nyslfriends Chapter 16 Sword Monument
Chapter 16 Sword Monument
After the morning lessons, Ling Chen did not go to the dining hall with the other disciples.
Clutching the nameless sword manual, he traversed the suspended walkway alone, returning to his small courtyard halfway up the main peak. Pushing open the gate, a sea of clouds rushed in, the morning light painting the rolling clouds a golden-red. He sat down on a stone bench in the courtyard and opened the first page of the sword manual.
The title page contains only one line of text, the ink faded and the brushstrokes restrained—
"The sword is the blade of the heart."
Unsigned. Ling Chen's fingertips lightly traced the lines of text. The moment the raised ink touched his skin, the Myriad Dao Returning to Nothingness Diagram in his dantian trembled slightly. The owner of these words had poured immense weight into them, condensing his life's sword intent into these six characters. Three thousand years later, a descendant who encountered this sword intent naturally resonated with the chaotic spiritual energy within his body.
"Master Mo, what is the essence of swordsmanship?"
"There are three types of sword users." Old Mo's voice became unusually serious. "The first type of person treats the sword as a tool. As long as the sword is sharp and can kill, and is easy to use, that's enough. No matter how talented this type of person is, they will only ever be a swordsmith in their lifetime."
"The second type of person treats the sword as a friend. The sword has a spirit, and when the person and the sword become one, they can unleash power far beyond their own level. Most of the elders of the Qingyun Sect throughout the ages have reached this level, and they can be considered powerful figures in their own right."
"The third type of person—those who treat the sword as themselves. The sword is no longer an external object, but a part of the Dao. The reason you were able to command all Daos in your past life was because you comprehended the realm that everything can be a sword. It's not you wielding the knife, but the knife speaking for you."
Ling Chen seemed to understand, but not quite. He looked down at the Broken Army Knife on his lap, its blade reflecting his face. He couldn't quite describe the feeling—when he gripped the knife, the hilt didn't feel like cold metal, but rather like a pulse.
"You were a master of swordsmanship in your past life, where swords and sabers shared the same origin, and sword intent was something etched into your soul." Old Mo changed the subject. "So when that old fellow Jian Xuan said your saber technique contained sword intent, he wasn't lying. But the past is the past, and in this life you'll need to rebuild your foundation from scratch. This sword manual is a good thing; study it carefully."
Ling Chen turned to the second page of the sword manual. This page contained a "Reflections on Sword Enlightenment," written in hasty handwriting, clearly jotted down hastily during a state of sudden enlightenment. The gist was—
"Sword intent cannot be created by thinking. The harder you try to think about it, the further you stray from it. Let go of your obsessions and let the sword speak for itself."
Let go of your obsession. Ling Chen repeatedly pondered these words. Since leaving the Ling family, every step he took had been a desperate struggle—a desperate attempt to hide his secrets, a desperate fight, a desperate effort to become stronger. He constantly felt exhausted, yet dared not stop. The Demon Lord lurked in the shadows, watching him intently; Su Qingyuan could shield him for a time, but not forever. This sense of urgency drove him to constantly push himself—faster, stronger.
"Elder Mo, I'd like to sit by the Sword Stele for a while."
The Sword Stele Square was exceptionally tranquil in the afternoon sun. A massive sword-shaped stone stele stood before the Hall of Skill Transmission, the character "sword" on its surface gleaming faintly blue in the sunlight. A dozen or so disciples sat scattered across the square, each with their eyes closed in meditation. Some were sweating profusely, some looked anxious, and some had calm, serene expressions.
Ling Chen found a secluded corner, sat cross-legged, placed the Broken Army Blade across his lap, and looked up at the character "sword." At first glance, just like last time—the character was alive; it breathed, it pulsed, and the sharpness locked within the brushstrokes still sought an outlet. He no longer used his Eye of Truth to analyze the flow of spiritual energy; he simply sat quietly, watching the clouds drift and the mountain mist gather and disperse. An incense stick's time passed, an hour passed, and the disciples around him changed several times, but he remained motionless.
