Chapter Eighty-Nine: The Reluctant Sword of Finality

A mass of demonic clouds and baleful energy descended from the heavens into the mountains, manifesting as an alluring woman. She was wrapped tightly in a layer of sheer gauze, her curves graceful, her eyes brimming with seductive charm, as if they might spill over with liquid allure. Though she revealed nothing that a proper woman should not, there was an undeniable sense of enticing frivolity about her.

As soon as she landed in the forest, she concealed her presence. Immediately after, a streak of black light followed, descending swiftly. The newcomer was short and stout, with small, shifty eyes that seemed forever plotting mischief. Upon landing, his eyes darted around, and then he suddenly chuckled, “Lady Qingluo, why hide yourself? I, Wanliang, am devoted to you with all my heart!”

Barely had he spoken when a swirl of pink mist rushed toward him. The haze floated lightly, yet it appeared before Wanliang in an instant. Seemingly anticipating this, Wanliang bent his body and dove into the earth, vanishing from sight. The pink mist, failing to find its mark, quickly retracted and condensed into a rosy silk handkerchief, which appeared in the hand of the woman—her face flushed with anger, yet still as captivating as a spring breeze.

“Wanliang, why follow me instead of pursuing that human? Aren’t you determined to obtain that sword?” asked the alluring woman, Qingluo, as she stepped out from behind a green-barked tree.

Wanliang emerged with a sly grin, his eyes roaming over Qingluo’s figure. “Heh heh... Others may not know, but I’m well aware of your talent, Lady Qingluo. You can sense all things—so long as that man still walks this world, he cannot escape your exquisite nose.”

Qingluo neither confirmed nor denied it. Her eyes glimmered as she swayed her willow waist, circling Wanliang. “Are you so sure that, even if you catch up, you’ll be able to seize that innate spiritual treasure?”

“Heh heh... What is there to fear from a mortally wounded human? As long as I reach him before anyone else, the sword will be mine. Then, that legendary Demon Moon Mirror, said to reflect all of heaven and earth, will belong to you,” Wanliang replied, utterly confident.

Qingluo laughed deeply. “You’re so sure? That human is Heaven’s first Star Lord. He escaped unscathed from two of the Wu tribe’s greatest shamans. As for your abilities, do I not know them well?”

“Heh heh, my skills are more than enough to kill a wounded Star Lord,” he said with disdain, his shrewd expression betraying his scorn. Even though Nanluo had displayed remarkable strength, in his heart, Wanliang discounted it greatly.

He was not alone in his thoughts; many demon cultivators felt the same.

“We needn’t search any longer—I can smell him. He’s here,” Qingluo said with a smile.

Wanliang stiffened, his grin forced. “Lady Qingluo, surely you jest.”

He suddenly realized he did not wish to believe it, and a strange unease arose in his heart.

Qingluo’s face had gone rigid. Wanliang spun around, only to see that, at some point, someone had appeared behind him.

Clad in azure, Nanluo stood beneath the starlit night, mysterious and aloof.

“So, you truly are here. It seems my fortune has come. That sword is mine,” Wanliang said, his fear audible in his trembling voice, though his eyes gleamed with excitement as they fixed on the long, green-sheathed sword at Nanluo’s waist.

Without waiting, he reached into his robe and drew a silver sword. Its light was mottled, lacking the clear, icy luster of fine steel, instead carrying a dull, withered air.

Sword in hand, Wanliang lunged at Nanluo. His swordsmanship was impressive, explaining his obsession with Nanluo’s Qingyan Sword.

Demonic and baleful energy billowed forth...

A flash of sword light, a ringing cry that lingered in the air.

The sinister energy dissipated as quickly as it had arisen.

Wanliang, who moments ago was intent on claiming Nanluo’s sword, now lay on the ground, transformed into a giant yellow weasel, severed cleanly in two. His sword, like his body, was split in half.

A look of terror filled Qingluo’s eyes. When that sword light flickered through the void, she felt as though a basin of ice water had been poured over her, her greed for the innate treasure vanishing without a trace.

In her eyes, Nanluo was now cold and forbidding, his gaze as sharp and frigid as a blade.

“I do not understand—are you so willing to risk your lives for a single innate treasure? Or do you believe that, because I am mortally wounded, you need only stoop to pick it up? Or perhaps you never regarded me as anything to fear. Laughable. Even the likes of you dare to covet my possessions...” Nanluo murmured, gazing at Wanliang’s bisected weasel form, yet his words chilled Qingluo to the core.

She stared at Nanluo, her curvaceous body, tightly wrapped in gauze, trembling uncontrollably.

