Ming Dynasty: Gain one supernatural power every day

Zhang Fu looked up at the sky, his mouth agape, his eyes reflecting the gleam of countless swords. He had fought on the battlefield for thirty years, crawling out of piles of corpses and charging through thousands of troops, but at this moment, his legs were trembling.

"This..." His voice was dry, "This is no longer the skill of an ordinary person."

Zhu Yong stood frozen in place, his expression shifting from shock to awe, then from awe to fanaticism. He suddenly burst into laughter, the sound echoing across the square: "I surrender! I am utterly convinced!"

Zheng Heng's legs went weak, and he knelt directly on the ground. He wasn't afraid; he just couldn't stand up.

A seven-year-old child raised his finger to the sky, causing all the swords in the city to fly over. He wouldn't even dare to dream of such a thing, let alone witness it.

The civil officials were even worse off. Zhao Hong slumped to the ground, pointing to the sky, his lips trembling, unable to utter a word. Fang Bin knelt on the ground, trembling all over, not daring to lift his head. Several censors were pale-faced, their legs cramping, unable to stand, yet too ashamed to kneel.

Chen Ying looked up at the rain of swords, his face as white as paper. His hands trembled, his lips trembled, his whole body trembled. He had thought the successor of the Dao Ancestor was His Majesty's way of establishing authority, but it turned out he was a true immortal.

Zhu Gaochi looked up at the sky, his plump body trembling slightly, whether from fear or excitement, it was hard to tell. Zhu Zhanji had completely forgotten the rules, running out from behind Zhu Gaochi, craning his neck to look at the rain of swords in the sky, his little face flushed red, his eyes shining brightly.

"Fourth Uncle is amazing..." he murmured, his voice so soft that only he could hear it.

Zhu Gaoxu kept his head tilted back, his mouth never closing. His eyes were wide open, and he refused to lower his head even when his neck ached from looking up.

A rain of swords obscured half the sky, dark and oppressive, their blades gleaming coldly, hovering motionless overhead. He had thought his fourth brother's ability to fly on a sword was already amazing, but he hadn't expected him to have this skill as well.

"Heavens above..." he murmured, his voice trembling, "Is our Zhu family's ancestral graves emitting auspicious smoke?" In fact, no, it was the ancestral graves that had exploded.

He suddenly turned to look at Zhu Gaosui and shouted at the top of his lungs, "Third brother! Did you see that! Fourth brother's ability is unprecedented since the founding of our Great Ming Dynasty! If fourth brother had been there when Father Emperor was conquering the country, we wouldn't have needed to fight for three years!"

Zhu Gaosui raised the corners of his mouth slightly and said in a low voice, "Second brother, keep your voice down, this is the imperial court."

"Why are you being so quiet? We're having fun!" Zhu Gaoxu said confidently, his voice not lowering at all, but his eyes were a little red.

He reached up and patted his right shoulder, the spot that had ached for over a decade, which his fourth brother had healed yesterday. He then looked up at the rain of swords in the sky, his Adam's apple bobbing a few times.

"Our fourth brother, seven years old." His voice suddenly lowered, as if he were speaking to himself, "Seven years old..."

Zhu Gaosui stood behind, his pupils reflecting the sky full of sword light. His hands trembled slightly, not from fear, but from excitement. Indeed, it was Lu Zu; indeed, it was a sword immortal.

A slow, subtle smile played on his lips, a fleeting, almost imperceptible glint of something deeper flashing in his eyes. Thinking...

"It has to be my third brother. My second brother is just a reckless brute. My eldest brother is usually quite shrewd, but I guess he can't guess what's going on." Thinking of this, he chuckled. He would go back home today and worship Lu Zu.

In the square, thousands upon thousands of swords hung silently in mid-air, motionless. Zhu Gaoxi stood beneath the rain of swords, his moon-white robes billowing in the wind, his small figure appearing incredibly tall amidst the blazing sword light.

He lowered his hand, turned his head slightly, and smiled at the assembled civil and military officials: "Gentlemen? Have you seen enough now?"

No one answered.

The square was so quiet that you could hear the faint trembling of sword blades in the wind.

Zhang Fu took a deep breath and slowly knelt down. His knees made a dull thud as they touched the ground, which was particularly clear in the quiet square.

"Your subject pays respects to Your Highness Prince Rui."

Zhu Neng knelt down, followed by Zheng Heng, Wang Tong, Xue Lu, and one after another; the military officers knelt in droves. The clanging of armor plates echoed across the square, like muffled thunderclaps.

The civil officials, seeing the military generals kneel, also knelt down. Zhao Hong lay prostrate on the ground, his forehead pressed against the cold bluestone bricks, muttering, "May Heaven bless the Great Ming." Fang Bin kowtowed repeatedly, not even bothering to wipe the dust from his forehead.

Chen Ying stood there, all alone, like a wooden stake driven into the square. He looked around—everyone was kneeling. He looked up at the sky—the sky was still filled with swords.

He gritted his teeth, slowly bent his knees, and finally knelt down.

