After a thousand years of cultivation, he returns at the pinnacle!

Master.

When Jiang Chen uttered that title, the entire void fell silent.

The distorted, screaming faces suspended in the mist fell silent in an instant, as if stunned by some higher power. The purplish-black soul shrieks still swirled in the air, but they no longer shrieked or howled; they simply hovered there quietly, like thousands of silent eyes watching the master and disciple who had been separated for a thousand years and were now looking at each other again in the void.

A middle-aged man stood in the void, the hem of his blue robe fluttering gently in the still air. His face was exactly the same as it had been a thousand years ago—lean, sharp, with a faint vertical line between his brows, a mark left by years of furrowed brows in thought. His temples were already gray, but his eyes remained as gentle and warm as jade, as if a thousand years of wind and frost had left no trace on them.

He looked at Jiang Chen, his gaze moving down from Jiang Chen's face to the dark blue school uniform, pausing for a moment at the collar of the white shirt, before settling on Jiang Chen's right hand. That hand was being pulled out of the school uniform pocket, the fingertips slightly bent, as if wanting to grasp something, yet unsure of what to grasp.

"Do you still have your sword?"

He asked again. His voice remained calm and gentle, like it had been a thousand years ago in the bamboo forest behind the Qingyun Sect, when he sat on a stone bench, brewing tea and asking a disciple who had just finished practicing his sword: "Is your sword still there?"

Back then, Jiang Chen would always raise the iron sword with a grin and say, "Here! Master, look, I cut another bamboo with it today!" He would take the sword, lightly flick the blade with his fingers, listen to the clear, melodious sound of the sword, and then nod and say, "Hmm, you didn't slack off."

The iron sword from a thousand years ago had long since shattered into pieces on the scales of the ancient dragon-elephant.

Later, he changed many swords. During his Foundation Establishment stage, he used a standard longsword issued by the Qingyun Sect, its blade so blunt it couldn't even cut through the hide of a demonic beast. During his Golden Core stage, he used a heavy, dark sword seized from his enemies; that sword had drunk the blood of countless people, its blade forever shrouded in an inescapable stench. During his Nascent Soul stage, he used the Azure Frost Sword left to him by his master, his master's natal flying sword. After his master's death, he carried that sword on his back for three hundred years, until it was cleaved in two by heavenly lightning during his tribulation. After reaching the Deity Transformation stage, he no longer used a sword. Because he himself was the sword. His fingers, his palms, his gaze, his breath, his every thought—all were swords.

But at this moment, when his master stood in front of him and asked him if his sword was still there, he suddenly didn't know how to answer.

His sword was still there. The golden sword shadow hovered deep within his dantian, ready to coalesce at his fingertips at any moment, cleaving stars and splitting the void. But his sword was gone too. That iron sword, the one his master had held in his hand, corrected the angle of his wrist, and told him that a sword is not for brute force, but for the heart, had long since become rusted marks in the ruins a thousand years ago.

"Here." Jiang Chen finally spoke. His voice was soft, but every word seemed to be supported by a rock, landing steadily in the void.

The master looked at him and remained silent for a moment. Then he smiled.

The smile was faint, so faint that it was almost invisible. But Jiang Chen saw it, because it was the most familiar curve in his thousand-year memory—the corners of the mouth only turned up slightly, the left side of the curve slightly higher than the right, as if he was not used to smiling, but he just couldn't help it.

"That's good," Master said.

He raised his right hand. It was long and thin, with distinct knuckles, the palm and fingertips covered in calluses from years of wielding a sword. Those calluses were already thick a thousand years ago, so thick that Jiang Chen, as a child, always felt his master's hands were the hardest, harder than iron, harder than stone. But those hands were also the warmest. They had once held his hand, teaching him to write the character for "sword" stroke by stroke; they had gently pressed it against his forehead after he was bitten by a demonic beast, healing him with their true energy; they had patted his shoulder after his failed breakthrough, saying, "It's alright, try again next time."

Now, that hand is raised and extended towards him.

"Achen, come here."

He took a step.

The void beneath his feet made no sound, yet he felt his steps were unusually heavy. Each step felt like stepping on a thousand years of memories, on the bamboo path behind the Qingyun Sect that he had trod countless times, on the threshold of the small courtyard where he had lived for many years, and on the soil in front of his master's grave that was soaked with his tears.

He walked up to his master.

His master was half a head shorter than him. It was the same a thousand years ago—he grew from a sixteen-year-old boy into a young man in his twenties, taller than his master, but every time he stood in front of his master, he still felt shorter.

The master raised his calloused hand and gently placed it on Jiang Chen's head.

The touch was exactly the same as it had a thousand years ago—the palms were slightly cool, the fingertips were warm, and the hardness of the calluses could be felt even through the hair. Master's hands were very light, as light as a bamboo leaf falling on his head, yet very heavy, as heavy as if the entire weight of Mount Qingyun was pressing down on him.

"You've grown taller," Master said.

Jiang Chen's lips twitched slightly. He wanted to say, "Master, you haven't changed at all." He wanted to say that he had searched for you for three hundred years, from the ruins of the Qingyun Sect to the abyss of the ancient battlefield, from the cracks in the Heavenly Dao to the end of time and space, but he still couldn't find you. He wanted to say that he killed the demon god who possessed your body, using the sword techniques you taught me. He wanted to say that he carried the Qing Shuang Sword on his back for three hundred years, until it was struck by heavenly lightning. He wanted to say that he cultivated to become an Immortal Emperor, standing above the nine heavens, but every time he closed his eyes, he still saw your back as you turned away for the last time.

But he didn't say anything.

He simply stood there, head bowed, letting his master's hand rest on the top of his head, like a lone wolf that had walked for a thousand years and finally returned to its starting point, silently crouching down in front of the original bonfire.

"Master," he called out again. His voice was softer and hoarser than the first time, as if those two words had been stuck in his throat for a thousand years, and he had finally allowed himself to say them.

"Yes," Master responded. "I'm here."

"It's been a thousand years since we last met, and your disciple has missed you."

Master's hand paused on his head for a moment, then gently ruffled his hair. The gesture was exactly the same as it had been a thousand years ago—every time Jiang Chen practiced swordsmanship until he was exhausted and collapsed in the bamboo forest, unable to get up, Master would ruffle his hair like this, then pull him up from the ground and say that he should rest for a while if he was tired, and continue practicing when he was rested enough.

Jiang Chen closed his eyes.

Jiang Chen had thought that after a thousand years, many feelings had faded away, and after cultivating immortality for a thousand years and becoming invincible in the world, he only felt bored with things outside the world.

But... I never expected to see my master again in my lifetime.

Morgana...should I thank you?

Jiang Chen thought about it casually, but it didn't seem to affect the final outcome.