Supreme Being: The Sword of True Martial Arts

The night in the circular valley was quieter than the previous two. It wasn't that the wind had stopped; it was that millions of sword-like leaves had simultaneously chosen silence. The silvery-white tree trunks stood in the night, each leaf upright like countless erect ears, waiting. Han Guang was coming soon.

Lin Yan sat cross-legged in front of the skeleton for an entire day. A bamboo sword lay across his lap, while the Tai Xu Sword and the Po Jun Sword were stuck in the ground before him. He didn't deliberately circulate the True Understanding of Withering and Flourishing; he simply kept the eight leaves of the small Dharma Tree in a "waiting" posture. The piece of dark jade bamboo in his arms pressed against his chest, its warmth seeping through—not body heat, but the "beginning" nurtured by the Cui family for a thousand years. The fear of the dark left inside when the ancient guardian swordsman carved his sword at the age of seven, across a thousand years, through two layers of clothing, gently warmed his sword's heart.

As dusk fell, the bud on the edge of the seventh leaf of the Dharma Image Tree, "Tai Xu," stirred. It didn't break through the soil, but turned over. Like a sleeping baby turning over in its dream. Lin Yan looked inward; the bud was larger than the night before, no longer a tiny protrusion, but swollen to the size of a grain of rice. Beneath the translucent bud, a faint color could be vaguely seen—not deep gold, not amber, not silver, not blue, but a color he couldn't name. Like the faint light on the eastern horizon before dawn. The Tai Xu style's thousand-year-old sword intent, the empty space wasn't nothingness, but waiting for the "beginning" to return. The ancient guardian sword cultivator, seven years old and afraid of the dark, touched this bud across a thousand years, and it was awakened. After waking, it didn't rush to grow, but simply turned over and continued to wait. Waiting for another "beginning." Lin Yan's own beginning.

What was Lin Yan's first experience at age seven? He pondered for a long time. His memories before transmigrating were hazy, and the original owner's memories didn't include any image of him carving a sword at seven. The original owner wasn't a sword genius, just an average outer disciple who hadn't even touched a sword at seven. His first experience wasn't with a sword, but with holding a pen. His writing was crooked and uneven, just like the first bamboo sword carved by the ancient guardian swordsman. But the warmth in his hand was real. The pen was warmed by his palm, the ink spread on the paper, that warmth remained deep in his memory, covered by layers of swordsmanship insights after transmigrating. Now, gently touched by the ancient guardian swordsman's seven-year-old fear of the dark, he turned over from his slumber.

The bud remembered this turning point. Two beginnings—the ancient guardian swordsman's fear of the dark at seven, wielding a sword, and Lin Yan's warmth as a seven-year-old holding a pen—met across a thousand years, across the distance of sword and pen, in the empty space of the Tai Xu Formation. Not merging, but seeing each other. After seeing each other, the bud's husk cracked open with an extremely fine slit. No light pierced through, only a very faint wisp of dawn's light seeped out from the crack, seeping into the eighth leaf of the Dharma Image Tree, "Care." The deep gold of Care was softened by the dawn's light, becoming gentler. It wasn't that the color changed, but that the depth changed. The fear of loss gained another layer—it wasn't that it was no longer afraid, but that while fearing, it also knew that someone else had felt the same fear.

The old orange cat and the gray cat crouched side by side in front of the skeleton, their four eyes fixed on Lin Yan's brow. They saw the extremely fine slit on the bud's bud sheath. Both cats pricked up their ears simultaneously, then lowered them again. They knew what that slit meant—the thing about to grow within the Taixu Formation was coming soon. But it wasn't time yet.

The Guardian Star rises from the eastern mountains. Tonight, it doesn't hang directly above the altar, but rather shifts to the south, as if making way for something. Starlight shines into the circular valley, illuminating the sword runes on the four mountain walls. The runes light up on their own in the starlight, not activated, but sensing something. The sword intent etched by the four sword cultivators a thousand years ago flows slowly in the starlight. The sharpness of the void, the destruction of purple lightning, the protection of the black armor, the protection of the bamboo sword—four colors of sword light intertwine on the mountain walls, forming a sword net, brighter than last night. It's not that the seal is strengthening, but that the seal is waiting. Waiting for the four swords to gather, waiting for the moment of reinforcement. Waiting itself allows the thousand-year-old sword intent to awaken on its own.

