Chapter 44: An Yao

The wind swirled at the edge of the cliff, carrying away the last trace of determination in Yan Hongxiu’s departing figure.

On the Star-Gazing Platform, only Ye Chen remained, standing alone with the eternal sea of clouds.

He stood in silence for a long time, like a statue merged with the mountain stone.

After Yan Hongxiu left, the vast will belonging to the Taichu Sword Sovereign, which had been entrenched deep in his mind, quietly receded like a tide.

It did not disappear, but fell into a deep silence, as if its recent brief awakenings had consumed a tremendous amount of divine essence.

Yet the influence left by that will was branded into Ye Chen’s soul sea like a mark.

A solution for the “Shadow Thorn” emerged clearly.

Destruction begets creation.

With the sword of subtlety, break the unbreakable thorn.

The method was so simple it bordered on madness—to condense an unimaginably delicate force at the sword’s tip and directly shatter the toxic spike hidden deep in the dantian in an instant.

It was something utterly impossible for someone at the Foundation Establishment realm.

Channeling power inside another’s qi sea was fraught with danger; the slightest misstep could turn the energy into a fuse, igniting the dantian.

Yan Hongxiu’s willingness to let him attempt it earlier had been an act of complete trust, gambling her life and future.

Yet now, the flow of a sword technique spread through his mind on its own.

It was a wondrous sensation.

He knew this sword technique intimately, as if it had become instinct through countless swings in a previous life, ingrained into his very bones and blood—yet at the same time, it was utterly unfamiliar, for the body named “Ye Chen” had never performed any of its forms.

His intuition told him—it was this.

This nameless sword technique could let him do what was once impossible.

In fact, in just two days, he could master it.

The body’s clumsiness was meaningless before the soul’s memory.

As his thoughts drifted, a blurry image flashed through his mind without warning.

A silent courtyard.

Moonlight like frost.

He seemed to remember…teaching this very sword technique to someone else.

Who?

That figure—slender and stubborn, dressed in white…

Ling Qingshuang.

The moment the name surfaced, Ye Chen felt a sting in his heart, as if pricked by a needle.

He tried to trace more memories related to her—moments in Qingyang City, her sightless eyes…

Yet suddenly, a thick fog rose before his eyes.

Everything blurred, like flowers seen through mist or the moon reflected in water.

He could “see” the scenes, but could not feel any of the emotions from that time.

Joy, compassion, or anything else—all were separated by an impenetrable veil, as distant as someone else’s story.

Ye Chen slowly shook his head, dispelling the tangled thoughts.

The confusion of humanity ultimately retreated before the cold detachment of lingering divinity.

The past was gone.

Dwelling on it was meaningless.

He focused, and a basic longsword used by inner court disciples appeared in his hand.

Its blade was smooth, reflecting the sky—so ordinary it could not be more so.

He gripped the sword, lifting his arm slightly.

At first, the movement was stiff and sluggish, hindered by bodily instinct.

But in the next moment, as the sword intent from the depths of his soul began to guide him, the awkwardness melted away.

Each motion, though slow, carried a natural rhythm, unfolding soundlessly on the silent Star-Gazing Platform.

—

Outside the gates of the Purple Heaven Sword Sect.

A figure crossed the boundary of the protective array without a sound.

Her name was An Yao.

The Saintess of the Purple Heaven Sword Sect, the sect leader’s sole direct disciple—a living legend.

Cultivation—Early Nascent Soul stage.

Three years ago, she descended the mountain by her master’s order, entering the mortal world for tempering.

Today was her return.

To her, these three years were no different from any other time.

The world was a flowing scroll, its myriad beings fleeting dots of ink—she was merely a passerby observing from the sidelines.

Cultivation.

Sword practice.

That was all her life contained.

Nothing else.

Her master said she suffered from “emotional deficiency,” that she was a once-in-a-millennium sword prodigy who might never glimpse the true peak of the Dao due to her unruffled mind.

“An Yao,” her master’s words echoed in her ears, “Go see this mortal world. Experience joy, anger, sorrow, and happiness.

When you can sigh for the withering of a flower and smile at a kind word, only then will your sword truly come alive.”

She could not understand.

