Chapter Fifty-Four: The Manor of Famous Swords

Although he still possessed only two hundred years of inner strength, with the amplification of the Innate True Intent, he was truly no weaker than those who had cultivated a thousand years of power!

“To think that with just a single breakthrough to the Innate stage, my strength would undergo such earth-shaking transformation!” Zhou Yi smiled, both in marvel and reflection. He hadn’t expected that after four years within the sect and its secret realms, the strength painstakingly accumulated was now surpassed by the progress made in just a few days since coming out.

Of course, the two could not be compared. Without the four years of prior accumulation, this leap after the breakthrough would not have been so dramatic. Each complemented the other, cause and effect intertwined!

…

As Zhou Yi assessed the growth of his strength, outside, Song Hai stood guard, his expression grave as he watched the surroundings.

Suddenly, Song Hai’s brows furrowed, his eyes fixed ahead, face stern.

Before him lay a cluster of houses—some tall, some short, neatly arranged, with several streets threading through, connecting rooms and structures in staggered layers that hid many of the buildings from sight. Without eyes that could pierce through, one could only glimpse the foremost facades.

Song Hai’s gaze lingered not on the many houses but rather on a street out front, his grip on his blade subtly tightening.

Above the cluster of houses, under Song Hai’s scrutiny, the air began to ripple and twist, an illusory distortion akin to the wavering haze above a fire—vague and indistinct, reminiscent of what he’d seen as a child.

Could there be a fire beneath that twisted air?

A jest, of course. If there truly were a fire capable of warping such a vast expanse of air, it would be no small blaze. Even beneath the bright daylight, its flames would illuminate the heavens. But aside from the distorted air, there was no other sign.

So it could not be a fire!

Tap, tap.

The distortion above the houses slowly spread, quickly extending to within a few steps—barely three meters—from Song Hai. As it did, an orderly set of footsteps grew clearer, echoing down the street he watched, drawing nearer with each beat.

Beneath the wavering air, a man stepped forth, walking unhurriedly toward Song Hai.

A closer look revealed each of his steps was taken at precisely the same interval, covering exactly the same distance, every movement resonating with a rhythmic harmony.

“Are you Song Hai or Zhou Yi?” The newcomer stopped before Song Hai, the distortion above pausing as well. His eyes swept past Song Hai to rest briefly on the meditating Zhou Yi, then returned, fixing on Song Hai.

“Song Hai,” Song Hai replied coldly, his face expressionless.

“Then I have found the right ones!” The man seemed to breathe a sigh of relief and turned his gaze to Zhou Yi, asking in a gentle tone, “If you are Song Hai, then he must be Zhou Yi!”

“I am Qiu Yi of the Sword Manor,” the man introduced himself, straightening his robes with the air of a refined gentleman.

Song Hai said nothing, merely regarding him with icy eyes.

Qiu Yi smiled, unconcerned. Suddenly, his hand formed a sword gesture, which he brought down sharply.

Boom!

The twisting air above him transformed instantly at the gesture, thundering as a massive sword—tall as a man—manifested above Qiu Yi’s head.

Sss! Sss!

At the instant the sword appeared, countless sword auras erupted, splitting the air with a thousand cuts.

Whoosh!

With a flick of Qiu Yi’s sword finger, the blade rotated, its point aimed at Zhou Yi, and with a shrill whistle, it shot forward.

Facing this awe-inspiring strike, Song Hai’s expression did not waver; even his eyelids remained still. Only his fingers on the blade’s hilt twitched minutely.

Shing!

A flash of white blade light gleamed and vanished in an instant. Song Hai’s eyelids lowered, his hand remained on the hilt, and his face was as impassive as before, watching Qiu Yi.

Swish!

In a heartbeat, Qiu Yi’s entire body jolted, his sword-form fingers suddenly bent backward. The giant sword overhead vanished, and the distorted air smoothed out as if nothing had happened.

“Pu!” Qiu Yi could not hold back a mouthful of blood, his face blank with confusion. What had just occurred?

“What is happening?” He stared at his bent fingers, a surge of searing pain threatening to tear his heart and lungs apart.

“Ugh!” Forcing down the agony, Qiu Yi grunted, instinctively trying to channel his inner strength to examine his hand.

But the moment he willed it, his face twisted in shock. Where was his inner strength? What had happened?

Within, there was nothing—where once a vast, oceanic power had resided, now it was as dry as a barren riverbed, not a drop remaining, as desolate as a desert, without a hint of energy.

“You…” After a stunned pause, Qiu Yi suddenly understood. The pain in his body receded like a tide, but he scarcely noticed, instead staring at the impassive Song Hai, wanting to speak but unable to voice a word.

For just then, a breeze swept by, and Qiu Yi’s body dissolved into countless fine particles, scattering in the wind, vanishing without a trace.

Witnessing Qiu Yi’s sudden disintegration, Song Hai’s gaze showed not the slightest ripple. His hand remained on his blade as he continued his vigil, as if nothing had happened.

…

Far in the distance, about a kilometer away from Song Hai and Zhou Yi, a group of figures, who had been rushing forward, abruptly halted and gathered together.

At the fore stood three individuals: a man, about thirty, clad in purple robes; a woman, graceful and alluring, draped in a sheer veil, her hair adorned with a jade hairpin set with a gem the size of a dove’s egg; and an elderly man, past sixty, his face deeply lined, as if a single twitch of his skin could crush a swarm of flies.

The three stood side by side, unmoving, faces stern, gazes fixed in the direction of Song Hai, silent for a long time.

Not only they, but all those assembled behind them wore similarly grave expressions, their eyes heavy as they looked toward Song Hai.

They were all experts from various great sects—the weakest among them at the Innate level, the strongest at the Transcendent. Of the three at the front, each was a master among masters, renowned even among the Transcendent.

They had traveled thousands of miles with a single goal: the heads of Zhou Yi and Song Hai, to end a century’s demonic calamity, to secure a hundred years of peace for their own sects.

At first, each had acted according to their own designs, relying on their own abilities. Whoever succeeded in slaying Zhou Yi and Song Hai would win the protection from the calamity for two cycles.

Under the threat of disaster, these martial elites could not afford internal strife. Thus, a rule was set among them all.