“I—I didn’t mean to chase you. I only wanted to take a look...” Qingluo stammered in fear. She knew Wanliang’s power was on par with her own, yet before this man, he had been utterly helpless—cut down, his treasure shattered, without resistance.

Suddenly, she saw Nanluo move. Panic seized her, and without thinking, she raised her rosy handkerchief, which transformed into a pink mist that enveloped her.

It was a reflex, but she knew it was futile—she could not withstand his sword. Yet, no attack came. Opening her eyes, she found emptiness; the mountain wind carried only the stench of blood and decay. Nanluo was gone, vanished without a trace.

She wrinkled her delicate nose, but could not detect a hint of Nanluo’s scent. Doubt gnawed at her: Had he lured them here on purpose? Or, having overheard them, had he deliberately concealed his presence?

In the end, her talent was not as exaggerated as the now-dead Wanliang had claimed. She could only track the careless; once they became wary and masked their aura, her nose was useless. Such secret arts were common in the world, and so too were ways to counter them.

She dared not entertain further improper thoughts. Surviving this night was fortune enough. She hurried toward her lair, resolving never to leave the mountains lightly again. She could not know that this decision would spare her from countless calamities in the ages to come, allowing her to survive after even the mightiest beings fell and to become a demon saint in her own right. Yet, in her heart, the image of a man in azure, and a flash of sword light, would never fade.

In this vast world, life flourished in myriad forms. Every mountain had its own lord, powers that varied greatly. Typically, those ruling the great, spirit-rich mountains were far stronger than the petty demon kings of lesser peaks.

The Purple-Eyed King was one of the most powerful demon lords in these parts. He coveted Nanluo’s sword and the legendary Demon Moon Mirror, which was said to illuminate all of heaven and earth. But unlike the brash Wind Saint King, he kept his ambitions quiet, hoping to gain the treasure unnoticed amid the chaos. Who knew how many others were chasing it in the darkness? He believed that only those who kept silent and endured would have the last laugh.

Suddenly, he sensed a fluctuation of magical power and slipped away into the shadows.

He reappeared in a valley. Before him, beneath the towering trees, the darkness was as clear as day to his purple eyes.

“That’s... the Wind Saint King!” Purple-Eyed King was stunned. Sword light flashed among the trees, and those who had been the Wind Saint King’s followers now fell, screaming, as the light swept through them.

“Nanluo, I have pledged myself to Heaven’s court! How dare you kill me?” the Wind Saint King’s terrified, sharp voice rang out under the sword’s gleam.

“So what if I kill you?” came the cold, merciless reply, as a thread of sword light sliced through the void.

“Ah—!”

The Wind Saint King, true to his name, tried to escape as a whirlwind. His wind-evading technique was unmatched, yet the sword light split him in two. In moments, his body was shredded, and pieces of beastly corpse rained to the ground.

Purple-Eyed King was appalled. He and the Wind Saint King had little acquaintance, but as demon kings of the same region, they knew each other’s strength. Yet before Nanluo’s sword, the Wind Saint King had not even managed a counterattack.

“He’s actually this strong...” Purple-Eyed King found it hard to believe. Only now did he recall that this was a man who could contend with the greatest shamans of the Wu tribe.

That sword—an innate weapon—and Nanluo had entered the Dao of the Sword.

Shaken, Purple-Eyed King prepared to flee. He saw no sign that Nanluo was gravely injured.

But as he turned to leave, Nanluo, standing in silence among the corpses and blood, suddenly vanished.

A surge of dread seized Purple-Eyed King. A beam of icy, dazzling sword light appeared in his purple eyes. The sword light flashed, and a deathly chill froze his mind, robbing him of all response.

From the depths of his soul, he heard a gentle hum, faint as a lover’s sigh, and consciousness was snuffed out in darkness.

When the sword light faded, the killing intent dissipated.

Nanluo revealed himself, calm and silent, bearing no trace of slaughter. The Celestial Moon Robe draped over his shoulder, punctured by a small, inconspicuous hole, fluttered in the mountain breeze, free of dust and blood.

He glanced indifferently at the corpse of the purple-robed giant he had split in two. His eyes betrayed no emotion. Starlight filtered through the leaves, casting his face in frost.

He had never been weak; only those who truly provoked him would see his wrath.

The mountain wind stirred. Starlight was blocked by the canopy, then shone through again, revealing only a heap of bodies.

Suddenly, the bisected corpse of the Purple-Eyed King twitched. Slowly, the two halves joined together. After a while, the once-sundered body sat up.

Terror filled his eyes. Now he understood why so many, though close in magical power, had been cut down without resistance. First, the sword was an innate weapon of immense power, no artifact could withstand its strike. More terrifying, though, was the killing intent that froze the mind, rendering one unable to resist.

