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"Sword-path Blessed Land?"

Many years later, Murong Zhou would occasionally recall the scene of his first encounter with that person.

"Yes! Senior Brother Chen went to train in the secret realm and brought back a piece of sword-path blessed land. He said that both inner and outer sect disciples could go in to cultivate!"

The chattering junior sister was babbling a particularly unfamiliar name today.

"Senior Brother Chen?"

"Senior Brother, have you forgotten? He’s the one who was accepted by the Sect Master as the head disciple a few years ago! He’s been in the inner sect all along, maybe this time we’ll have a chance to meet him!"

A mere child who had only entered the sect a few years ago had instead become their senior brother. How laughable.

"He just relies on having high talent."

Twelve sword path spiritual roots—if he had them, he would surely be stronger than that person.

The junior sister chuckled and said, "Senior Brother, you’re the most diligent among us. You’ll definitely enter the inner sect in the future!"

That little kid, only in his teens, truly had good luck. Upon first entering the secret realm, he obtained a small blessed land: a waterfall cascaded from the sky into a deep pool, every wisp of mist imbued with sword-path essence.

Murong Zhou could tell at a glance that the sword-path essence was most concentrated beneath the waterfall. Yet, the inner sect disciples who had arrived before him were all cultivating only near the pool—not a single one approached the waterfall. So, he steered his sword straight in.

In the next second, he understood why no one came here.

A single drop of water hitting his body felt like a sharp sword piercing through his chest. Countless droplets splashed beneath the waterfall—an agony worse than being pierced by ten thousand arrows or being slowly sliced by blunt knives.

Moreover, this pain did not lessen over time; it doubled with each passing second.

Murong Zhou endured for three breaths, nearly writhing on the ground in pain, and hurriedly retreated, collapsing to the ground.

The surrounding inner sect disciples didn’t even glance at him, clearly long accustomed to such scenes. Yet, his face burned with shame for no reason. Gritting his teeth, he sat cross-legged right where he was, closing his eyes to meditate.

Afterward, whenever other disciples attempted to cultivate beneath the waterfall, they all displayed unbearable agony and had no choice but to select nearby areas abundant with mist.

Only a few inner sect disciples gradually moved closer to the pool to meditate. Later, Murong Zhou became one of them.

He arrived before dawn and almost always left last. After several consecutive days, even the guardian of the blessed land praised his diligence.

Deep down, he paid it no mind. Those inner sect disciples were not as hardworking as he was, and that so-called sect master’s head disciple had never once come here to cultivate—a clear sign of how lazy he was.

It wasn’t until he received a sect mission that required him to travel far. Before leaving, still unwilling to give up, he asked his master for a Water-Avoiding Pearl.

The waterfall rushed violently, churning up clouds of sea mist, making it nearly impossible to see the bottom of the falls from outside the pool. Using the Water-Avoiding Pearl to shield himself from the mist, he also blocked the sword-path essence, allowing him to step by step enter the bottom of the waterfall.

Originally, Murong Zhou hesitated about whether to put away the Water-Avoiding Pearl here. But when he truly stood in this place, it felt as if ice-cold water had drenched him, chilling him to the bone.

He saw a youth dressed in white, his black hair completely soaked, sitting silently at the bottom of the waterfall, allowing the thousand-zhang torrent to wash over his body. It was impossible to tell how long he had been cultivating.

The youth sat with his eyes closed. The mist moistened his elegant and refined brows and eyes, making him resemble a jade-carved immortal. A teardrop mole rested at the corner of his eye, like an ink stain spreading on a sheet of xuan paper.

At that moment, Murong Zhou could hardly breathe.

When he finally regained his senses, a pair of ink-black, glass-like eyes were quietly watching him through the mist.

Murong Zhou abruptly took a step back, only to see the youth suddenly smile, his eyes—adorned with a teardrop mole—gently blinking.

He said, "Are you my senior brother?"

A cold wind swept through the gloomy valley. As Murong Zhou inhaled the scent of the bloodstained robe sleeve, his mind remained fixed on that white-clad youth with drenched black hair beneath the waterfall, from many years ago.

"Senior Brother! Are you alright?"

"Still okay, thanks to your teleportation treasure, Junior Brother... That man is truly despicable! To strike so ruthlessly!"

The curses abruptly ceased as Xie Feng, horrified, realized a white-clad sword cultivator had appeared before them.

The immortal from the upper prefecture cast them a sidelong, icy glance and tossed out a question, "What happened here?"

