No spiritual root? I devour the origins of all paths.

Chapter 19 Sword Tomb

On the day the Sword Tomb opened, there wasn't a single cloud in the sky above the main peak of the Qingyun Sect.

Thirty-six inner disciples stood in formation at the Sword Stele Square, each holding their sword horizontally in both hands, the scabbards gleaming coldly in the morning light. No one spoke. Not because of the rules, but because of the sword intent emanating from the depths of the valley—heavy, ancient, and sharp, pressing down on them, making them involuntarily hold their breath.

Jian Xuan stood with his hands behind his back in front of the sword monument, his gaze sweeping over the faces of each disciple.

"The Sword Tomb Trial will last for seven days. Within these seven days, you may seek your own opportunities within the Sword Tomb. Whether an ancient sword recognizes its master, its sword intent is inherited, or your realm breaks through, it all depends on your own abilities. However, there are three rules that you must memorize before entering the tomb."

He held up three fingers.

"First, deep within the Sword Tomb lies an ancient sword platform, upon which several ancient, ferocious swords are sealed. No one is permitted to approach within a hundred feet of the platform. The sword intent of those ferocious swords is beyond your current cultivation level to withstand; forcibly approaching will at best result in severed meridians, and at worst, immediate death."

"Secondly, all the ancient swords in the Sword Tomb possess a spirit. If a sword does not wish to acknowledge you as its master, you must not force it. A sword that is forcibly forced will either break or turn against you. In the past three thousand years, no more than three disciples who have forcibly taken ancient swords have ever left the Sword Tomb alive."

"Third—" Jian Xuan's gaze lingered on Ling Chen's face for a very brief moment, "If any disciple obtains a special inheritance in the Sword Tomb, no matter what that inheritance is, the sect must not forcibly strip it away. This is an ironclad rule left by the founding ancestor, and I reiterate it here to lest some people forget the rules."

In the group, Liu Yuan slightly raised his head.

His expression remained unchanged, the faint smile still playing on his lips. But Ling Chen caught a detail out of the corner of his eye—Liu Yuan's fingers, hanging by his side, twitched slightly, his thumb and middle finger unconsciously rubbing the hem of his clothes.

After reciting the three rules, Jian Xuan drew his sword and lightly slashed the tip towards the Sword Tomb. The seemingly effortless slash tore a three-zhang-high rift in the air. Beyond the rift lay an endless expanse of gray mist. Within the mist, countless sword shadows were faintly visible, densely packed throughout the valley. Each sword emitted an extremely faint sword cry, and the thousands of sword cries merged together to form a strange humming sound, like wind whistling through crevices in the rocks, like an old man chanting scriptures softly.

"Enter the tomb!"

Thirty-six figures stepped into the crevice one after another.

The moment Ling Chen stepped across the crevice, the world changed drastically. The sunlight, the plaza, and the crowd behind him vanished, replaced by a valley forever shrouded in a grayish-white mist. The mist was as thick as solidified milk, and anything beyond ten steps was reduced to a blurry outline. The soil beneath his feet was dark red, as if soaked in years of blood and then dried by the wind. With each step, the soles of his boots ground down into tiny metal fragments—the broken swords of past dynasties, worn down to the size of fingernail shavings.

"Such a heavy sword intent." Xiao Lie stood beside him, his palms sweating profusely. His natal sword was trembling slightly in its sheath, not from fear, but from some kind of trembling resonance from the depths of his bloodline.

The thirty-six disciples quickly dispersed into the mist. Some rushed towards the area to the east where the sword cries were most concentrated, while others ventured deeper along the dried-up riverbed. Xiao Lie patted Ling Chen on the shoulder: "I'm heading west. There are a few ancient fire-element swords there that are compatible with my attributes. Be careful. If you encounter Liu Yuan—take a detour."

"The same to you."

After they parted, Ling Chen didn't rush to search for the ancient sword. He stood there, closed his eyes, and slowly spread his divine sense. The distance his Eye of Truth could penetrate in the gray mist wasn't much farther than the distance the naked eye could see, but he didn't need to see—he needed to sense. The Myriad Dao Returning to Nothingness Diagram in his dantian was trembling gently, like a traveler who had been lost in a foreign land for ten thousand years suddenly hearing a familiar accent. That direction was vague, yet exceptionally firm.