He was a purple-eyed insect who had gained the Dao, born with the ability to regenerate lost limbs. After enlightenment, he could even rejoin severed halves. But this time, he had nearly perished body and soul. Only by chance, having grasped a glimmer of the soul’s mysteries, had he survived.

With difficulty, he stood to leave, then turned back. Searching through the corpses of the Wind Saint King’s followers, he saw that all had been cut in two with a single stroke. Most had not even managed to summon their treasures. Gathering the artifacts with delight, he marveled that Nanluo had not spared them a glance.

It puzzled him—why had Nanluo not taken these treasures?

He found the Wind Saint King’s body, but the Wind-Summoning Banner was nothing but shreds.

Suddenly, the treetops shook. Startled, Purple-Eyed King looked around. Seeing nothing, he fled into the darkness, all dignity as a mountain king gone, his courage lost to Nanluo’s blade.

Elsewhere, Yaoji, Yang Tianyou, and Xiyu had also pursued, but halted atop a tall peak after crossing several hundred miles. Not only they, but all the demon cultivators who had followed fell silent, each one slipping quietly into the mountain.

That mountain loomed like a monstrous beast of darkness, devouring all life that entered.

The three exchanged glances, but did not enter, choosing instead to wait atop a higher mountain nearby.

“Tianyou, let’s go in too. If he really encounters danger, we might be able to help,” Yaoji said, pointing at the lower but sprawling mountain below.

“Ha, Yaoji, don’t worry. Those seeking to seize the treasure will gain nothing. As long as the two Wu shamans don’t catch up, none among them can harm him. My cultivation may not be high, but my eyes are keen,” Yang Tianyou replied with quiet confidence.

Yaoji giggled, her eyes bright. She liked Yang Tianyou’s steady, self-assured nature.

After a while, a sword light soared from the mountain, vanishing as swiftly as it appeared.

But the three atop the peak caught it.

Yaoji pointed, “Isn’t that his sword?”

“Indeed, it is. That feeling of helplessness and resolve to kill comes from the depths of his heart,” Yang Tianyou said. Nanluo’s sword intent was his heart’s intent—at this moment, Yang Tianyou understood it.

“Resolve to kill, I understand. But where does the helplessness come from?” Yaoji asked, puzzled.

Staring at the realm shrouded in night, Yang Tianyou mused, “Perhaps he’s encountered too many things beyond his control. Living in this world, everyone faces helplessness, regardless of cultivation.”

Yaoji gazed at him, a hint of infatuation in her eyes, and drew closer. “Tianyou, do you also have many things you can’t control?”

He laughed. “Don’t think too much. I’m no saint full of sorrow for the world.”

Yaoji tilted her head. “Then what kind of person is he, to have so much helplessness even with such power?”

“He? He’s someone just like us,” Yang Tianyou replied softly.

“No, he’s not like us.” Xiyu, who had stood silently aside, suddenly spoke. “He is more detached than we are, but when his bottom line is crossed, he is more resolute than any of us. Otherwise, his sword would not hold such deadly intent.”

As Xiyu finished, another flash of sword light blazed from the mountain, then faded.

Thus, the three stood atop the mountain, watching as, through the deep night, flashes of sword light and killing intent flickered below. Unwittingly, dawn approached.

“How many has he killed?” Yaoji asked with awe.

Yang Tianyou shook his head. “I only know that at least a thousand went in, and fewer than ten came out.”

In the east, a pale light crept across the sky.

“Look, isn’t that him?” Yaoji exclaimed, pointing to a distant peak. “What is he looking at?”

In the soft morning glow, Nanluo stood quietly atop the mountain, azure robes fluttering, long black hair tied behind him, the green-sheathed sword at his waist swaying gently.

Yang Tianyou frowned, following Nanluo’s gaze. He saw two figures on a distant peak.

The Wu tribe’s shamans, Xing Tian and Houyi. They stood atop a mountain dozens of peaks away, looking back at Nanluo.

“What is he planning?” Yaoji wondered. “Does he want revenge?”

Yang Tianyou shook his head. “I don’t know. But now is not the time for vengeance. Against two great shamans, he cannot possibly prevail.”

Nanluo himself did not fully understand why, instead of leaving, he revealed himself. He knew the enmity between them was nearly unresolvable, yet he truly did not wish to be mortal enemies. Still, that did not mean he would tolerate being hunted.

His life had been saved by Zhu Rong of the Wu tribe, and many human clans were connected to the Wu in one way or another.

He gazed at Houyi, dressed in white, and at Xing Tian, bare-chested as he had been years before.

The sun rose, but his heart only grew colder.