Wandering Swordsman |

The letter paper was as thin as a cicada's wing, yet as heavy as a thousand pounds.

The Pope finished reading slowly, his brow furrowing slightly, a subtle, unreadable emotion flickering in his eyes. He remained silent for a long time, then suddenly raised his hand and gently tapped the bronze bell three times.

"Clang—clang—clang—"

In an instant, deep in the shadows of the terrace, the air rippled like water.

A figure slowly emerged from the void, silent and still, as if she had always existed in that darkness.

She was covered in armor, neither iron nor steel, but made of a material that seemed to be forged from the cold marrow of the polar regions and the essence of the moon. Her entire body was silvery white like frost, gleaming with a cold, eerie light.

The armor fits the body perfectly, with smooth curves like a human sculpture. The shoulder armor is like an eagle's wings spread out, the waist armor is like a willow branch, and the knee armor is covered with scales like a dragon—every inch of it combines ultimate defense with deadly killing intent.

What is most chilling is her mask—a pure white silver mask without any facial features, smooth as a mirror, reflecting no expression, with only two narrow slits at the eye position, revealing a pair of eyes: dark green like an ancient pool, pupils upright like snakes, their gaze seemingly able to pierce through the soul, looking directly into the deepest fears and lies in people's hearts.

"Your Holiness." Her voice was like the friction of metal, cold and flat, without a trace of emotion, yet it carried an imposing aura that sent shivers down one's spine.

The Pope did not turn around, but handed over the secret letter in his hand: "Faceless, look at this first."

The faceless man knelt on one knee and accepted the letter with both hands. The metallic scales on his fingertips touched the paper without making a sound.

She quickly finished reading it, her emerald pupils slightly contracting—the things described in the letter, such as "stepping into the void" and "poisonous blood turning into smoke," were all beyond the scope of the Holy See's divine power.

"Find those two." The Pope finally turned around, his gaze like that of a benevolent father, yet also like that of a judge. "If their power originates from the divine, bring them back to be baptized in the Holy Spring, and they may become new pillars of the Papacy; if their power originates from evil..." He paused, a trace of pity flashing in his eyes, like a god looking down upon a fallen angel, "then with the 'Blade of Purification,' grant them eternal silence."

The moment the words "Blade of Purification" were uttered, even the wind on the holy mountain seemed to freeze.

That was no ordinary weapon, but the ultimate judgment instrument kept secret by the Papacy for a thousand years. Legend has it that the first pope unearthed a piece of celestial iron at the site of a meteorite impact, forged it in holy fire for seven days and seven nights, and then tempered it with the blood of twelve martyrs.

The sword has no sharp edge, yet it is constantly infused with divine power, so that it can cut through anything it touches and slice through iron like mud.

The faceless woman slowly rose, her armor humming softly like ice shattering in a deep pool. She slipped the secret letter into a hidden compartment inside her arm guard, her movements precise and mechanical, without a single wasted movement. Then she bowed, her voice still as sharp as metal scraping against stone: "Your subordinate obeys."

She turned, her silvery figure about to disappear into the deep shadows at the edge of the terrace—as if she did not belong to this sanctuary of light, but was merely a shadow of judgment passing through the mortal realm.

Just then, the Pope suddenly spoke, his tone much gentler than before, carrying a barely perceptible sigh:

"Faceless... Have you retrieved your memories from before you became an Inquisitor?"

They stopped in their tracks.

Beneath the silver surface, those deep green vertical pupils narrowed slightly, like a stone thrown into an ancient well, creating extremely subtle ripples.

But she quickly regained her composure, her voice remaining calm: "No."

The Pope approached slowly, his white robes brushing the ground like clouds.

He looked at her, his gaze kind yet unyielding: "Back then, when the missionaries found you, you were covered in blood, your clothes were tattered, and you were unconscious. When you woke up, you had forgotten everything, except for your eyes, which were so cold they seemed to have seen through life and death."

