Supreme Being: The Sword of True Martial Arts

As the campfire flickered and died down, a second clash of sword intent echoed from the depths of the Sword Leaf Forest. It wasn't a sneak attack from the Demonic Sect, nor a test from the Six Sword-wielding Schools; it was the seal itself. In the direction of the circular valley, the altar, shrouded in the four-colored sword net, trembled slightly after all the fragments had recognized their masters. Extremely slight, as subtle as someone turning over in a dream. But Lin Yan's Myriad Manifestations Sword Heart detected it—something deep within the seal was responding to the fragments' departure. It wasn't a plea to stay, but a farewell. A thousand years ago, when the four sword cultivators separated the sword intent fragments, they left a wisp of "farewell" within the seal. After a thousand years, the fragments finally returned home, and that farewell reawakened on its own, transforming into a faint ripple that spread from the altar, through the Sword Leaf Forest, and across every fragment that had recognized its master.

The bamboo sword tassel at Lin Yan's waist swayed gently, and the silver-white patterns on the hilt of the Taixu sword gleamed slightly. The newly grown gold edge along the pale blue runes on the hilt of Lu Chen's grey-black greatsword also flashed for a moment. Simultaneously, all the fragments on all the swords sensed a farewell from the depths of the seal—not sword intent, but warmth. When the four sword cultivators separated the fragments, it wasn't a relinquishment, but an entrustment of the fragments to their successors a thousand years later. They knew they wouldn't see the fragments return home when they entrusted them, yet they still left a trace of farewell warmth in each fragment. The fragments waited a thousand years for their new masters, and the warmth of farewell was awakened by the ripples of the seal, gently caressing each fragment, like the four sword cultivators' hands stroking their swords for the last time.

Then that warmth dissipated. Not vanished, but completed. After waiting for a thousand years, the farewell has been given; it's time to go.

The tassel of Lin Yanzhu's sword regained its deep golden sway, and the silver-white patterns on the Taixu sword guard sank into the blade. But a very faint layer of warmth appeared deep within the fragment—the warmth of the four sword cultivators' farewell had not been taken away, but remained in the fragment. Every thrust of the sword thereafter carried that farewell.

Su Muyun held his Qingfeng sword across his lap, its blade, azure after the rain, reflecting the embers of the campfire. "The farewell within the seal has dissipated. The fragments have recognized their masters, the farewell is complete, and the sword intent left by the four sword cultivators on the outer edge of the seal has found its home. But the core of the seal—the entrance to Mount Ling—remains sealed. The complete sword dao inheritance of the four sword cultivators at the entrance remains untouched." He looked at Lin Yan. "That's what the various forces of the Mount Ling Assembly truly desire. The fragments are merely an appetizer. The complete Dharma Body sword dao inheritance is enough to allow a Grandmaster at the peak of the Outer Realm to break through the final layer of the Heavenly Ladder to prove their Dharma Body, further enriching the foundation of the Six Sword-wielding Sects. They won't disperse just because you obtained the fragments; instead, they'll keep a closer eye on you. Because only those who gather all four swords can potentially open the entrance to Mount Ling. Without you, the entrance won't open."

Lin Yan poked at the embers with a twig. "Then let them wait. Whether the entrance to Mount Ling opens, and when it opens, is not up to them, but to the four sword cultivators. The fragment has recognized its master and the farewell is complete, but the ninth leaf hasn't grown yet. The first flower has bloomed in the Taixu Formation, and the first flower is waiting for another first. When it arrives, the entrance will naturally open. If it doesn't, forcibly opening it won't yield any inheritance."

Jiang Zhiwei held the White Rainbow Piercing the Sun sword horizontally across her lap. "What's the second 'Chu'?"

Lin Yan gazed at the embers. "I don't know. The ancient guardian sword cultivator's first experience was the fear of the dark when he was seven, carving a bamboo sword. My first experience was the sweat on my palms when I was seven, holding a pen. Han Guang's first experience was the pale gold fragment he carried out over a hundred years. Your first experience was the 'accompanying' you saw when you were afraid of letting down the Taixu sword cultivator who had just cut through the void. Everyone's first experience is different. The first experience at the entrance to Mount Ling might be the shared first experience of the four sword cultivators when they swore brotherhood—why did they wield their swords?"

