"Don't stop! Use your intent as a sword to channel and guide your breath."
Having unleashed that strike, An Jing found his breathing labored. Watching with clear appreciation, the Sword Spirit promptly offered guidance. "You ingested a massive amount of demon meat and built up a profound accumulation. The moment you broke through, you reached the realm of Inner Breath Like River—yet for that very reason, the backlash is all the more fierce!
"Guide your breath and return it to your dantian!"
An Jing drew a deep breath. The instant he slashed out that blade of baleful blood, he had sensed a thick, pure warm current surging within him. That mellow energy came from an unknown source, rushing like a torrential river—it was unquestionably his Innate Primordial Qi!
His heart gave a violent thud, far louder and more resounding than ever before, booming like the thunder god beating his war drum, shaking heaven and earth alike.
In that single instant, this rich and warm current became Inner Breath that he could master. Yet after executing that sword strike, An Jing lost the mental focus required to govern it entirely. For a moment, the Inner Breath scattered, threatening to disperse back into every corner of his body.
Fortunately, the Sword Spirit was there. Following its instructions, An Jing breathed deeply. Across his arms and chest, large beads of sweat continually welled up, carrying an exotic fragrance.
This was the medicinal potency accumulated within his flesh and blood from consuming beast meat and Unfeeling Water over such a long time. These energies had interfered with and dulled An Jing's senses, subtly reshaping his body and mind.
But that would happen no longer.
At this moment, a sword-hot sensation of qi roamed within An Jing's body. It felt as if he had swallowed a mouthful of scalding molten iron, burning a path through his flesh. Wherever it scorched, sweat poured forth, expelling the harmful medicinal residues from his body.
This was An Jing's Innate Primordial Qi—his Inner Breath.
This strand of qi was blisteringly hot and exceptionally difficult to control. Just as an ordinary person could scarcely command the peristalsis of their bowels or the churning of their internal organs, even steering it proved arduous.
Yet a martial artist could direct its movement through practicing sword forms, channeling it to reinforce specific parts of their body—simple, swift, and exhilarating.
Through repeated expenditure and mobilization, repeated nourishment and training, one could bolster their Inner Breath and strengthen their mastery over it.
This was also the origin of the saying, *scholarship is for the poor, but martial arts are for the rich.* Once one truly stepped into the realm of a martial artist, the daily physical stamina and Blood Qi consumed by honing the Inner Breath was staggering, requiring replenishment through vast quantities of food or medicinal pills.
However, prominent sects possessed specialized contemplation methods. Through contemplation, they could guide the circulation of Inner Breath, cultivating a profound reserve with minimal expenditure of Blood Qi.
Tranquil Sword Contemplation was precisely such a method. Under the guidance of the rusted sword within the visualization, the excessively feverish Blood Qi and Inner Breath gradually became refined and controllable as the rust was ground away... As long as he persevered in this cultivation, not only would his Inner Breath grow, but An Jing's soul would also undergo immense improvement!
It truly lived up to the Sword Spirit's claim of being the foundation of all methods!
"Time to head back."
Having calmed his Inner Breath, An Jing gathered it all back into his dantian, circulated it through his body along the heavenly circuit, and returned it to his dantian once more, completing the cycle.
An Jing's eyes were bright. The light within them slowly receded, and with it, the baleful blood sword qi in his hand was drawn back into his body.
He had no idea where this blade of baleful blood had originated, yet he could wield it at will, nimble and unconstrained. It merely consumed a great deal of Blood Qi, draining his physical stamina.
Such matters could be asked of the Sword Spirit later. For now, assuming time flowed at the same rate in both realms, An Jing estimated that it was already close to dawn. He had to return to the dormitory immediately.
Even so, An Jing did not forget what was most important.
First, he ran Tranquil Sword Contemplation to soothe and disguise his Inner Breath, whereupon the Sword Spirit stirred slightly to conceal it completely.
Then, gathering the two large-caliber handguns, the spiritual light handgun, and the magazines he had scavenged, An Jing summoned the rusted sword.
