Supreme Being: The Sword of True Martial Arts

The Sword Observer walked lightly toward the altar, as light as a fallen leaf landing on stone steps unswept for a thousand years. His grey Taoist robe was almost transparent in the night, his face blurred, his features as if worn smooth by a thousand years of "seeing." He didn't look at Han Guang, Lin Yan, or Chonghe Zhenren; he simply walked toward the jade-white skeleton in the very center of the altar. His fourth brother had been dead for a thousand years, yet his skeleton still held the posture of his hands clasped together in his dantian. The bead in his palm, awakened by Su Muyun's gentle touch, glowed faintly. The wild fruit of Zhending was still red, and the bamboo tube of wine sent by Ye Guidi was still sealed.

The Sword Observer stopped before the skeleton, his grey Daoist robe fluttering even without wind. He gazed at the skeleton for a long time—not with his eyes, but with the act of "seeing" itself. For a thousand years, he had watched over swords, never wielding a sword; his sword intent was simply "seeing." At this moment, he wasn't looking at the skeleton, but at the final moment before his fourth brother's passing. What was in that moment? The convergence of the sword intents of the four sword cultivators as the seal was completed, the final struggle as his mad thoughts were suppressed, the tears of his third brother, the Purple Thunder Sword Cultivator, kneeling and weeping, the silent figure of his second brother, the Mysterious Armor Swordsman, leaning on his sword, and the reluctance in the eyes of his eldest brother, the Void Sword Cultivator, as he stood at the edge of the altar, looking at his three younger siblings. All of this was seen by the Sword Observer, remembered for a thousand years. He was an old servant who watched over swords for others; he watched over what his master could not keep.

"I've watched the Fourth Young Master's sword for a thousand years." His voice was soft, as soft as the wind rustling through the leaves of the sword-leaf tree. "Today I return it." His right hand clenched loosely, and between his fingers appeared the phantom of a sword—not a physical object, but the sword intent condensed from a thousand years of "watching" the sword. The sword's shape was crooked and irregular, like something a beginner would casually carve. It was the first bamboo sword that the ancient guardian swordsman had carved when he was seven years old. Not the tip, but the complete sword shape. The swordsman, having watched the sword for a thousand years, had reconstructed that bamboo sword—long broken, its tip nurtured by the Cui family, its blade nowhere to be found—through his "watching." The crooked sword shape slowly rotated in his palm, each crooked scratch a testament to the sweat on the ancient guardian swordsman's palm when he held the sword at seven years old.

The sword-shaped object floated towards the skeleton, gently landing on the fourth brother's clasped hands, next to the bead in his palm. The bead glowed slightly, as if recognizing something. A thousand years ago, when the fourth brother passed away, his three elder brothers were unable to collect his body, and the first bamboo sword he had carved at the age of seven was not by his side. A thousand years later, the sword shape of the bamboo sword returned, not as a physical object, but as the sword intent that had been "seen" for a thousand years. But the temperature within the sword intent was real—the sweat on the palms of the ancient guardian swordsman's hands when he held the sword at the age of seven, the several bamboos he had ruined to carve this crooked sword, the sunlight of that afternoon, the raw scent of the bamboo as it was carved—all of this had been seen by the sword observer, remembered for a thousand years, and now returned together.

The white, jade-like finger bones of the skeleton trembled slightly. It wasn't a resurrection; rather, the lingering sword intent deep within the bones sensed the warmth of the time when he was seven. His fourth brother had been dead for a thousand years, his sword intent long since dissipated, but his bones remembered. He remembered that afternoon when he was seven, carving his first bamboo sword; he remembered the hand that held the blade; he remembered the smell of bamboo; he remembered holding it up to the sunlight after carving, the sunlight filtering through the crooked blade and warming his face. The warmth remembered in the bones was gently awakened by the shape of the sword. The fourth brother's skeleton didn't move, merely remaining in the seated posture of death, but the entire altar sensed that fleeting warmth.

The wild berries of Zhending turned an even deeper red. The seal on the bamboo-tube wine cracked open by itself, releasing a faint, delicate aroma of the thousand-year-old bamboo leaf wine, like a rain shower in a bamboo forest. The wine that Fourth Brother had waited a thousand years for opened itself at the same moment the skeleton sensed the warmth of the seven-year-old. The fragrance drifted over the altar, over the sword net, and over the madman's dark red heart. The heart leaped—not from an attack, but from recognizing the aroma. A thousand years ago, the four sword cultivators drank bamboo leaf wine when they swore brotherhood. Brewed by the ancient guardian sword cultivators themselves. Trapped in the seal, it had gone mad for a thousand years, but it still remembered the aroma.