Zhu Di stood on the steps in front of the throne, looking down at the scene. He didn't say a word, but he couldn't suppress the smile on his lips.

The weight that had been pressing on his heart for years finally shattered.

Was his ascension to the throne illegitimate? A remnant of the Jianwen Emperor? He started his rebellion in Beiping, fought for three years, lost so many people, and seized the throne from his nephew. He had heard these words far too often, and although he never responded, the thorn in his heart had been there for over a decade.

Now, his son is a disciple of the Daoist patriarch, a celestial being. A rain of swords as proof, ten thousand swords paying homage as evidence. Who dares to say that Zhu Di's ascension to the throne was illegitimate?

Father, did you see? Heaven has chosen me. He took a deep breath, suppressing the tears welling up in his eyes.

Zhu Gaoxi raised his hand and waved it gently.

There was no earth-shattering sound, no dazzling light. He simply waved his hand, as if brushing dust off a table. Thousands upon thousands of swords in the sky simultaneously changed direction, their tips pointing outwards, and dispersed like a tide.

It wasn't a fall, it was a return. Every sword followed the path it came from, flying towards where it was meant to go.

On the city wall, the soldier who had just been scared out of his wits was crouching behind the battlement, panting heavily. His comrade beside him was still patting his back, muttering, "Don't be afraid, don't be afraid."

A flash of sword light swept overhead, and he looked up sharply—his sword landed steadily back in its sheath with a "click," fitting perfectly.

"You...you're back?" He looked down at the sword at his waist, reaching out to touch the hilt; it was warm, as if he'd just taken it from the hearth. He stared blankly for a moment, then suddenly burst out laughing. "What's so special about that? A deity borrowed it for a bit and then returned it?"

The commander of the Imperial Guard stood at the bottom of the steps, craning his neck to watch his sword fly back from the sky and land steadily in its sheath. He looked down at the sword at his waist, then looked up at the small figure in the center of the square, opened his mouth, but no word came out.

"My lord, your sword..." the subordinate asked cautiously.

At the armory gate, the old soldier guarding it was pacing anxiously. The armory gate was wide open, and the inside was mostly empty, with the sword racks leaning haphazardly.

He cried out, "What kind of mess is this? So many swords have disappeared all at once! How am I going to explain this to my superiors?" Before he finished speaking, a rain of swords flew overhead, one after another falling back into the armory with a clattering sound.

"Whoosh—"

A dozen or so swords flew down from the sky and landed steadily on the wall of the blacksmith's shop. The blades were still trembling slightly and making a buzzing sound.

The blacksmith suddenly looked up, glanced at the sword on the wall, then at the sky, then back at the sword. His lips trembled for a long time before he finally managed to squeeze out, "Did a deity borrow this sword from me?"

In the north of the city, the white-haired old man was still kneeling in the courtyard. His ancestral sword had flown back and was now firmly planted in the soil before him. The old man tremblingly reached out and touched the blade; it was icy cold, carrying the chill of the sky.

"It's good that you're back, it's good that you're back..." he murmured, his eyes reddening again. But this time it wasn't because of heartache, but because of an inexplicable sense of awe. He had lived for over seventy years and had never seen anything like this before.

On the Qinhuai River, the boatman of the painted boat was still kneeling at the bow when the sword flew back and landed at his feet, its tip embedded an inch into the deck. He stared at the sword for a long time, then reached out and pulled it out. The blade was gleaming, without a single rust mark.

"Amazing..." he murmured, "Truly amazing..."

Outside the city, the vegetable farmers, vendors, merchants, and scholars who had been kneeling all stood up.

The old farmer got up from the ground, brushed the dirt off his knees, looked at the carrying pole at his waist and the scattered vegetables on the ground, and scratched his head: "Sword went back?"

The young man next to him was still craning his neck to look at the sky, muttering, "They've all gone back, they've all gone back."

The old man driving the donkey cart sat on the cart, touching the wood-chopping knife at his waist. The knife was still there, as if it had never left his side. He stared blankly for a long time, then suddenly grinned: "A deity borrowed a sword; I guess I've seen the world."

In a teahouse outside the city, the merchant who had smashed his bowl was squatting on the ground picking up the broken porcelain shards. He looked up at the sky, then down at the sword at his waist, and sighed, "I've traveled all over the country for thirty years, and today I've truly seen something new."

The tea stall owner got up from the ground, dusted himself off, and kept muttering, "A miracle! A miracle!"

On the official road outside the city, the caravan had already resumed its journey. The guards would occasionally glance down at the swords at their waists, then look up at the sky, their faces still bearing lingering surprise and doubt.

The caravan owner rode at the front, his back ramrod straight, but his hands were trembling.

In the square of Fengtian Hall, thousands upon thousands of swords had been scattered. Zhu Gaoxi lowered his hand, turned to face his ministers, his robes fluttering in the wind.

"Your subject has made a fool of himself." He bowed to Zhu Di, his tone as calm as if he were remarking on the pleasant weather.