The dark red heart at the very center of the sword net beat slower than during the day. Thump—thump—thump—each beat was followed by a long silence, like a person breathing slowly in deep water. It, too, was waiting. The warmth at its core, suppressed for a thousand years, after last night's gentle stab by the transparent bamboo sword, the two cats' distant push, the Taixu sword cultivator's fear of being cut open, and the little monk bringing wild fruit, was no longer passively surviving, but actively warming itself. It remembered—when the four sword cultivators suppressed it a thousand years ago, they didn't intend to destroy it, but to wait for it to awaken on its own. It didn't awaken; instead, it went even crazier. But the warmth remained. After a thousand years, the warmth hadn't died out.

The bead in the skeleton's palm gleamed faintly in the starlight. The wild berries of Zhending were still red, and the bamboo tube of wine sent by Ye Guidi was still sealed. Su Muyun sat on the edge of the altar, his Qingfeng sword planted at his feet. The azure blade after the rain reflected the starlight, like a piece of color cut from the night sky. The sword intent of the fine rain hung on the tip of every leaf in the Sword Leaf Forest, and every drop of rain was still waiting.

Master Chonghe sat at the entrance of the stone steps, the ancient pine-patterned sword lying across his lap, facing the valley entrance. The sword that the Chunyang Sect had waited a thousand years for, warm in its sheath, might be drawn tonight. The old Taoist's gray robe fluttered gently in the night breeze, his beard and hair were all white, and his eyes were like stones that had been warmed by the sun for a long time.

Luo Shengyi slung his thick-backed broadsword over his shoulder, the golden scab on his chest gleaming faintly in the starlight. A whetstone tucked into his bosom, its mountain-patterned surface mingling with the golden scab, the two opposing forces of endurance warming each other. Meng Qi's monk's knife lay across his lap, each engraving a testament to the realization that "after killing, one understands why one killed." The young monk of Zhen Ding lay curled up asleep beside the skeleton, his moon-white robe tightly wrapped around him, a wild fruit clutched in his hand. Qi Xia's water-splitting dagger was stuck at his feet, a Tang-style flower shard pressed against his side, its petals mostly engraved with patterns. Qi Zhengyan's ancient sword lay across his lap, the drop of rain that had hung in his dantian all night still lingering. Ye Guichen's pine-patterned ancient sword lay across his lap, the golden light of his demon-slaying sword and the pale blue rain-like intent completely merging. Gu Qing's blood-red patterned light sword lay across his lap, his blue eyes reflecting the dark red heart within the sword net, a quiet calm deep within his pupils like a tiny lamp. Imperfection meets imperfection; he is waiting and talking to mad thoughts.

Lu Chen sat to Lin Yan's left, a large, grey-black sword resting across his lap, its pale blue tassel dangling at his feet. The slender boy hadn't spoken since the afternoon, only gripping the hilt. The pale blue rune on the hilt—the words the Xuanjia swordsman had left for his fourth brother a thousand years ago—was slightly translucent in the starlight. He had held it all day; the warmth of his palm seeped into the hilt, making the rune slightly brighter than the night before. Not from internal energy, but from body heat. The boy's thin body heat, across a thousand years, gently warmed the words the Xuanjia swordsman had left for his fourth brother. Those words, too, were waiting. Waiting for the four swords to converge so that his fourth brother could hear them.

Jiang Zhiwei sat to Lin Yan's right, the White Rainbow Piercing the Sun sword resting across her lap. The rounded notch on the sword, nurtured by time, resembled a long-healed old wound in the starlight. She had sat in the Sword Leaf Forest all night, severing the wisp of "fear" left in the tree trunk by the Taixu Sword Cultivator when planting it, revealing within it the "fear of betrayal." Now, her sword intent was simpler than the night before. Not sharper, but more precise. Having severed it, she saw it; having seen it, the sword knew where to strike. Not at the enemy's weakness, but at the truth hidden within her own sword heart, layer upon layer. She severed one layer, revealing another. After she severed and saw the Taixu Sword Cultivator's "fear of betrayal," the "fear" within her own sword heart began to loosen.

In the veins of the eighth leaf of Lin Yanfa's sapling, the lines of fear of loss were gently touched by Jiang Zhiwei's sword intent. Not a cut, but a touch. Like a hand lightly placed on the back of another. Jiang Zhiwei didn't look at him, only held her sword. But a wisp of her sword intent, extremely fine and light, "saw," gently rested on the vein of the eighth leaf. Not to cut anything for him, but simply to rest. To let him know that someone had seen his fear.