The Sword Leaf Forest fell silent for a moment. Thousands of sword leaves rubbed gently in the night breeze, the metallic sound like countless tiny swords whispering. Why did these four sword cultivators wield swords? The Taixu Sword Cultivator embodied pure Yang, the Purple Thunder Sword Cultivator sought life within destruction, the Xuanjia Swordsman protected, and the Ancient Guardian Sword Cultivator feared the dark. Four completely different people, four completely different sword paths, yet they swore brotherhood a thousand years ago, together suppressing their mad thoughts, entrusting fragments, and leaving behind farewells. What was their shared origin? Not the sword path, not the sword intent, but the moment they met—the four sword-wielding individuals saw something similar to themselves in each other's swords. Not sharpness, not destruction, not protection, but "fear." The Taixu Sword Cultivator feared letting down his siblings, the Purple Thunder Sword Cultivator feared excessive destruction, the Xuanjia Swordsman feared failing to protect, and the Ancient Guardian Sword Cultivator feared the dark. Their fears were seen in each other upon meeting. After seeing them, fear was no longer a solitary matter. They swore brotherhood not because they were fearless, but because their fear was embraced by each other.

The initial feeling of waiting at the entrance to Lingshan might just be that moment of fear of being caught.

The first blossom on the seventh leaf of the Lin Yan Dharma Image sapling swayed gently. The light of dawn swirled on the petals, just before it was fully lit. It sensed the warmth of the moment when the four sword cultivators swore brotherhood a thousand years ago—not from within the seal, but seeping from the depths of the fragments, from the warmth of their farewell. The farewell contained not only parting, but also the memories of their meeting.

The old orange cat and the gray cat sat side by side by the embers of the campfire, their six and a half legs tucked under their bellies, their tails swaying slowly in unison. They sensed it too. Generation after generation, the cats of Chunyang Palace had sat on the rooftop watching the sunrise, not for the sun itself, but for the warmth left on the stone steps of Chunyang Palace on the day the Taixu swordsman descended the mountain. The cat of the Sword Observer—if it existed—perhaps sat under the locust tree in the Cui family's old residence, watching the thousand-year-old bamboo slips. The two cats, in different places, were waiting for the same thing—four sword-wielding men who, in the instant they feared being caught, swore brotherhood.

Night deepened. The guardian star veered overhead. Everyone slept by the embers. Lu Chen curled up beside the gray-black greatsword, its pale blue tassel dangling from the grass. The bleeding from his hand had stopped, and the white bandage on Su Muyun's hand gleamed faintly in the starlight. The boy slept soundly, his thin shoulders rising and falling gently with his breath. The gray cat curled up at his feet, its only remaining eye closed, its tail draped over his ankle.

Meng Qi wasn't asleep. He sat cross-legged beside the embers, his monk's knife resting across his lap. Every engraving on the blade gleamed faintly in the starlight—marks he'd carved during his solo missions. Looking at Lu Chen's sleeping face, he suddenly remembered the first time he'd held a knife. Not in Shaolin, but much earlier, before his transmigration. He hadn't thought about his pre-transmigration days for a long time, but now, touched by the warmth of the four sword cultivators bidding farewell within the fragments, it all came back to him. Seven years old, holding a pen, writing crookedly. Holding a knife and holding a pen, the warmth was the same. He looked down at his hands—calluses on the base of his thumb, very thin. As thin as Lu Chen's.

As dawn broke, the sound of horses' hooves echoed outside the Sword Leaf Forest. Not just one, but dozens, their hooves moving in perfect unison, as if measured with a ruler. The Six Doors had arrived. The Silver Sword Guards led the way, followed by the Shadow Sword Guards, and finally, a black carriage without any markings. The carriage stopped outside the Sword Leaf Forest, the curtain was lifted, and a middle-aged scholar in a dark blue official robe with a small golden sword embroidered on his chest stepped out. He was the Earth Ranking messenger; Lin Yan had met him at Taixu Peak. Behind him followed two Silver Sword Guards carrying swords, each sword holding a pale gold scroll.

The messenger approached Lin Yan and bowed respectfully. "Young Master Lin, the Earth Ranking has been updated. You have risen from eightieth to thirtieth. Assessment: The Southern Frontier is sealed, the four swords have gathered; the fragments have recognized their master, and the Void has returned to its heart. The hidden sword has begun to bloom." He unfurled the first scroll, the neat and engraved characters on it exactly the same as those Lin Yan had received at Taixu Peak.