"To the east." Elder Mo's voice trembled slightly, his loss of composure almost impossible to conceal. "I sensed it—the sword's cry of severing all thoughts. It's still there."

Ling Chen opened his eyes and walked towards the direction where the sensation was strongest.

The deeper one goes into the Sword Tomb, the denser the ancient swords embedded in the ground become. Initially, one sword could be seen every three to five steps, but gradually it became three, then ten swords per step, as dense as rice stubble left in a field after the autumn harvest. Some swords were rusted so badly that only a thin layer of rust remained, while others remained as sharp as new, their inscriptions still faintly glowing. Each sword emitted an extremely faint sword cry. The myriad sword cries merged into a strange hum, gradually synchronizing with his heartbeat.

After walking for an unknown amount of time, the fog began to thin. Before them appeared a nearly perfectly circular stone platform, its edge encircled by a ring of rusted iron chains, from which hung numerous broken sword tassels. Seven swords—no, nine—were embedded in the platform. Eight ancient swords formed a circle, each emitting a different color of eerie light—the red of flames, the blue of frost, the purple of lightning patterns, and the yellow of thick earth. The aura emanating from each ancient sword was breathtakingly strong, several times more potent than the scattered swords in the outer valley combined. In the very center of the eight swords, a jet-black longsword stood vertically embedded in the platform, its blade tightly bound by eight chains, the other ends of which were connected to the eight surrounding ancient swords.

Ling Chen stopped involuntarily.

Only upon closer inspection did one realize that the blackness wasn't from forged iron, but rather a blackness where light had been completely swallowed up. The entire sword seemed to have ripped a small piece of space from the world; any light that approached was captured and annihilated, without even a chance to escape. The wind on the stone platform was still, and the eight protective swords emitted a low, persistent hum, except for the central black sword, which remained silent.

"This is the Ancient Sword Platform. The area of ​​the fierce swords that those people said we couldn't approach within a hundred feet." Old Mo's voice returned to calm, but it was different from usual—there was a sense of melancholy that had transcended ten thousand years in his tone. "However, for you, there is no hundred-foot restriction."

"Because that sealed sword is the sword of severing thoughts."

"Those eight swords around us are the foundation of a sealing array. Back then, this Nine Swords Sealing Array was set up to prevent the sword intents of the other ancient swords in the Sword Tomb from devouring each other. After the sword servant perished, her natal sword flew back to the Sword Tomb on its own and sealed itself in the center of the array. For three thousand years, it has been waiting for someone. Waiting for someone who can make it willingly break the seal."

Ling Chen stood at the edge of the stone platform for a long time. Then he unfastened the Broken Army Blade from his waist and placed it on the edge of the platform, stepping into the sword circle. The instant he stepped across the chains, the eight protective swords simultaneously emitted a sharp whistle, and eight-colored sword lights intertwined into a net that enveloped the intruder. The chaotic spiritual power within his body was activated, and a cyan-gold light surged from within him, colliding with the eight-colored sword lights that instantly converged.

boom.

The stone platform beneath Ling Chen's feet cracked with his body at the center, revealing the first spiderweb-like pattern.

"Draw your sword."

Ling Chen didn't bring his Breaking Army Blade. But he remembered Xiao Lie's words—a true master has a sword in their heart; everything can be a sword, there's no need to be confined to a blade. He took a deep breath, his right hand forming a sword incantation with two fingers together, a silent burst of azure-gold chaotic sword light emanating from his fingertips. Before, when he wielded a blade, he only saw it as a weapon, a sharp edge; now he finally understood that the Nine Slashes of Heaven-Splitting wasn't about the blade itself, but about the intent to sever everything. Gathering energy into a blade, the intent is in the sharpness. All his attacks from beginning to end relied on this blade intent. The blade wasn't in his hand, it was in his soul.

Nine Heaven-Splitting Slashes - Rending Wind.

The sword technique, imbued with chaotic spiritual energy, slammed heavily into the weakest point of the eight-colored sword light. The sword light net trembled violently, and all eight protective swords simultaneously tilted back half an inch. In that half-inch gap, Ling Chen used the Instant Shadow Step to slip through the gap in the sword light and plunged into the very center of the sword formation.

The center was deathly silent. The storm of sword intent outside had blocked out all sound; even one's own breathing could not be heard.