Xie Feng immediately launched into an embellished account of the events in the cave, thinking the immortal would stand up for him and laying on the flattery thick. Noticing a bloodstained scrap of cloth tied to the hilt of the immortal's sword, he instinctively retrieved a jade pendant adorned with a silken knot from his storage pouch.

"Immortal, your sword tassel is soiled. I happen to have this high-grade jade pendant..."

As he spoke, he respectfully reached out, his fingertips brushing against the tattered sleeve.

In the next moment, a chill touched the center of his forehead, an icy coldness pouring from head to toe, freezing his pupils in place.

It was a strand of sword intent.

"Vermin of the lower prefecture, how dare you touch what is mine."

Junior Brother Xie Feng seemed struck by lightning, standing frozen in place until a few seconds later when he staggered to his knees, clutching Xie Feng's now lifeless body.

A mere insect—what did it matter if it was wiped out.

—Before pointing his sword at that Foundation Establishment talisman cultivator deep in the secret realm, Murong Zhou had always thought this way.

Opposite him, that insignificant Foundation Establishment talisman cultivator actually let out a soft laugh. Just that one smile caused Murong Zhou to feel a momentary daze.

Similar... yet not.

Murong Zhou's expression darkened abruptly, "How dare you imitate him!"

[He's jabbering some unpleasant nonsense.]

Cang Shun stared at the blood-stained robe sleeve fluttering in the wind on Murong Zhou's sword hilt, his eyes like pools of icy water. He took a step forward, faint flashes of thunderlight flickering beneath his feet.

Chen Moqing, "You don't need to intervene."

Cang Shun turned his head: [What if I find him irritating and insist on intervening?]

Chen Moqing calmly met those demonic eyes, "Then I won't speak to you anymore."

[......]

The beautiful demonic beast, its fur gleaming with a silvery frost-like sheen, wordlessly lay down by the stone wall.

Two seconds later, it even let out a disdainful "hmph".

Benzun was not threatened at all.

Chen Moqing casually waved a hand. Countless runes drew upon specks of starlight, forming a sealed barrier.

Murong Zhou allowed that barrier to completely isolate their position from the outside world, merely sneering, "Spinning a cocoon around yourself."

Originally, he truly intended to spare this insignificant talisman cultivator's life. But now, he wanted him dead.

Chen Moqing gently spread his slender fingers, "Come."

In the depths of the pitch-black cave, a flash of cold light tore through the gloom, descending like a long, falling star.

Nascent Soul sword intent!

A frost-white long sword hovered steadily in the palm of the black-clothed cultivator. An extremely sharp sword gleam rolled along the blade's edge, condensing at the tip. The thin, ice-like blade reflected a pair of clear, calm eyes and brows.

Witnessing this scene, Murong Zhou's expression suddenly changed.

"Who are you... Who exactly are you!"

"Flustered before battle, is this your Sword Heart?" After many days, Chen Moqing once again raised his sword, its tip pointing distantly at his former friend and sect brother, "Come."

Murong Zhou abruptly retreated.

"Senior Brother, may I ask you for guidance in swordsmanship?"

That day, for the first time, he gathered his courage and stepped forward to call out to that person.

There were faint snickers around him—those inner sect disciples laughing at him, an outer sect disciple, for such wishful thinking. Just as his face burned with shame, he saw that person pause mid-step, descending gracefully from the clouds, his sleeves fluttering like crane feathers skimming through mist.

Black hair brushed by the wind revealed a pair of elegant, peerless brows and eyes.

"Come."

"...Impossible, absolutely impossible!"

Murong Zhou's sword-holding hand trembled slightly. He looked down, his constricted pupils reflecting that bloodstained robe sleeve, the crane feather and cloud patterns upon it seeming ready to take flight.

"Vermin daring to disturb my Dao-heart—die!"

Countless sword blades flew forth together, their momentum grand and dazzlingly splendid.

Cang Shun yawned boredly, resting his head atop his crossed paws.

After all these years, these sword cultivators still favored flashy, flamboyant, and impractical sword techniques. How laughable.

He lazily shifted his gaze.

The young talisman cultivator's hair ends fluttered as he stood holding his sword, wielding but a single blade. Its light resembled the frosty moon ascending at the onset of a long night.

This was still better looking.

Murong Zhou's thousands of sword blades descended like falling meteors, spreading an inescapable net. Chen Moqing remained unmoved, thrusting forth a single sword.