The second volume then unfolds. "Furthermore, this is a personal note from the Chief Constable of the Six Doors. If the entrance to Mount Ling opens, the complete sword lineages of four sword cultivators will emerge. The six sword-wielding sects and the eight great families have agreed that the ownership of these lineages will be determined by the Mount Ling trials. The person who gathers all four swords can be the one to initiate the trials and is also qualified to participate. The content of the trials will evolve spontaneously from the sword intent left behind by the four sword cultivators a thousand years ago; no one can predict it. The Chief Constable instructs me to ask Young Master Lin—are you willing to be the one to initiate these trials?"

Lin Yan looked at the two scrolls. 30th on the Earthly Ranking, the one who initiated the Spirit Mountain Trials. "And then what?"

The messenger closed the scroll. "Once activated, the trial will proceed on its own. The inheritance will choose its master, each relying on their own destiny. The Six Doors will not participate in the trial, but will only record it. The Chief Constable said that the four sword cultivators waited a thousand years, not to wait for the six sword-wielding sects to divide their sword paths, but to wait for future generations to forge their own paths from their sword paths. Young Master Lin, you go your own way. The Six Doors will only record, not interfere."

Lin Yan nodded. "When does the trial begin?"

"Seven days later. At the altar in the circular valley, the four swordsmen will gather, with the first flower as the guide. At that time, those qualified from the six sword-wielding sects, the eight great families, and independent cultivators will enter the valley to witness the ceremony. Those who wish to enter the trial must meet one condition—there must be 'fear' deep within their sword hearts. It is not cultivation level, nor swordsmanship, but fear. When the four sword cultivators swore brotherhood a thousand years ago, each of them had fear within their sword hearts. The fear of being caught is their shared origin. The Spirit Mountain Trial awaits the fear within the sword hearts of those who come after. Those without fear cannot enter."

The messenger bowed and withdrew. The black carriage turned around, and the sound of horses' hooves disappeared in unison towards the Bloodwood Forest.

In the tent area at the edge of the Sword Leaf Forest, all the members of the Six Sword-wielding Sects and the Eight Great Families heard the messenger's words. The Spirit Mountain Trial would begin in seven days. The condition for entering the trial was not cultivation level, but rather the presence of "fear" deep within their sword hearts. Countless people fell silent. They had diligently cultivated the sword path for decades, severing distracting thoughts, honing their sword hearts, and pursuing purity. In the end, the threshold to entering this thousand-year-old tradition was not purity, but "fear." Fear of loss, fear of betrayal, fear of not being able to protect, fear of darkness. All that they considered weakness, impurities, things that had to be severed, was precisely the original intention behind the sworn brotherhood of the four Dharma Body sword cultivators.

Chu Lingyun stood before the tent of the Huanhua Sword Sect, a corner of his moon-white robe fluttering in the morning breeze. His sword heart was as dense as rain, the rain falling where it should fall. What was he afraid of? He was afraid the rain would fall in the wrong place. This fear he had never uttered to anyone, but now it was gently touched by the messenger's words. It turned out that fear wasn't weakness, but the very essence of rain knowing where it should fall.

The wave-shaped banner of He Chaosheng's Donghai Sword Manor fluttered in the autumn wind. His sword spirit was like the tide, rising and falling. He feared that the receding tide would take away things it shouldn't. This fear, which he had suppressed since he began practicing swordsmanship, suddenly made him feel that he no longer needed to suppress it.

Beneath the black sword banner of the Hidden Sword Pavilion, a young swordsman in black sat cross-legged beside a tent, a broadsword lying unsheathed across his lap. He was a first-level cultivator, his face cold and stern, bearing a striking resemblance to Cui Mingxuan—the Hidden Sword Pavilion's swordsmanship derives its sharpness from its protective nature. He feared that his sharpness would become too great, causing him to forget protection. This fear was something he had never spoken of to his fellow disciples. Now, gazing at the silvery-white canopy of the Sword Leaf Forest, he feared he might float up. And if he did, the sword would feel lighter.

Under the banner of the Great River Gang's Water Ripple Sect, Qi Xia stood with several incense masters. Her Water-Splitting Thorn was tucked into her waistband, and the Tang Flower blank was attached to her side. Only the last petal remained uncarved. She feared the Tang Flower would never bloom. This fear was present in every Tang Flower she made. It wasn't weakness, but the reason why the flower was always just a moment before it bloomed.

Qi Zhengyan held his ancient sword across his lap, the drop of rain that had been hovering in his dantian for days still lingering. He feared the rain wouldn't fall. He feared that, having practiced the Huanhua Sword Sect's sword techniques for over a decade without ever telling his master, it might tremble slightly in the morning light of the Sword Leaf Forest. The rain didn't fall, but it hung even more firmly.

