Chapter Sixty-Two: The Sword’s Original Intent

In the direction of Black Cloud Peak, a tall man in blue robes stood, an ancient sword strapped to his back. He was of ordinary appearance, but his bearing was lonely and proud. This was Zhang Qiuchi, the second disciple under Master Lone Star, the "Iron Sword Immortal" and master of Black Cloud Peak, possessing cultivation at the late Floating Dust stage.

After rising, he did not leap into the arena, but instead turned his gaze toward the high platform of Unmoving Peak. There, only Fan Lanzhou, Linghu Jinjiu, and Yang Xiaoman remained; the latter two wore expressions of slight embarrassment.

"For this round, Unmoving Peak forfeits," Fan Lanzhou declared calmly before the eyes of all, his demeanor unchanged. He showed no sign of disappointment, for he had never truly expected Fang Junmei to be of much help. Without hope, there could be no disappointment, and thus no reason for dejection.

At the pronouncement of "forfeit," some smirked, others laughed outright. Though forfeits were not unknown in the sect’s grand tournaments—usually due either to opponents being too ruthless or one’s own grievous injuries from the previous match—never before had someone like Fang Junmei failed even to appear, leaving it to his senior to announce a forfeit. It was an utter disgrace.

Unmoving Peak was already beset by storms; after Fan Lanzhou’s words, it drew even more contemptuous glances. Several cultivators from the three allied sects—Nanguo Cheng, the Silverfish Fairy, and others—maintained stoic expressions, yet their eyes flashed with mocking amusement.

Among the elders, all but Chunyu Qian remained ignorant of the true reason. Remembering the day they vied for Fang Junmei, they recalled his presence and could not believe he was such a coward.

"Lanzhou, what is that boy doing? He doesn’t even have the courage to come?" the River Daoist asked, his voice cool, for the first time showing dissatisfaction as he noticed the three sects’ glances.

"My junior was injured by the effects of a medicine while testing it for Elder Chunyu. He is recuperating," Fan Lanzhou replied lightly.

Only then did the crowd understand, though they looked toward Chunyu Qian with half-belief. The old man merely snorted and said nothing more. Given their knowledge of him, the matter was likely true, and the disdain for Fang Junmei diminished.

"In that case, the victory goes to Qiuchi. Let us proceed to the next bout," the River Daoist declared briskly.

"Next match..." the steward disciple called out loudly.

Zhang Qiuchi sat back down, expressionless, showing no secret delight—his temperament well-honed.

...

In the valley, the duels continued one after another.

Meanwhile, atop Unmoving Peak, Fang Junmei remained as lifeless as a corpse, lying unconscious in bed, utterly still.

Within the illusory world, Fang Junmei lay in the blood pool, motionless, eyes wide open. The storm of swords had long since ceased; each blade had pierced his heart and vanished, leaving only the last sword embedded through his heart, pinning his body within the sea of blood, as if intent on subduing him there forever.

---

That final sword was ancient in form, pitch-black as ink, its cold, sinister light chilling to the bone—like a demon’s sword, terrifying to behold.

Having been pierced by countless swords, Fang Junmei’s fear of swords had reached its limit. At the sound of sword-song, his body trembled uncontrollably; to face a black sword piercing his heart was like confronting a devil.

His heart brimmed with terror; he wished to cast away all things, to never again face a sword, to never again hear the very word. Yet escape was impossible—even closing his eyes was beyond him, for the black sword held him fast, forcing him to confront his dread.

"Elder Chunyu’s Blood-Draining Pill must have been flawed. This pill is destroying my love and pursuit of the sword... I must pull myself together, reclaim the heart true to the sword, find myself again!"

Though afraid, Fang Junmei roughly understood what was happening. Battling his fear, he encouraged himself continuously.

"Where did my love for the sword begin..." Fang Junmei pondered, searching his memories.

The recollection was blurry, as if lost to ages past, or perhaps disturbed by some force.

Recall.

Recall.