The core of the mad thought trembled violently, not calling to the fragments, but recalling a tiny, insignificant memory. A thousand years ago, on the eve of the seal's completion, four sword cultivators drank in a valley. The fourth brother brewed bamboo leaf wine; the third brother drank the most; the second brother silently drank cup after cup; and the eldest brother held his cup, gazing at his three younger siblings. That night, they spoke many words. At dawn, the seal was complete. The fourth brother passed away peacefully; the third brother wept bitterly; the second brother remained silent; and the eldest brother gazed at his siblings. The aroma of that night's wine was trapped in the mad thought's memory, suppressed along with its warmth for a thousand years. Now, the seal cracked, the aroma of wine overflowed, and it remembered. It didn't remember the sealed hatred, but the warmth of that cup of wine from the night before the seal was broken.

Han Guang's blood-red longsword was planted in the ground before him. The fragment of thought he had nurtured on the sword sensed the aroma of wine, and the dark red light that had been quietly suspended trembled slightly. It wasn't being called by the main body, but rather gently touched by the memory of that night within the aroma of wine. It didn't have the memory of that night, but it sensed the warmth within the memory of the main body. The fragment of thought, suppressed by the blood demon for a hundred years, also sensed it, and its frenzied counterattack faltered slightly. In the same instant, both fragments remembered the same thing—they were once part of the same heart. On the eve of the seal a thousand years ago, that heart hadn't gone mad, and the four sword cultivators hadn't yet decided to suppress it. That night, it sensed the aroma of wine, sensed the warmth of the four sword cultivators drinking. Later, it went mad and forgot. Now, with the aroma of wine overflowing, both fragments remembered simultaneously.

The sword observer turned around, his face blurred, his features as if worn smooth by a thousand years of "seeing." He "looked" at Han Guang, his gaze falling on the two fragments of thoughts devouring each other on the blood-red longsword. "Han Guang. One of the two fragments in your sword heart was taken away by this old servant a thousand years ago, and the other fell to the outer edge of Mount Ling when it shattered. The one this old servant took was originally intended to be preserved for the four young masters. But this old servant only knows how to observe swords, not how to nurture them. That fragment withered away in my hands, so I had no choice but to plant it in the sword hearts of the Cui family disciples to nourish it. When it came to Cui Qinghe's generation, he planted it in your sword heart." His voice was still very soft, as if he were talking about something extremely trivial. "It's not that I'm trying to harm you. It's my own selfish desire—the fragments need a host, and the sword hearts of the Cui family disciples are too weak to bear them. Your Blood Fiend Sword Heart is strong enough to keep it alive. I've waited a thousand years for a host who can bear both fragments at the same time. And now I've found you. Tonight, the fragments return to their original form, and your mission is complete."

The tranquil fragment in Han Guang's blood-red pupils, like a clear sky, suddenly brightened. It wasn't anger, but rather, "So that's how it is." For a century, he'd been used as a pawn, for a century, he'd nurtured his own fragment through sheer willpower. In the end, even the planting of his fragment wasn't a conspiracy, but merely the selfish act of an old servant preserving his master's relics. The Sword Observer hadn't harmed him; he'd simply used him as fertile ground. The Blood Fiend Sword Heart was strong enough to sustain the fragment of his thoughts. A hundred years—that was enough.

He suddenly laughed. The blood-red longsword rose from the ground, and the two fragments of thought on its blade trembled violently at the same time. The one suppressed by the bloodlust raged back, trying to break free of the blade and lunge at the observer; the one he had nurtured himself remained still, its deep crimson depths glowing even brighter than before. "Senior, Han Guang has been used as a pawn for a hundred years, and I don't hate you. Because at least you told me the truth. But you say my mission is complete—you're wrong. My mission wasn't to preserve fragments for others, but to nurture a piece of thought for myself. This piece doesn't belong to you, it doesn't belong to mad thoughts, it's what I, Han Guang, have endured for a hundred years to cultivate."