Lin Yan's eighth leaf trembled gently. Not because it was severed, but because it was accompanied. Jiang Zhiwei's swordsmanship progressed from "slashing" to "seeing," and from "seeing" to "accompanying." She had slashed through the Taixu sword cultivator's fear of betrayal, revealing within it an elder brother's entrustment of his three younger siblings. Now, she gently accompanied Lin Yan's fear of loss with her own sword intent. Not to bear it for him, but simply to accompany him. To accompany him in his fear.

The bud's bud sheath cracked a little more. The light of dawn seeped through the gap, a touch richer than before. Jiang Zhiwei's "accompaniment" allowed it to perceive a different kind of warmth. It wasn't the fear of the dark that the ancient guardian sword cultivator felt at seven, nor the fear of holding a pen that Lin Yan experienced at seven; it was this moment, this instant, with someone quietly accompanying him. Chu wasn't just seven years old. Every genuine fear, seen and accompanied, was Chu.

Night deepened in the circular valley. The Guardian Star shifted overhead, slowly moving southwest. Millions of sword-like leaves in the Sword Leaf Forest stood upright simultaneously—they sensed it. Far beyond the valley, in the direction of the Bloodwood Forest, an extremely intense bloodthirsty sword intent was moving towards them. It wasn't fast, like someone walking unhurriedly in the night. The time interval between each step was precise, not intentional control, but an instinct honed from years of walking. Han Guang.

The ancient sword with pine-patterned design, belonging to Master Chonghe, automatically unsheathed three inches. Pure Yang sword intent emanated from the gaps in the scabbard, extremely faint and warm, like a stone that had been warmed by the sun for a thousand years. The old Taoist did not rise, but merely rested his thumb on the hilt. The sword, which the Pure Yang Sect had waited a thousand years for, remained warm in its scabbard, ready to be fully drawn at any moment.

The azure sky after the rain on Su Muyun's Azure Blade rippled slightly. The fine rain hanging on the tips of every leaf in the Sword Leaf Forest trembled simultaneously, millions of drops falling at the same frequency. They sensed the scent of the Blood Fiend Sword Intent, but did not fall. They were still waiting.

Lin Yan opened his eyes. The Bamboo Sword, the Tai Xu Sword, and the Po Jun Sword simultaneously unsheathed themselves, the three swords hovering before him, their tips pointing towards the valley entrance. Lu Chen drew his grey-black greatsword, gripping the hilt with both hands; the pale blue runes on the hilt lit up completely. The four keys sensed Han Guang's bloodlust, and also sensed the two fragments of thought devouring each other deep within it. One was suppressed, the other secretly growing. The four swords shared a common origin—the sharpness of Tai Xu, the destruction of Zi Lei, the protection of Xuan Jia, and the protection of the Bamboo Sword—a thousand years ago, their masters sealed away their mad thoughts side by side; a thousand years later, they awakened simultaneously in the same valley.

The dark red heart at the very center of the sword net throbbed violently, more so than ever before. It sensed the combined aura of the four swords, and also the mutual devouring of two fragments of thought deep within the bloodthirsty sword intent outside the valley. The mad thought had been trapped within the sword net for a thousand years, but it recognized those two fragments—the two pieces that had shattered from its own seal a thousand years ago. One had fallen on the outskirts of Mount Ling, the other taken away by the Sword Observer. The one that fell on the outskirts of Mount Ling somehow ended up in Han Guangjian's heart. The one taken away by the Sword Observer disappeared a thousand years later. The two fragments, separated by a thousand years, reunited in Han Guangjian's heart, unable to recognize each other. One had been corrupted by bloodthirst for a hundred years, and the other, growing in the shadows, had also been stained with the color of bloodthirst by Han Guangjian's sword heart. They thought themselves enemies, unaware that they were fragments that had shattered from the same heart.

The mad thought sensed its own fragments. The dark red light within the sword net surged violently, and the core of its warmth flashed brightly. It wasn't an attack, but a call. It was calling its fragments back. Both fragments trembled simultaneously within Han Guangjian's heart; they too sensed the call of their original form. But they couldn't stop. A century of mutual devouring had shaped them into each other's forms. There was no going back.

Han Guang paused for a moment. The Blood Fiend Sword was released unexpectedly, staining the silvery-white trunks of several trees on the outer edge of the Sword Leaf Forest with a dark red hue. But he didn't enter the valley; he stopped at the valley entrance. He was also waiting. Waiting for the fifth person.

The guardian star veered overhead. In the deepest part of the night, a second sword intent emanated from beyond the Sword Leaf Forest. Extremely light and faint, like a fallen leaf drifting from a very, very far distance, gently alighting on the silvery-white trunk of the Sword Leaf Tree. The fifth person.