Painful recollections—memories dragged out as if tearing his mind apart. The agony of this process was beyond ordinary comprehension, as if wanting to split open his own skull to peer inside.

If the previous pain stemmed from the pill’s effects, then this torment was self-inflicted. Yet he could do nothing but desperately recall.

...

In the illusory world, illusion gave rise to new illusion.

As time passed, a nearly forgotten memory inexplicably surfaced, unfolding like a scroll before Fang Junmei’s mind.

Sword North Mountain City, bustling crowds, heroes from all directions gathered in celebration.

It was the first day of the new year. The Sword-Bearing Elder would perform the "Choosing Ceremony" for his second disciple.

That disciple was, of course, Fang Junmei. Since he had been found rather than born to the family, the Sword-Bearing Elder did not know his exact birthday, so it was set for the first day of the year.

Night fell, and the great hall was ablaze with lights.

The Sword-Bearing Elder sat at the head, holding the toddling Fang Junmei in his arms, smiling warmly, his expression gentle and kind—no sign of the notorious underworld leader’s fierce reputation.

Dozens of figures sat to either side, watching master and disciple with varying degrees of sincerity.

In the hall’s center, serving women unfurled a long sheet of snow-white silk and began to place objects upon it.

Books, brush and ink, seals, abacus, coins, iron ruler, rice grains... and finally, a small sword four or five inches in length.

This ceremony, common among ordinary families, was something the Sword-Bearing Elder once scorned. Yet for Fang Junmei, he not only held it, but invited many guests.

Soon, all the items were arranged—a total of twenty-eight, including even a female doll. Should it be chosen, perhaps the child would grow into a romantic figure. Such things would never be seen in conventional households, but the Sword-Bearing Elder, being unconventional, cared little for propriety.

---

"City Lord, everything is ready," the serving woman announced respectfully.

The hall fell silent.

The Sword-Bearing Elder nodded slightly, signaled her to leave, then turned to Fang Junmei: "Junmei, go and choose one. Take whatever you like."

Fang Junmei’s eyes sparkled; he tottered forward, unconcerned with the gaze of the fierce guests though only one or two years old.

The elder’s eyes alternated between Fang Junmei and the small sword, hope shining within.

Wearing open-bottomed trousers, Fang Junmei approached the edge of the white silk; nearest him was the abacus.

He paused, his dark eyes fixed upon it for a long while, then reached out to grab it. A chorus of sighs rose in the hall—would the second young master of Sword North Mountain City become an accountant?

Even the Sword-Bearing Elder showed visible disappointment.

Clack! Clack!

Fang Junmei shook the abacus twice, its sound piquing his interest for a moment. Quickly bored, he tossed it aside and moved on.

He crouched, his trousers gaping, exposing his small rear as he picked up the seal, played with it briefly, then discarded it.

Laughter erupted among the guests. The elder’s anticipation rekindled; he refrained from judging, eager to see what Fang Junmei would ultimately select.

Books, brush and ink, coins, iron ruler, rice grains... each was picked up and examined, then thrown aside.

At last—only the sword remained.

After staring at it for a moment, Fang Junmei stepped toward the sword, curiosity and innocence shining in his small eyes.

He crouched, gazed at it for some time, then finally reached out and grasped the small sword.

Silently, he seized it.

Once in his hand, he seemed unable to let go. Fang Junmei studied it closely; after a few breaths, as if guided by instinct, he gripped the scabbard in one hand and the hilt in the other.

Clang!

The sound of metal rang out as Fang Junmei drew the small sword, the bright candlelight reflecting off its sharp blade, casting a shimmering glow that bounced onto him, illuminating his eyes as he stared at the sword—eyes that now shone with extraordinary brightness.

After a few breaths, the child that was Fang Junmei suddenly turned, raising the sword and scabbard high, looking at the Sword-Bearing Elder with a smile of pure, boundless joy, as if he had discovered his lifelong treasure.

In that instant, light and shadow froze.

That gaze not only reached the Sword-Bearing Elder, but also touched the heart of Fang Junmei lying in the blood pool.

His original aspiration—found at last!