The sword light was clear and cold, space seeming like a sheet of xuan paper split open by an icy blade, tearing a frost-colored fissure from top to bottom!

One sword to break ten thousand techniques!

Countless sword blades instantly shattered. Murong Zhou's figure was thrown back violently, crashing into the stone wall and vomiting a mouthful of blood.

How could this be?!

Even if it was the sword intent of a mid-Nascent Soul cultivator, without the true person present, its power was inevitably greatly diminished—how could he be no match!

Fingers bulging with veins dug into the stone wall, forcibly tearing off a chunk of rock. Murong Zhou wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, raised his sword before him, and slowly drew his fingertip along the blade.

The blade multiplied into thousands, then tens of thousands. As far as the eye could see, it was a sea of sharp blades, slicing every inch of space.

This was his renowned, signature technique, named 'Vast Sea and Surging Tide'. One day, it would surpass that person's 'Myriad Phenomena of the Heavens Array'!

Murong Zhou pointed his sword toward the sky, his voice piercing through the sea of blades, firm and resolute, "To last until this move, you can be considered to have died a worthy death. Remember, the one who kills you is Tianshu's Murong Zhou!"

Chen Moqing heard abrupt laughter ringing beside his ear—laughter utterly without restraint. Speechless, he turned his head and met the teasing gaze of a certain Demon Emperor.

[This is the kind of person in your sect? Could it be you used to also... Hahahaha!]

Chen Moqing, "No more dried fish."

The laughter abruptly ceased, as if it had never happened.

A certain Demon Emperor sat silently in place, leisurely swishing his tail.

The sea of blades had already cascaded before him. Chen Moqing neither dodged nor evaded, simply swung his sword down.

The sword light fell; ten thousand swords perished!

Murong Zhou's divine sense was severely shaken, suffering heavy damage. Gouts of blood poured uncontrollably from his mouth. Amid the churning chaos of his spiritual sea, only one clear, calm, and detached voice remained:

"Only form, without intent. Your sword path has shown no progress."

His palm was sticky, the long sword nearly slipping from his grasp. Murong Zhou paid no mind to those words, hearing only his own heart pounding like a drum.

That sword intent... in that person's hands, it could actually unleash ten out of ten of its power! As if he were the true master of the sword intent!

No, no... How could he be pushed to this point by a mere Foundation Establishment cultivator?!

He suddenly lifted a twisted, furious face, "You're merely relying on Nascent Soul sword intent! Without it, you are nothing!"

Compared to his roar, Chen Moqing's voice was like frost sinking into a pond, pure and undisturbed, "Did your sect not teach you that in a life-or-death battle, you must use every asset you can rely on?"

"For example, this moment, this place."

The long sword left his hand, hovering by his side. Slender fingers drew another talisman.

The essence of talisman-path, imposed upon himself! At this moment, within the secret realm, heaven and earth combined their strength!

Thunder descended from the sky, mighty and awe-inspiring!

Fierce, blazing thunder rent the heavens and earth, tearing through his vision, transforming into a vast sea of lightning that overwhelmed all living beings across realms.

Murong Zhou's pupils trembled. The sect's lanterns from that night were also as dazzling and searing as this sky full of thunderlight.

"When he returns, lead him into the mountain gate. At that time, the sect's grand formation will activate. You may also wound him in advance to diminish his combat power."

"...Elder?"

"Upon success, you will be recorded in the inner sect disciple evaluation."

"I will follow the sect's decree!"

"You cannot kill me! If I die, the sect's soul lamp will shatter, and my sect will never let you go! Across the Nine Thousand Prefectures, there will be no place for you to hide! You will be ground to dust by my sect!"

A soft laugh from Chen Moqing instantly drained the color from Murong Zhou's face, "Do you think this barrier is for what purpose?"

He had perused countless runes at the Qianxuan Pavilion and received guidance from Senior Xing Yun, finally obtaining a talisman that could isolate heaven and earth and conceal life force. Death within this barrier was like plankton sinking into the vast sea—leaving no trace or evidence.

A lonely death that would not transmit back to the sect's soul lamp.

Murong Zhou turned and fled, unleashing the fastest speed of his life.

Fear pressed upon his heart, heavy gasps piling one upon another. The blade demanding his life hung above his neck, forcing every hair to stand on end, his limbs icy and numb.