She had walked the depths of the mortal world with unique techniques, witnessed the rise and fall of emperors, the daily lives of merchants and workers, the sorrow and joy of partings and reunions.

Yet all of it felt like stories playing out on the other side of a “water mirror,” unable to stir her heart.

Returning to the sect, even the awe and admiration in the eyes of junior disciples failed to evoke any response.

She passed through the inner and outer gates; the familiar yet foreign scenery remained as monotonous as her memory.

Life was truly dull.

She even considered visiting Qingyun Holy Land, having heard of a remarkable genius there—perhaps a worthy opponent.

But her master said there was no hurry.

With the Northern Continent Sect Competition approaching, all would be decided then.

Bored, her steps wandered onto a secluded path.

It led to the abandoned Star-Gazing Platform behind the mountain.

She knew its legend—an elder had once attained enlightenment and ascended there.

But legends remained legends.

After so many years, the place was barren of spiritual energy, long forgotten, not even the sect elders bothered to repair it.

Perhaps this silence, forsaken by the world, could grant her a moment’s peace.

She ascended the last stone step to the platform, her steps soundless.

And then, she saw someone.

A youth in an inner court robe, practicing swordsmanship at the cliff’s edge with his back to her.

She paused, gaze wandering listlessly over.

At first glance, she took in the entire sword technique.

In her eyes, the youth’s movements were slow, his body lagging behind the flow of the sword, appearing awkward and clumsy.

The transitions between forms bore the marks of force and disruption; the rhythm faltered.

Just another ordinary disciple laboring over the basics.

She concluded, disinterested, turning to leave.

At her level, a single glance sufficed to deduce every variation of the technique—utterly uninspiring.

On a whim, she even preemptively predicted his next three moves.

As expected.

The youth raised his wrist, lifting the sword tip exactly as she had imagined.

Then, he swept the blade upward at an angle—the sword wind stirring, just as she had foreseen.

Her lips did not even twitch.

Only growing more bored.

Most things in this world were the same—plainly obvious from the first look.

The third move should be a returning guard.

She thought, her steps already lifting to depart this tedious place.

Yet, in the instant her mind flickered, the youth at the cliff did not return to guard.

Instead, his wrist sank, forcefully restraining the expected form and transforming it into a plain, forward thrust.

“Hmm?”

An Yao’s step paused.

Wrong?

No, she had not misjudged—it was the youth who had erred.

This thrust was unnecessary, severing the flow painstakingly built by the previous moves—a flaw in the sword technique.

She shook her head lightly.

But just as she was about to avert her gaze entirely, the youth, after the thrust, took an awkward sidestep and swung the fourth sword.

This strike fell outside any possibility An Yao could deduce from sword principles.

It broke rules, defied structure—like a novice flailing wildly.

But…

For the first time, An Yao’s eternally frosted eyes narrowed.

She halted.

No.

If the first mistake was a fluke, the second could not be coincidence.

She refocused on the youth.

This time, her gaze sharpened from casual indifference to scrutiny.

She watched him continue—one move, two moves…

The initial strikes were within her comprehension, but soon, a myriad of “mistakes” emerged.

Sometimes stagnant, sometimes abrupt, fragmenting the entire sword form.

An ordinary expert would have sneered by now.

But not An Yao.

She watched silently, her mind transforming into a complex chessboard, deducing at high speed.

She stripped each “wrong” move from the technique, then returned them, seeking their purpose.

Once, twice…

When the youth completed the set and stood with his sword at rest, a rare, bright light flickered in An Yao’s eyes.

Suddenly, she understood.

Every “mistake” existed to compensate for another.

Or rather…these were not mistakes at all!

It was the body of a mortal, attempting to perform a sword art of subtle meaning!

Because of physical limits, perfect execution was impossible—so these seemingly clumsy, awkward “patches” were used to barely maintain the form!

How exquisite must the original sword technique be, that a cultivator would go so far to mimic it in this laughable manner—yet still let slip a hint of an intent beyond convention?

With this realization, An Yao’s gaze shifted as she looked at the youth.

Within those eyes, untouched by mortal flame, as clear as crystal beads, the youth’s figure was finally reflected—along with a light named “interest” that even she failed to notice.

“…Interesting.”

She murmured softly, her voice as faint as a mountain breeze.