A blood-red longsword thrust out. Not towards the observer, but towards his own chest. The sword tip pierced the Tanzhong acupoint, the core of the Blood Fiend Sword Heart, the battlefield where two fragments of thought had devoured each other for a century. The moment the sword tip pierced, the fragment suppressed by the Blood Fiend let out a silent scream, surging wildly from the sword towards the wound, trying to invade deeper into Han Guang's sword heart. But it collided with the other fragment—the one Han Guang had nurtured himself. The two fragments met at the Tanzhong acupoint. One was mad, the other quiet; one was the violence of a mad thought bursting forth, the other the warmth endured for a century.

Han Guang gripped the sword hilt with both hands, the blood-red longsword slowly rotating against his chest. It wasn't about piercing deeper, but about "grinding." He used his own sword heart as a whetstone to grind away the two fragments. For centuries, they had devoured each other, growing into each other's shapes, so much so that even he couldn't distinguish which part belonged to his madness and which to his own. He used his sword heart as a whetstone, grinding away the two fragments that had been entangled for a hundred years, bit by bit. The excruciating pain made the veins on his pale face bulge, yet the warmth in his blood-red pupils grew ever brighter. After being ground away, the fragment of thought suppressed by the bloodlust revealed its true color—not dark red, but an extremely pale blue. The color of the madness that had burst forth a thousand years ago. That was the color before it went mad. The other fragment, which he had nurtured himself, its dark red depths revealing its true color after being ground away—not blue, but an extremely pale gold. The same color as the golden scab on Luo Shengyi's chest. The color of endurance.

The two fragments separated. One was pale blue, the other pale gold. The pale blue fragment flew out from Han Guang's sword heart, drifting towards the dark red heart at the center of the sword net—it sensed the call of its original self, sensed the warmth of the night before the seal a thousand years ago in the aroma of wine, and returned home. The pale gold fragment hung on Han Guang's chest, not flying away. That was something he had nurtured himself, not a fragment of a mad thought, but a thought he had carried for a hundred years. It wouldn't go anywhere, remaining only in his sword heart. Han Guang looked down at the pale golden light on his chest and suddenly laughed. The laughter was hoarse, as if he hadn't laughed in a long time. "Carried for a hundred years, and carried out this small fragment. It was worth it."

He drew his crimson longsword and sheathed it. The wound at his chest's Tanzhong acupoint slowly healed, and a pale golden fragment sank deep into the sword's core, like a tiny seed. His bloodthirsty sword intent hadn't dissipated, but a faint warmth had been added to its deepest core. It wasn't being purified, but rather gently supported by the thoughts he had nurtured himself. He nodded to Lin Yan, turned, and walked towards the valley entrance. After a few steps, he stopped, not looking back. "Han Guang owes you a favor. You accepted my request, even though you didn't get the fragment in the end. But when you said 'I accept,' I heard you. That sound was warmer than the fragment itself. If you ever need my help in the future, just send a message." The crimson figure disappeared into the dark silver shadows of the Sword Leaf Forest.

The Mad Thought's heart beat slowly in the center of the sword net, its rhythm slower than ever before. A pale blue fragment flew back from Han Guangjian's heart, gently landing on its surface like a leaf falling on water. There were no ripples, only a gentle fall. The warmth at the heart's core enveloped the fragment, like a mother embracing a long-lost child. The fragment trembled slightly, its pale blue light and the core's warmth mutually permeating each other. It had returned home. Although its true form had gone mad, although the journey home had taken a thousand years, although it had been corrupted by bloodlust within Han Guangjian's heart for a century, forgetting who it was, the aroma of wine had reminded it. And once it remembered, it returned. The Mad Thought's heart beat its lightest in a thousand years, like an extremely soft sigh.

The Sword Observer watched the fragment fall back into his heart, his face blurred and expressionless. But the hem of his grey Daoist robe trembled slightly. For a thousand years, he had watched the sword, never wielding it, waiting for this moment. Not the strengthening of the seal, not the eradication of his mad thoughts, but the fragment returning home. He turned and walked towards the valley entrance, stopping after a few steps to bow slightly to Master Chonghe. Master Chonghe sheathed his ancient sword, returning the bow. The two who had waited a thousand years brushed past each other in the night of the Sword Leaf Forest. One returned to Chunyang Palace to continue watching the sunrise, the other went nowhere. But both had received what they had been waiting for—Chonghe had found his successor, and the Sword Observer had found the fragment returning home.