At a fleeting moment as the sun began its westward descent, the character for "sword" on the sword monument suddenly moved. Not physically, but the sword intent sealed within the character finally broke free. Countless fragmented images flooded Ling Chen's mind, disjointed and incomplete, yet each piece sharp as a knife—
An elderly man with white hair, whose face was obscured, stood on the edge of a cliff, holding a long sword. He thrust out a seemingly ordinary sword strike. There was no sword aura, no sword light, and even the fluctuation of spiritual energy was extremely faint. But after that sword strike, the entire sea of clouds was split in two, revealing a bottomless chasm in the middle, which could not be closed for a long time.
A middle-aged swordsman sat alone beneath a waterfall, letting the water crash against his body and the sword in his hand. He swung his sword and sheathed it again and again, repeating the same action a thousand times over. The waterfall ripped open his tiger's mouth, causing it to bleed, but he remained oblivious. Until one moment, the water parted automatically before touching the sword's edge, as if pushed away by an invisible force.
A young disciple of the Qingyun Sect stood before the sword monument, his gaze shifting from blank to clear. After he turned to leave, the character for "sword" on the monument trembled slightly, as if to say—next.
When Ling Chen opened his eyes, it was already dusk. He was the only one left in the square. He didn't know if the scenes he had just witnessed were real or hallucinations, nor did he know if it counted as "enlightenment." But he could feel that his understanding of the "sword" was subtly different from what he had when he opened the sword manual this morning.
The sword is not a weapon. The sword is an integral part of the swordsman's cultivation. The hand that wields the sword may bleed and tremble, but the sword heart will not. At the moment he finally understood this, the chaotic spiritual energy vortex in his dantian quietly solidified a bit. No breakthrough was needed; the seed of sword intent had already been planted, waiting only for the right moment to sprout.
He stood up, stretched his stiff knees, and was about to leave when he suddenly noticed a shallow palm print on the side of the sword monument. The print was small, with slender knuckles, and looked like it had been left by a woman. Ling Chen subconsciously glanced back at the empty plaza behind him; the sea of clouds churned, and there was no one in sight.
Without thinking twice, he turned and left.
-
Inner disciples have one hour of martial arts practice time every afternoon. After sitting in front of the sword monument for three hours, Ling Chen finally caught up with his first real martial arts lesson.
The instructor in charge of the martial arts demonstration was a lean, middle-aged swordsman surnamed Qin, whom the disciples called Instructor Qin. Instructor Qin spoke slowly and methodically, but his actions were ruthless. He casually selected an outer disciple and an inner disciple to spar, and the two had barely exchanged blows when he pointed out at least five weaknesses in each. The disciples who had been exposed blushed and left the arena, amidst a low chuckle from the surrounding crowd.
"Ling Chen." Instructor Qin flipped through the roster. "A newcomer?"
"Yes."
"Step forward. Your opponent—" Instructor Qin's gaze swept across the crowd, "Xiao Lie. I didn't see your fight yesterday, so we'll have to make up for it."
The training ground fell silent instantly. Although many had witnessed yesterday's fight, the scene of Ling Chen stopping his wrist with three fingers was so subtle that it sparked much speculation afterward. Some said Xiao Lie deliberately held back to test the newcomer's abilities, while others said Ling Chen used some kind of trick. Instructor Qin had clearly overheard these discussions.
Xiao Lie stepped out from the crowd, a longsword still sheathed in his right hand. Yesterday he was empty-handed, but today he finally had a sword.
"Didn't you say yesterday that I wouldn't use a knife and you wouldn't use a sword? Today I brought a sword, so you'd better bring your knife too."
Ling Chen slowly drew his Po Jun Blade. The cold silver light on the blade shimmered in the afternoon sunlight. He took a deep breath and calmly said, "Senior Brother Xiao, please."
As soon as the words were spoken, the two attacked simultaneously.
There was no probing. Xiao Lie's sword was a level faster than his fist. Before the blade even arrived, the wind from it was already there, a cold glint gleaming at the tip, aimed straight for Ling Chen's throat. Ling Chen used his Shadow Steps to dodge to the side, his blade flashing diagonally to parry the sword. The clash of sword and blade echoed throughout the training ground.