The sword, Duan Nian, stood before him. Its blade was jet black, devoid of any reflection. The hilt was bound with faded hemp rope, the end of which faintly revealed a hand-embroidered tassel. On a small piece of cloth, no bigger than a fingertip, was a crookedly embroidered, ice-blue character: "Nian" (念). Three thousand years had passed; the formation was devoid of water, light, and wind, yet this piece of cloth remained perfectly intact. The last trace she left in this world was not sword intent, not technique, not obsession, but simply this one word.

Ling Chen reached out and grasped the sword hilt.

A chilling, piercing sensation surged from his palm into his mind. The world turned upside down, and the surrounding stillness was overwhelmed by a flood of images—

A young girl dressed in a white sword robe stood on the edge of a cliff, cradling an unfinished longsword in her arms. The sword was entirely black and unsharpened. Her eyes were large and bright, and the sword seemed to tremble slightly when she smiled.

"My Lord, what is the name of this sword?"

"You name the sword you forge."

The girl thought for a long time, then whispered, "Let's call it 'Severing Thoughts'." She raised her head and looked at the person in front of her, boldly saying, "Severing worldly attachments to protect the Heavenly Venerable's eternal peace. This is my way of the sword."

The man simply patted her head gently. The setting sun sank into the sea of ​​clouds behind them, its golden light painting the smile on the girl's face into a picture that would never fade.

The screen shatters. The next scene: a battlefield between gods and demons.

The sky cracked. Demonic energy obscured the sun and moon, and countless figures fell from the sky like shooting stars. The girl knelt in a pool of blood, her sword robe soaked in demonic blood, tightly clutching the black longsword in her arms, the character "念" on the tassel almost illegible due to the blood staining.

"My Lord Celestial Venerable... you once said that the best sword is not for killing, but for severing obsessions. But my obsession... is you."

She gripped the sword hilt tightly, channeling the last wisp of her life essence into the blade. The longsword soared into the sky, transforming into a black sword beam that stretched across the heavens, forcibly halting the overwhelming demonic energy pressing down on the Celestial Venerable's remains for three breaths. It was these three breaths that gave the other two attendants time to seal away the remnants of the soul.

"To protect you through your reincarnation, my life as your sword servant is complete. But... I long to see you smile again..."

Her figure slowly dissipated within the black sword light. The Severing Thoughts Sword wailed as it broke free from the collapsing void, its blade cracked and trailing a dark tail as it flew towards the Sword Tomb in the mortal realm, plunging into the center of the stone platform. Eight chains coiled around it from all directions, binding it tightly. It offered no resistance, and thus remained quietly asleep for three thousand years.

The image faded away like the receding tide.

Ling Chen knelt on the stone platform, tears falling unexpectedly into the dried sword groove. He remembered. Not all of it, only two fragments—one of the sunset on the cliff, the other of the three breaths on the battlefield between gods and demons. But these two fragments were enough. Her name was Sword Servant, the youngest servant under her command in her previous life. That girl with bright eyes when she smiled, the one who gave her life for his reincarnation.

His hand gripping the sword hilt tightened slowly.

"Duan Nian—" He called her name, not the sword's, "I've come to get you."

The black longsword, silent for three thousand years, emitted its first sword cry. The sound pierced the deathly silence, the seal of the eight protective swords, the swirling gray mist, and the entire sword mound, like a cry suppressed for three thousand years finally finding its outlet. The chains on the eight protective swords shattered inch by inch, sixteen broken chains crashing onto the stone platform with a crisp metallic clang. The eight-colored sword light gradually receded; the ancient swords no longer shrieked, but instead hummed in unison, a sound carrying an almost liberated submissiveness.

The seal has been broken.

Ling Chen gripped the hilt and slowly pulled Duan Nian from the stone platform. The moment the sword left the crevice, a black sword light shot into the sky from the depths of the sword tomb, piercing through the gray mist and the layers of protective array, exploding above the main peak of the Qingyun Sect. The vast sea of ​​clouds was dyed black, and all the swords of cultivators within a hundred miles emitted a long, trembling cry. The stone tablet in the Sword Tablet Plaza, inscribed with the character "Sword" for three thousand years, trembled violently, and large cracks spread from the top to the base. Jian Xuan and several elders appeared before the Sword Tablet almost simultaneously. Jian Xuan looked at the black sword light in the sky, and a trace of shock finally appeared on his usually calm face.

"I've given up hope... I've accepted my master."