The altar remained silent for a long time. The wild berries of Zhending were still red, and the cracks in the seal of the bamboo-tube wine had deepened, its aroma slowly permeating the night. The bead in the palm of the fourth brother's skeleton glowed faintly, the shape of the seven-year-old bamboo sword placed alongside it. The skeleton was as white as jade, maintaining the posture of seated meditation. A thousand years ago, when the fourth brother passed away, his three elder brothers were unable to prepare his body for burial. A thousand years later, the seven-year-old bamboo sword had returned. The sword heart of the third brother, the Purple Thunder Swordsman, resided in Lin Yan's dantian; the plain sword of the second brother, the Xuanjia Swordsman, was on Lu Chen's back; and the Taixu Sword of the eldest brother, the Taixu Swordsman, was at Lin Yan's waist. With the four swords gathered before the fourth brother's skeleton, one thing remained—the seal needed to be reinforced.

Su Muyun rose from the edge of the altar, his Qingfeng Sword unsheathed. The azure blade, after the rain, shone like a piece of color sliced ​​from the night sky in the starlight. "Han Guang is gone, the Sword Observer is gone. Strengthening the seal is our task. All four swords gather, simultaneously piercing the four corner stone sword holes of the altar. Taixu, the Bamboo Sword, and Pojun are in your hands, the Xuanjia Su Sword is on Lu Chen's back. How can they be used simultaneously?"

Lin Yan looked at the stone swords at the four corners of the altar. Each corner of the octagonal altar held a stone sword, its blade engraved with the sword runes of the four sword cultivators: Tai Xu in the east, Zi Lei in the south, Xuan Jia in the west, and Zhu Jian in the north. Each sword had a hole at its hilt, just large enough to hold a key. The four swords were simultaneously thrust in, sealing themselves securely. However, Tai Xu, Zhu Jian, and Po Jun were all in his hands; he only had two hands.

The small tree, bearing the Dharma image, unfurled its eight leaves in the space between the eyebrows. The bud at the edge of the seventh leaf, "Tai Xu," had grown even larger amidst the pervasive aroma of wine; the cracks in its bud had widened, and the light of dawn seeped through the gaps, much richer than the night before. Jiang Zhiwei's sword intent still gently rested on the eighth leaf, merely accompanying it. The bud sensed the aroma of wine, the warmth of the fragments returning home, and the resonance of the four keys residing in the same valley. It was waiting for a moment.

Lu Chen stood up, holding the gray-black greatsword in both hands. The pale blue rune on the hilt—the words the Xuanjia swordsman had left for his fourth brother a thousand years ago—lit up completely. The young man's thin shoulders tightened slightly, but his eyes shone brightly. "Brother Lin, I'll stab with the Xuanjia sword. The Xuanjia position in the due west. The rest, you handle."

Lin Yan drew his bamboo sword, Taixu sword, and Pojun sword simultaneously, hovering them in front of him. He could thrust all three swords at once—the bamboo sword to the north, Taixu sword to the east, and Pojun sword to the south. But he needed someone to hold the hilts. Not to stand in for him, but to accompany him.

Jiang Zhiwei stood up, her sword, White Rainbow Piercing the Sun, returned to its sheath, and walked to Lin Yan's right. She didn't speak, but simply extended her right hand and gently grasped the hilt of the Po Jun sword. The Po Jun sword sensed her sword intent—not sharpness, not destruction, but "accompanying." The Supreme Sword Scripture cut through illusion to see reality; she saw Lin Yan's fear of loss, and at this moment, she grasped his sword. Not to stab for him, but to stab alongside him. Lin Yan held the bamboo sword in his left hand and the Tai Xu sword in his right. Jiang Zhiwei held the Po Jun sword in her right. Four swords, three people, eight hands. That was enough.

The sword runes on the four corner stone swords of the altar lit up simultaneously. The sharpness of the Void in the east, the destruction of Purple Lightning in the south, the protection of the Black Armor in the west, and the protection of the Bamboo Sword in the north. The four-colored sword light flowed slowly in the sword holes, having waited for a thousand years.