"Good!" Instructor Qin cheered. "Continue!"
Xiao Lie gave him no chance to catch his breath. His sword strikes were relentless, each one faster than the last. The Qingyun Sect's swordsmanship was renowned for its speed, accuracy, and ruthlessness, and Xiao Lie had reached an extremely high level in all three aspects. His swordsmanship wasn't fast out of thin air—each strike was aimed at the most uncomfortable defensive position of the previous one, creating a chain reaction that forced his opponent to retreat further and further.
But Ling Chen is different today.
The three hours he spent before the sword monument were not in vain. His eyes, his sword, and his intuition were all undergoing subtle changes—yesterday, when examining Xiao Lie's sword, he needed to use his Eye of Insight to detect the flow of spiritual energy to find a flaw. Today, he didn't need that. He could sense the trajectory of the sword intent, just as he could see the shape of the wind.
Having dodged the seventh sword strike, he suddenly advanced instead of retreating as the momentum of the eighth sword was about to dissipate. The Po Jun Blade cut into the gap in Xiao Lie's sword momentum at an extremely tricky angle, a very faint layer of chaotic light emanating from its blade.
Nine Heaven-Splitting Slashes - Rending Wind.
A blade of light pierced the air. Xiao Lie's pupils contracted sharply, and he parried with his sword. The sword and blade clashed, unleashing a deafening clang of metal. Xiao Lie's sword was jolted out of his hand, tumbling several times in the air before embedding itself deeply into the bluestone pavement at the edge of the training ground.
The field was deathly silent.
"This isn't the swordsmanship of our Qingyun Sect." Instructor Qin's gaze fell on Ling Chen's blade. "The blade's intent contains the sword's intent, and the sword's intent is wrapped in the blade's power. It has resilience within strength, and sharpness within resilience—"
He paused, then turned to Xiao Lie: "Did you see clearly from which angle his eighth move came in?"
Xiao Lie looked down at his still numb hand, remained silent for a moment, then suddenly laughed: "I didn't see it clearly. But I want to see it again."
There was no resentment in his voice when he said this; on the contrary, he seemed unusually excited. Instructor Qin waved his hand: "If you want to fight again, wait until tomorrow. Ling Chen, you stay behind."
After the other disciples dispersed, Instructor Qin walked up to Ling Chen, his tone becoming more serious.
"Your swordsmanship isn't from the Qingyun Sect's system. But the sword intent hidden within your swordsmanship bears some resemblance to that of the Qingyun Sect's founding patriarch. Elder Jianxuan has already spoken to me, so I'll turn a blind eye to this. But in front of outsiders, especially other elders, try not to reveal martial arts techniques that aren't from our sect's system. Sects value lineage and tradition; techniques of unknown origin can easily cause trouble."
"Disciple understands."
"Go."
When Ling Chen returned to the courtyard, it was nearly dusk. He sat down on the stone bench, his hand holding the knife trembling slightly. Not out of fear, but out of excitement. He had finally begun to touch the threshold of sword intent, though it was still just a vague outline, the door had already been pushed open a crack.
Elder Mo's voice rang out leisurely: "The meaning of the word 'sword' on the sword monument varies among the disciples of the Qingyun Sect throughout the ages. But in the past three thousand years, no more than one person has been able to resonate with the sword intent of the founding patriarch within the monument."
"Is my senior praising me?"
"I'm warning you. That old bastard Jian Xuan probably already knows that you triggered the resonance of the sword monument. This talent is a very dangerous thing in the Qingyun Sect—those who protect you will risk their lives to protect you, and those who fear you will do anything to destroy you."
Ling Chen gripped the hilt of the knife tightly and remained silent for a long time.
"I see."
Outside the window, the sea of clouds surged, and twilight washed over the mountains like a tide. In the distance, the lights on the suspended walkway lit up one after another, flickering like stars amidst the rolling clouds. He sat in the gradually darkening twilight, turned to the third page of the nameless sword manual, and continued reading by the last ray of daylight.
The days ahead for the Qingyun Sect are long. But the time left for him is dwindling.