He paused, his voice low and prayerful: "But you are exceptionally gifted, with extraordinary strength and physique. You mastered the basics of swordsmanship in three months and passed the Inquisitor's exam in a year. The Cardinals unanimously agreed that you are a divinely bestowed blade. Thus, you became the youngest Inquisitor in history—'Faceless'."

The Pope reached out, as if to gently stroke her shoulder armor, but stopped in mid-air and finally withdrew his hand: "As long as you continue to wield the sword for the Papacy and cleanse evil, one day... those lost memories will return on their own with God's grace."

The faceless man remained silent for a long time.

The wind whistled through the sacred mountain's sound hole, carrying the chants softly, like weeping and lamenting.

She finally bowed again, her voice even softer than before, but with a barely perceptible tremor: "Thank you for your mercy, Your Holiness the Pope."

As soon as he finished speaking, his figure vanished like mist, leaving only a wisp of cold air rising gently under the holy lamp before being swallowed by the light.

As the Pope watched the Faceless One leave, a strangely incongruous smile crept onto his lips.

......

Meanwhile, after leaving Ruolan City, Shen Mo and Hua Tianyou's journey was smooth sailing, without encountering any obstacles.

The vast wilderness stretched behind them, with endless yellow sand and sparse withered grass swaying in the wind, like the earth's silent sigh.

"My lord, the border of the English Empire is just ahead," Hua Tianyou said softly, his voice carrying a barely perceptible hint of respect.

Shen Mo nodded slightly, his black robe swaying gently in the wind, like a smudge of ink in the night.

He didn't speak, but pondered to himself: the aura of this wasteland seemed somewhat similar to, yet different from, that of the Demon Refining Mountain. He could sense that some kind of power was hidden in this land, perhaps related to their purpose for this journey.

Suddenly, Hua Tianyou stopped in his tracks, a glint of light flashing in his eyes. "There seems to be a martial artist cultivating in the distance."

Shen Mo stopped and looked into the distance.

On a sand dune, a young man sat cross-legged, his body emanating a faint aura. The surrounding sand grains were lifted up by an invisible force and slowly rotated.

He was dressed in a simple blue cloth robe, with a long sword at his waist, the hilt of which was wrapped in faded red cloth.

"Let's go take a look." Shen Mo felt a little curious about the person.

As the distance closed, Hua Tianyou paused slightly, his gaze narrowing as he whispered to Shen Mo, "My lord, that person's strength... is already close to the level of the Twelve Venerables of the Heavenly Demon God Sect."

Shen Mo nodded slightly, his black robes remaining motionless, his gaze as calm as a deep pool. He thought to himself: This man has a solid foundation and profound inner strength; if he were to be considered for the Central Plains, he could easily establish a sect and become famous throughout the martial world. It's a pity he's too obsessed with cultivation, his mind so outwardly focused that he didn't even notice us approaching. This blatant display of brilliance, while characteristic of a martial arts fanatic, also means he's lost the true essence of "concealment."

Just then, the young man seemed to sense something and suddenly opened his eyes!

For a moment, the world seemed to freeze.

His eyes flashed like lightning, their sharp light seemingly able to pierce through the twilight mist. He abruptly stood up, his longsword drawn three inches from its sheath, a cold glint appearing in the air. His aura rippled outwards like waves, and an invisible force pressed a shallow mark into the sand beneath his feet.

"Who are you?" he shouted, his voice like the clash of metal, carrying an undeniable arrogance, yet also revealing a pure fighting spirit—the instinctive wariness of a martial artist towards an unknown powerhouse, not malice.

Hua Tianyou smiled slightly, cupped his hands in a salute, and said with composure: "I am Hua Tianyou, a wandering knight. I was passing by when I saw your aura was condensed and your sword intent was restrained, as if you were comprehending some profound martial arts. I couldn't help but stop and watch."