his rule over the Central Plains?! You're nothing but—"
"Yang Yan." Zhou Yi interrupted her, his tone still calm, but carrying a mountain-like weight that forcefully suppressed her angry rebuke.
"Remember our promise." He stopped looking at her and took out a thin booklet with slightly worn edges from his pocket. On the cover, the three characters "Yang Qi Jing" were written in ink, the strokes were messy but powerful, as if each character carried the ruggedness of a sword.
Without even glancing at it, he flicked his wrist, and the booklet traced an arc, landing precisely in Mu Mie's outstretched hands.
"then."
Mu Mie hurriedly held it up, finding it slightly heavy. He stared blankly up at the figure in the air that was both familiar and utterly unfamiliar.
"This book, and the sword in your arms," Zhou Yi's gaze finally fell on Mu Mie's face. His gaze was deep and heavy, as if he wanted to engrave the still-childish face in front of him, along with the color of the sky and the sound of the wind, into the depths of his soul. "I'm giving them all to you."
He paused, speaking each word clearly and slowly, as if making some solemn entrustment: "Mu Mie, don't let me down."
"Practice diligently."
"When you grow up—remember to protect Xiaoxiao."
"Uncle Zhou—" Mu Mie's throat suddenly choked, and his nose stung with tears. Only now did the cold and hard substance of separation strike his heart with immense weight, making his vision go black and almost unable to breathe.
"What are you trying to prove now?!" Yang Yan roared, her voice trembling with anger, her eyes instantly turning red as tears streamed down her face. "Everyone has given up! The Shi family has fled! The Chi family has fled! The entire Qi Dao Alliance is turning a deaf ear! This city has been completely abandoned! It's a expendable pawn! It's a death trap! What do you think you can do with just one person and one sword?! What can you change?! You're just throwing your life away! You're just wasting your life—!!!"
"I should have died long ago."
Zhou Yi's voice was very soft, as soft as a feather, yet louder and heavier than thunder, striking Yang Yan's eardrums and making her tremble.
He twitched the corners of his mouth, revealing a cold and empty smile that was almost self-mocking.
"The Lone Peak Sword, praised by the world for fighting to the last in the isolated city and dying heroically"—his voice trailed off, carrying a deep-seated weariness and disgust, "was nothing more than a cowardly, fame-seeking coward who, at the last moment—"
He's nothing but a coward who abandoned all his companions and turned to flee alone.
He closed his eyes, his thick eyelashes casting soft shadows beneath his eyelids. When he opened them again, what surged in his eyes was a pain that had been building up for far too long, a pain that had almost eroded his soul, and—an almost cruel, yet finally liberated, sense of relief.
"I should have died long ago."
If today is destined to end, then let that end come quickly.
This allows him to face the enemy's blade, rather than the still-warm corpses of his comrades.
This would allow him to step towards his inevitable death, rather than another "lucky" path to life.
He will no longer run away.
"You—!" Yang Yan burst into tears, her vision blurring. Ignoring the need for stable flight, she lunged forward, her fingers clenching with effort, reaching for the resolute figure in the air, as if trying to drag him back from his predetermined fate!
A strong, weathered hand firmly pressed down on her trembling shoulder.
Yang Yifang stood beside her, the complex light casting a shadow on the resolute, plummeting figure below. The old man's gaunt face softened slightly, transforming into a deeper expression, a mixture of understanding and sigh. He slowly shook his head, his voice low yet carrying an undeniable strength: "Let him go."
"He was tormented; living—wasn't necessarily easier than dying."
"This is the path he chose for himself."
Yang Yan's struggling hand finally fell limply, her fingertips curling in vain as she felt the cold wind slip through her fingers. She could only watch helplessly as the dark figure, like a shooting star breaking free of all shackles or heading towards its only destiny, traced a resolute arc in the air, changing direction and heading towards the place below, nestled between the morning light and the demonic clouds...
The city wall, which appeared utterly isolated, plummeted away.
On the city wall, the young prefect had been silently gazing at the departing figures in the sky, feeling no resentment, only a faint, bystander's wistfulness. Until one of the figures suddenly turned back, swooping down towards the city wall with astonishing speed, like a hunting eagle or a sword returning to its sheath. The calm on his thin face was finally shattered, revealing genuine, undisguised astonishment.
In the sky, Yang Yifang no longer lingered. With a flick of his sleeve, his gentle yet firm magic lifted the tearful and nearly exhausted Yang Yan, along with Mu Mie, who was still clutching his longsword and book and was in a daze from the shock, and Dongfang Qinlan, who had been drugged by Zhou Yi and remained unconscious. They transformed into a streak of light and landed on a precipitous mountain peak in the distance, from which Nantian City could be clearly seen.
The mountain wind was biting, whipping up my robes.
Yang Yifang stood with his hands behind his back, gazing at the lonely city, his voice as deep and resonant as the ancient rocks beneath his feet: "Right here."
"To see him off on his final journey."
City wall.
The young official stared at the man who had returned and landed gracefully. His black robes were as dark as night, his left sleeve fluttering in the rising wind. His long hair was unbound, a few strands brushing against his sharply defined profile, making his face appear even more cold and resolute. What truly chilled the official was the man's eyes; they were no longer clouded or dejected, but instead shone with an astonishing brightness, like a raging fire burning beneath ice, or a blade about to be drawn, thirsting for blood.
The man didn't even glance at him, walking straight to the dilapidated battlements and casually leaning down. His right leg bent, while his left leg dangled over the wall, dozens of feet above the empty space and the swarming crowd like ants. His only remaining right hand reached out and grabbed—
Not far away, a jar of strong liquor prepared to send off the soldiers guarding the city by the battlements flew into his palm with a sound.