Lin Yan and Jiang Zhiwei walked side by side to the three sword positions: due east, due south, and due north. Lu Chen walked to the due west. The four of them stood at the four corners of the altar. The four swords were simultaneously thrust into their hilts—Tai Xu went to the due east, Po Jun went to the due south, Xuan Jia Su Jian went to the due west, and Zhu Jian went to the due north.

The instant the sword tip touched the hilt, the sword runes throughout the entire circular valley lit up simultaneously. The sword intent of the four sword cultivators from a thousand years ago, emanating from the four mountain walls, surged towards the altar like a tide, converging into the four keys. The sharpness of the void, the destruction of purple lightning, the protection of the black armor, the protection of the bamboo sword—the four colors of sword light converged at the very center of the altar, transforming into a warm white pillar of light that shot into the sky. The pillar of light pierced through the sword net, gently enveloping the heart of the madman. Not suppression, but support. The heart slowly stopped beating within the pillar of light, the dark red light fading layer by layer. When it reached the very core, the pillar of light no longer intensified, but simply paused there gently, like a hand lightly placed on the back of another hand. The warmth was received. The seal solidified itself.

The sword net didn't disappear, but its mesh was twice as dense as before. The sword runes on the four mountain walls didn't fade either; instead, they rose from the walls and slowly settled on each line of the sword net, transforming into tiny specks of light, like countless guardian stars. The sword intent of the four sword cultivators was no longer merely suppression, but protection. It wasn't about trapping mad thoughts, but waiting for them to awaken on their own.

Lin Yan loosened his grip on the sword hilt. The bamboo sword and the Taixu sword returned to their sheaths on their own, while Jiang Zhiwei gently tucked the Pojun sword back into his waistband. The bud on the edge of the seventh leaf of the Dharma Image Tree, "Taixu," fully bloomed at the same instant the seal was reinforced. It wasn't the ninth leaf, but a tiny flower that bloomed on the seventh leaf. The color of dawn, just before it broke. The Taixu style's thousand-year-old sword intent, in the empty space, awaited the ancient guardian sword cultivator's fear of the dark at seven years old, the warmth of Lin Yan's seven-year-old pen, Han Guang carrying the pale gold fragments home after a hundred years, and Jiang Zhiwei's companionship. All those waiting met in the void, blooming into a flower. The flower's name was "First."

The old orange cat and the gray cat crouched side by side in front of the skeleton, their four eyes fixed on the tiny dawn-colored flower between Lin Yan's brows. They simultaneously pricked up their ears, then lowered them again. This was what they had been waiting for. Both cats simultaneously extended their right forepaws and gently touched the flower from a distance. The flower swayed slightly, and the dawn-colored light brightened for a moment. It wasn't that it was touched; it was smiling on its own.

Outside the Sword Leaf Forest, the guardian star sank into the western mountains. Dawn was approaching. News of the reinforced seal on the Southern Frontier rose from the tips of every leaf in the Sword Leaf Forest at this dawn, carried by the morning breeze to every corner of the Great Jin Dynasty. The six sword-wielding sects, the eight great families, and countless rogue cultivators would all learn in the coming days—the thousand-year seal had been reinforced by a newcomer. The entrance to Mount Ling remained sealed, but the sword intent emanating from the depths of the seal was several times stronger than before the reinforcement. It was mixed with the sword dao insights of four sword cultivators from a thousand years ago, and fragments of ancient sword dao gleaned from the faded crimson light of the Mad Thought. Those fragments were priceless treasures to sword cultivators. News of the Mount Ling Assembly spread like wildfire throughout the martial world.

But that was after dawn. At this moment, only the warm, white pillar of light, reinforced by the seal, filled the circular valley, along with the pervasive aroma of wine. The young monk Zhen Ding squatted before the skeleton, gently placing the wild fruit he had been clutching for so long beside the bead. The fruit was as red as a tiny flame. The wax seal on the bamboo tube of wine had completely cracked, and the aroma of the wine filled the entire valley.

Su Muyun sheathed his Qingfeng sword. The azure blade, glistening with post-rain light, reflected a white beam of light, like a piece of color cut from dawn. Simultaneously, the fine rain hanging from the tips of countless sword-leaf forest leaves fell—not as an attack, but as its natural course. Thousands of raindrops fell on the altar, on the bones, on wild fruits and bamboo tubes, and on the four sheathed swords. Afterward, the rain stopped. The circular valley returned to its age-old tranquility.