Guided by the Sword Spirit, he made another slash into empty space, cleaving open a rift, and returned to Huaixu.
Inside the ruins.
Some time after An Jing's departure.
A faint rustling whispered through the air. Countless shadows converged into a pitch-black silhouette that drifted soundlessly to the spot where An Jing had stood.
It lingered before the sword mark An Jing had left, inspecting it for a long while. Looking left and right with palpable wariness, it silently dissolved, retreating back into the shadows.
In the Huaixu Realm.
Suspended Fate Manor.
The torrential downpour continued, lanterns flickering in the wind, though the patrolling instructors were nowhere to be seen.
An Jing stepped out of the hidden chamber, reined in his presence, and dashed toward the main estate with swift, measured strides.
Using the pouring rain, he washed away the medicinal vapors expelled from his body. As he passed those water vats, An Jing paused for a brief moment.
Then, his resolve set, An Jing turned his head and continued toward the main estate.
He would not forget.
Back in his dormitory, everyone was sleeping soundly. No instructor stood watch, because the one assigned to oversee the quarters was An Jing himself.
Manor Lord Yao would not keep him under constant surveillance. So long as the patrolling instructors did not catch An Jing, and he could still lead the squad in practice the next day, it would count as a perfect score.
As for what method An Jing used to evade the instructors' rounds, that was his own capability; Manor Lord Yao would not care.
He wrung his soaked clothes dry with ease, changed back into his original attire, and concealed the firearms.
An Jing closed his eyes and drifted into slumber.
Amidst the silent darkness,
An Jing dreamed of a sword.
It was a longsword of archaic design. Its guard possessed a profound, mysterious aura, seamlessly meeting the blade like a pool of chilling spring water beneath the moonlight.
Three fingers wide and four feet long, its near-transparent, silvery-white blade subtly reflected rolling azure cloud patterns in the light.
A solemn, cold aura had been tempered from pure, unadulterated killing intent, and an indescribable desolation seeped slowly from the blade's edge.
Staring at the cutting edge, even in the blistering heat of midsummer, one would feel as though stranded upon a frozen river in the far north.
And it was held in a hand—pale and slender, yet full of strength.
With distinct knuckles, that long, jade-like hand tightly gripped the hilt, and a solitary figure stood high above the heavens,
Looking down upon a cruel and fallen world.
Upon the earth, layer upon layer of towering pavilions crowded together, and cities across thousands of li burned in flames. At the crest of the firmament, countless cloud-cities plummeted from the sky, while grottos hung suspended like stars.
Hundreds of kingdoms waged war and slaughtered one another. Blood spilled like an ocean washing over high mountains, and white bones covered the wild plains. An emperor of boundless decadence sat within a capital atop the celestial pillar, where countless slaves and servants prostrated themselves on the ground. Splendid pleasure gardens were filled with men and women entangled like worms, the savory tang of blood drifted from pools of wine and forests of meat, and black smoke from the bronze roasting pillars billowed straight to the pinnacle of heaven.
And atop that celestial pillar, beyond the cloud-cities and the many grottos, pairs of eyes looked down upon the turbulent world. Their gaze held neither indifference nor delight, neither pity nor malice.
They merely watched, waiting for a seed to emerge from such mountains of corpses, seas of blood, and forests of carnal desire to become one of their own.
Yet they did not await a true demon seed that had walked out of endless suffering and despair to achieve enlightenment.
They awaited a sword.
At first, it was merely a star twinkling at the edge of the horizon. Then it expanded rapidly—growing larger than every cloud-city floating in the heavens, growing large enough to cleave open the entire sky. A towering divine sword broke through the clouds from the crest of the firmament, sundering the sky and splitting the entire world in two.
The moment he clearly saw the blade, An Jing felt as though he had been struck by it—yet it did not strike.
Because it was already broken.
Severed from its very base.
It was merely an echo from long-forgotten ages, a lingering silhouette from an ancient, distant past.
"Fuxie."
In the end, the youth heard only that cold, crisp voice whispering gently beside his ear:
"Unsheathe."
*Clang—*
An Jing awoke to the ringing of a blade.
Chapter 27