"Bang!"
The clay seal shattered. He tilted his head back, the jar opening tilted, and amber-colored wine poured down like a burst dam, rushing into his mouth. Before he could swallow, it flowed down his taut jawline, soaking his dark robes, shimmering faintly in the rising sun. The posture was not like drinking wine, but rather like drinking the blood of an enemy, or performing some kind of resolute sacrifice.
"Heavens—! It's him! It's Lone Peak Sword!" Zhou Yi! Zhou Yi, the number one swordsman in the Southern Territory! He's not dead! He's still alive—!
A hoarse, frantic, almost incoherent scream suddenly shattered the oppressive atmosphere on the city wall!
The one who shouted was an old cultivator, leaning on a cane, his white hair sparse, his breath as faint as a candle flickering in the wind. He trembled violently, his cloudy old eyes fixed on the figure drinking, tears streaming down his deeply lined face. Years ago, at the Southern Border Sword Tournament, among thousands of people, he had witnessed that fleeting, unforgettable glimpse of sword light! It was more than just sword light; it was the sharpness of an era, an undying legend in the hearts of Southern Border cultivators!
That roar was like the fuse that lit a powder keg!
In an instant—
"Whoosh!" "Swish!" "Thump!"
The sounds of rushing air, clothes rustling in the wind, and staggering footsteps filled the air—across the city walls, figures who had been silently awaiting death, their breaths fading, suddenly surged forward with a violent life force, disregarding everything else! Dozens of people, all with white hair, some disabled, others who, for various reasons, had failed to evacuate with the powerful clans, were rogue cultivators or veterans. A terrifying light shone in their eyes—a light filled with shock, ecstasy, and the almost religious fervor of a dying person witnessing a miracle!
They wanted to see with their own eyes whether the name that had long been engraved at the top of the list of the dead, and that had been remembered and lamented by countless people, had truly returned from hell and stood once again on this crumbling city wall!
"Sword! Your solitary peak!" Where is your sword?! Where is your sword?!
"Zhou Yi! You shouldn't be here! Go! While there's still a sliver of hope, get out of here—!!"
"We old bones are just destined to rot here! What are you doing here?! What are you doing here?!"
"You have already shed enough blood for my Southern Territory! Isn't losing an arm enough?! Who needs you to prove anything again?! Who needs you to come again—!!" A one-armed old cultivator stared intently at Zhou Yi's empty left sleeve, as if he saw another blood-soaked, desolate city. Tears streamed down his face as he pounded his fist on the wall, letting out a howl like a wild beast.
"The Shi family! The Chi family! Those beasts of the One Qi Dao Alliance! How dare they—how dare they send you to die in their place! I curse them! I will haunt them even as a ghost—!!!" A man with a face full of scars, his beard and hair bristling, his eyes bloodshot, roared blood-soaked towards the northern sky, his voice shaking the city bricks.
The young prefect quietly stepped back half a step, clearing away the space that had suddenly erupted into chaos and fervor. He gazed at the group of old cultivators, who seemed to have gone mad, tears streaming down their faces, and at the one they surrounded who appeared to be in another world.
The man in black robes remained silent, continuing to chug his wine. The icy, frozen lake of despair in his heart was suddenly and brutally cleaved open by this sudden surge of heat.
A faint but real warmth quietly sprouted along the crack.
It turns out that not all "immortals" chose to abandon the mortal world.
It turns out that even in this seemingly abandoned world, there is still a place of righteousness, heavier than a thousand pounds, enough to make people transcend life and death and go against the tide.
The number one swordsman in the South — what a great title, what a heavy responsibility.
It turns out that the world is not entirely cold and terrible.
The Book of Changes seems oblivious to everything around it—shouting, crying, admonishing, cursing.
He simply sat there, gulping down the fiery liquor, one mouthful after another. His gaze swept over the bustling crowd, over the weathered city walls, and towards the distant horizon.
There, demonic clouds had completely invaded half the sky, thick as ink, slowly but irresistibly pressing down on the lonely city. From the depths of the clouds, a deep, rhythmic drumbeat could be faintly heard, unlike any sound of the human world. Each beat seemed to strike directly at the heart, causing the city walls beneath one's feet to tremble slightly.
The city stands, and so do the people.
The sword resides in the heart.
He had waited long enough for this day.
He thought that having lost his sword heart, he would never have such an opportunity again. He never expected to have a cheat code like the Gray Mist Space. But it came too late. He had already lost everything. He thought he could use this cheat code to avenge them, but the enemy arrived so quickly, leaving him no way to avoid it. Each step was interconnected, closing in relentlessly.
Fate...you really have been kind to me...
Explanation: After sharing with the protagonist of the fox demon, he should have directly achieved great supernatural powers, but because he lost his sword heart, his previous cultivation was wasted and did not stack up. It was equivalent to an ordinary person without cultivation sharing, so he only reached the intermediate supernatural power level, which is just a small path.
Regarding combat strength: At the initial stage of the Great Divine Power realm (without awakening the innate divine power), it is equivalent to an ordinary demon emperor without the support of the power of heaven and earth. Its strength lies in having more methods and not being targeted.
So even if the protagonist gets a cheat code in advance, he would still lose if he faced a lineup of more than twenty demon kings, four or five great demon kings and one demon emperor from the Southern Kingdom last time.
Finally, there are still 4,000 words to go today, so the update time may be after midnight.
Not entirely satisfied, making revisions.
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