Without warning, he suddenly remembered a day several years ago—

He was surrounded by demons, facing a dead end, able only to flee like a headless fly, yet never escaping into the gate of life—until a fierce sword light descended from beyond the heavens.

Someone, with but a single sword, tore open a gap through the demons, standing lightly before him. Amid the blood curtain surrounded by demons, his figure was sharp and upright, his robes billowing proudly. The hem of his robe was embroidered with layered crane feather and flowing patterns, resembling a pure and solitary white crane spreading its wings.

Back then, he had cried:

"Senior Brother, save me!!!"

A sword pierced through the heart, the frozen pupils still filled with despair that had not yet faded.

Early Nascent Soul stage, slain!

...

The remains were annihilated by the lightning, leaving no trace of bones. Even the storage pouch was destroyed along with it, all evidence completely erased.

Cang Shun fiddled with the tattered, blood-stained sleeve, observing the young sword cultivator standing quietly in place, neither sorrowful nor joyful, his eyes like deep, dark pools, not a single ray of light visible within.

The frost-white long sword transformed into a small blade between his fingers and swiftly flew away.

This was merely a strand of sword intent, condensed into the form of a sword—not a true sword.

Even if he could hold a sword now, he still could not use it to face enemies.

A slender tail wound around from behind, lightly brushing his wrist. Chen Moqing turned, his expression normal, and reached out toward Cang Shun, who strode up before him.

Cang Shun tilted his head.

[What is it?]

Chen Moqing directly, bit by bit by bit, pulled out his own robe sleeve from between Cang Shun's claws and casually incinerated it.

Cang Shun: "......"

A certain Demon Emperor once again began silently nudging him with his furry head, very casually eyeing his loosely hanging sleeve, occasionally reaching out a paw to pat and tug at it.

Chen Moqing stroked the furry head that had pressed against his chest, "Let's go."

A moment later.

In the deathly silent cave, a semi-transparent spirit struggled to climb to its feet.

Murong Zhou's face twisted grotesquely, forcing out a cold sneer.

As expected of a lower prefecture insect, ignorant that a Nascent Soul cultivator has already transcended the physical body. Even if the body perishes, as long as the soul remains, they can still be reborn!

Back then, that Chen Moqing had his soul extinguished by the Sect Master's four swords—no trace of that person remained between heaven and earth—but now, he could start over from the beginning!

The transparent spirit frantically charged outward. As long as he got out, he would send word to his sect!

May they all die! Vanish into nothingness with that person, never entering reincarnation!

Murong Zhou let out a silent, vicious laugh, his lips not yet fully stretching into their widest grin when they suddenly froze.

Before him, a pair of pitch-black, placid eyes lit up in the dim cave, quietly looking down upon him.

He had been waiting for a long time.

In Murong Zhou's trembling pupils, behind the young cultivator emerged the towering figure of a demonic beast, massive as a mountain range, its blazing demonic eyes burning like torches.

"...No! No!!"

The desperate cry stretched out, echoing within the dark cave, soon swallowed by true silence.

A small stone, stirred by the wind, tumbled softly out of the cave and fell into the deep chasm.

A gentle breeze passed through the gloomy valley. Chen Moqing lifted his gaze to the sky, then tilted his head slightly. Beside him, the Demon Emperor was munching away.

"Is it really that delicious?"

[It's average.]

[Not particularly fond of it either.]

Continued munching.

Chen Moqing took a step forward. The enormous demonic beast transformed back into a fluffy little furball, skillfully fluttering onto his head and nestling into the black hair that carried a faint, pleasant scent.

Chen Moqing felt this soft, fluffy little furball shifting and rubbing on top of his head, seemingly searching for a comfortable spot. He said calmly, "Don't eat up there."

The snow-white little beast looked at the half-eaten dried fish still in its paw, swallowed it in one gulp, applied a cleansing spell to become spotless, then lay down, curling up into a fluffy little cake.

Then, he heard that pleasant and composed voice, "By the way, what did you want to tell me earlier?"

When Murong Zhou appeared, this Demon Emperor seemed to have had something left unsaid.

Cang Shun: [......]

The fluffy little furball glanced left and right, nonchalantly shaking its fur.

Chen Moqing raised his hand, reached to the top of his head, and poked the soft, squishy little white sugar cake.

Two seconds passed.

The snow-white little beast nonchalantly pulled out a small cloth pouch containing osmanthus cakes.

It plunged its furry head right in.

Chen Moqing: "......?"

–

TL: Muji

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