Ye Guichen held the ancient pine-patterned sword across his lap. The sword's blade, radiating demonic golden light and a pale blue rain-like aura, was adorned with faint purple patterns from fragments of purple lightning that shimmered slightly in the morning light. He feared he couldn't hold on. The fear that had gripped the tomb guardians for generations had been gently touched in his generation by the fragments of the purple lightning sword cultivator. The fear remained, but it was no longer a burden.

Gu Qing's blood-red patterned lightsaber rested across his lap, his blue eyes reflecting the silvery-white canopy of the Sword Leaf Forest. He feared the empty room would be emptied again. This fear had lingered ever since the fragments of Spirit Mountain stopped consuming his life force, and now it was gently touched by the messenger's words—so fear could also be a room. Not empty, but waiting. Waiting for his own things to slowly fill it.

Luo Shengyi carried a thick-shouldered broadsword on his shoulder, the golden scab on his chest gleaming faintly in the morning light. He was afraid he couldn't bear it. He had carried it countless times, and each time he was afraid. Fear and carrying came together. Without fear, there was no need to carry. Carrying and fear were two sides of the same blade.

The young monk Zhen Ding squatted beside the embers, still holding the withered wild fruit in his hand. He didn't know much about swords, nor did he know fear, but he feared that he would no longer be able to drink Su Muyun's fish soup. This fear made him get up at dawn every day to help Su Muyun sharpen his sword, sharpening it very slowly and diligently.

The fear lurking in everyone's hearts surfaced simultaneously in the morning light of the Sword Leaf Forest. It wasn't forced out, but gently awakened by the first touch of the four sword cultivators' sworn brotherhood from a thousand years ago. This fear wasn't weakness, but the most genuine part of their sword hearts. Cut it off, and the sword would be lighter, but lighter strikes would only land empty air. Keep it, and the sword would be heavy, but heavier strikes would ensure every blow hits where it was meant to.

Within the deep golden veins of the eighth leaf of the Lin Yan Dharma Image sapling, the lines of fear of loss fully unfurled in the morning light. The first flower on the seventh leaf swayed gently, the dawn a fraction brighter than the night before. It sensed the fear rising in the hearts of countless sword cultivators around it—not the fear of being devoured, but the fear of seeing. The first flower awaited its second bloom, not for any one specific person, but for all those willing to acknowledge their fear. When enough people simultaneously saw their fear, the first flower would bloom a second time.

The old orange cat and the gray cat crouched side by side at Lin Yan's feet, their six and a half legs tucked under their bellies, their tails swaying slowly in unison. They sensed the convergence of countless wisps of heat above the sword-leaf forest—like countless tiny lamps, each shining its own light, not merging, yet able to see each other. The two cats simultaneously pricked up their ears, then lowered them again. This was what they had been waiting for.

Su Muyun held his Qingfeng sword across his lap, its post-rain azure blade reflecting countless fears rising in the morning light. His own fear surfaced as well—the fear that those sheltered at the Rain Hut would have nowhere else to go. This fear had been with him since he built his first wooden hut outside the Iron Gate Pass. Now, touched gently by the fears of countless others, he discovered that fear needed no words, only mutual recognition. The post-rain azure of his Qingfeng sword rippled slightly. The rain hadn't fallen yet, but the blade appeared even more lustrous.

Seven days later, the Spirit Mountain Trial begins. The condition for entering the trial is that there is fear deep within one's sword heart. Countless sword cultivators at the edge of the Sword Leaf Forest fell silent simultaneously. They had practiced swordsmanship for decades, and only today did they realize that the fear suppressed deep within their sword hearts for so many years was not an obstacle, but a key. Lin Yan gripped his bamboo sword, the deep golden tassel swaying gently in the morning breeze. The demonic energy bead glowed faintly at the tip of the tassel. The first flower on the seventh leaf was about to bloom. The second bloom was fast approaching.

In the direction of the circular valley, the white pillar of light on the altar was almost transparent in the morning light. The heart of the mad thought ceased beating completely within the pillar of light; the dark red glow faded, and the warmth at its core was gently cradled by the pillar, as if held by an extremely light and steady hand. It was no longer mad; it was simply asleep. Until one day, someone's fear might gently touch its warmth. Perhaps then it would awaken. Not awakened in madness, but awakened in warmth.

Outside the Sword Leaf Forest, the dark red canopies of the Bloodwood Forest surged like a sea in the autumn wind. The Spirit Mountain Assembly would be held in seven days.