Master Chonghe stood up, drawing his ancient sword, Pine Pattern Sword. Pure Yang sword intent emanated from the blade, extremely faint and warm, like a stone that had been exposed to the sun for a thousand years finally emerging from its shade to be bathed in the light of the rising sun. The old Taoist's grey robe fluttered in the night wind; his hair and beard were all white, but his eyes shone like the blue tiles of the Pure Yang Palace reflecting the sunrise at dawn. "Chonghe, the eleventh generation successor of the Pure Yang Sect, has awaited you for a thousand years, senior. Please."

A moment of silence fell over the valley. Then, the extremely light and faint sword intent detached from the sword-leaf tree, like a fallen leaf lifted by the wind, drifting into the valley. It wasn't an attack, nor a defense; it simply drifted in. It floated over the stone steps, past Chong and Zhenren, and the pure Yang sword intent of the Pine-Patterned Ancient Sword gently touched that leaf-like sword intent. There was no sound, no shockwave, just a touch. Like a leaf falling onto a stone long baked by the sun. The leaf was cool, the stone was warm. After the touch, the leaf drifted towards the altar, while the stone remained warm.

Master Chonghe stood rooted to the spot, the ancient pine-patterned sword hanging at his side. The sword that the Chunyang Sect had waited a thousand years for was drawn, and he caught it. What he caught was not the sword intent of the fifth person, but the loneliness of a thousand years of solitary journey within that fifth person's sword intent. The sword observer had watched swords for a thousand years, never wielding a sword. His sword intent contained no sharpness, no killing intent, only observation. A thousand years of watching swords, he had become the sword itself. His sword intent was "observation" itself. Master Chonghe's Chunyang sword intent caught this "observation." A thousand years of waiting caught a thousand years of loneliness. That was enough.

A fifth figure emerged from the night. He wore a gray Taoist robe, his face blurred, his features indistinct, but he was exactly the same person who stood at the entrance of the valley a thousand years ago in the Taixu Sword Cultivator's memory. He didn't look at Chonghe Zhenren, but walked straight towards the altar.

Han Guang's figure emerged from the valley entrance. The sect leader of the Extinction Heaven Sect, at the peak of the Outer Realm, his blood-red robe fluttered in the night wind. A blood-red longsword hung at his waist, its blade swirling with blood-red energy, but deep within this energy were two intertwined, dark red lights—the two fragments of his thoughts. His face was pale, his eyes deep-set, his pupils a deep blood-red. But at the deepest part of that blood-red light was a faint, almost imperceptible warmth—not the warmth of his mad thoughts, but his own. For a century, he had suppressed his thoughts with blood-red energy. In the process, the blood-red energy and his thoughts had eroded each other, and a second fragment had grown from within his own sword heart. Even the fifth person didn't know about it; he had nurtured it himself. That fragment contained no blood-red energy, no madness of his thoughts, only the "endurance" of a century of suppression. Like Luo Shengyi, he had endured for a century. He had endured the devouring power of the blood-red energy, endured the erosion of his thoughts, endured the seed planted within his sword heart by the fifth person. He had endured for a century, and in doing so, he had created his own fragment.

Han Guang stood at the edge of the altar, his blood-red longsword unsheathed. He wasn't aiming at anyone, but rather planting it in the ground before him. The instant the blade pierced the stone slab, two fragments of his own thoughts within the sword trembled violently. The one suppressed by the bloodlust raged back, while the one that had secretly grown—the one he had nurtured himself—suddenly broke free from its roots, flowing along the blade and into the blood-red longsword. Bloodlust flowed across the sword, but deep within the bloodlust, the fragment of thought he had nurtured himself hung quietly, like a small patch of clear sky in the eye of a storm.

He looked at Lin Yan. "With the four swords gathered, the seal can be secured. But before you reinforce the seal, I have one thing to do—use this fragment of thought that I have nurtured myself to devour the fragment from the fifth human seed. It's not about breaking free from control, but about taking the initiative. Han Guang has been used as a pawn for a hundred years; tonight, he will be the player himself. I will not stop you from reinforcing the seal. After it's done, this fragment of thought that I have nurtured myself will be yours. It's not a thank-you gift, but a entrustment. It has grown in my sword heart for a hundred years, endured for a hundred years, and is already a part of me. But it shouldn't be trapped in the blood demon. Your eighth leaf, 'Caring,' can catch it."

Lin Yan gazed at the fragment of thought that hung silently on the sword. Deep within the dark red depths, there was a faint warmth—not the warmth of a mad thought, but the warmth that Han Guang had endured for a century.

"I'll take it."