Chapter Twenty-Three: The Will to Die on the Cliff's Edge

After hearing the legend of Xiao Chen, Jiang Xiuyuan did not linger long in Tianjian City. He seemed to have lost interest in the bustling shops and noisy cultivators. After paying for their tea, he took his two daughters and walked out of the city gate, heading toward the remote mountain paths deep within the Tianjian Mountain Range—paths seldom traveled by anyone.

“Father, aren’t we going to visit the Tianjian Sect?” Jiang Yiyi asked in puzzlement, believing their journey’s purpose was to see the premier sword sect.

“Not yet,” Jiang Xiuyuan’s voice was calm amid the mountain breeze. “True beauty seldom lies where crowds gather. The swords of Tianjian Sect are indeed sharp, but first, let’s see what a ‘broken sword’ looks like.”

Upon hearing this, Jiang Xiaobai was stirred inwardly, vaguely grasping her father’s intention. She said nothing, quietly following behind with her steps more measured than before.

They chose a rugged trail rarely trodden even by herb gatherers. Towering ancient trees stretched skyward, thick vines intertwined, mountain streams babbled, and the sounds of birds and beasts filled the air. Jiang Xiuyuan still appeared as an ordinary old man, his aura perfectly blending with the forest, as if he were part of the mountains themselves. Jiang Yiyi and Jiang Xiaobai suppressed all their energy; the three looked like ordinary grandfather and granddaughters lost deep in the mountains, searching for a way out.

Reaching a mountainside, the view suddenly broadened. Before them lay a vast platform jutting from the mountainside, its edges sheer cliffs plunging thousands of feet into a bottomless abyss, clouds swirling below like waves. The wind here was fierce, whipping their clothes noisily. The stones bore sword marks of varying depths, clearly a training ground of a sword cultivator. A half-human-high stone tablet stood to one side of the platform, inscribed with three grand characters — Sword Burial Cliff.

The name exuded a sense of desolation and finality.

Standing quietly at the very edge of the cliff was a figure.

A young man, tall and upright, dressed in the faded white robes of an inner disciple of the Tianjian Sect. His features were originally strikingly handsome—sharp sword-like brows, bright eyes, defined contours—one could imagine how spirited he must have been at his prime. But now, his face was ashen; his eyes hollow and lifeless, staring blankly at the roiling sea of clouds below, like a statue stripped of its soul.

No spiritual energy emanated from him; his aura was as feeble as a dying candle, indistinguishable from a mortal long plagued by illness.

This was the very man they had heard about in the teahouse—Xiao Chen.

Jiang Xiuyuan halted, not advancing further. Instead, he found a sheltered spot about a hundred meters away and sat on a clean rock. Jiang Yiyi and Jiang Xiaobai quietly stood behind him, gazing at the lonely figure on the cliff’s edge.

A dense, inescapable aura of death emanated from Xiao Chen—not sorrow, not anger, but a thorough, icy despair. He had once been the pride of heaven, the sect’s hope, revered by countless people. His life, like the sword “Jinghong” in his hand, had been brilliant, sharp, and unstoppable. But now, the sword was broken, his path destroyed; everything he had, everything he was proud of, vanished overnight.

Pride, once his greatest motivation, had become the last straw to break him. He could not face the pity or ridicule of his fellow disciples, the disappointed sighs of his masters, nor the reflection in the mirror of a broken cultivator, weaker even than a mortal.

To live was now a torment akin to slow torture.

Only death could bring release.

Step by step, he slowly approached the cliff’s edge. Each step seemed to draw all his strength, yet also to lift a thousand-pound burden. The wind tousled his disheveled hair, brushed past his hollow eyes, but he was oblivious. His world contained only the engulfing sea of clouds beneath his feet.

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Jiang Yiyi nervously grasped Jiang Xiuyuan’s sleeve, worry etched on her young face. Jiang Xiaobai instinctively gripped the hilt of her sword, brows furrowed tightly.

Just as Xiao Chen’s half foot stepped beyond the cliff’s edge, his body tilting forward to leap—

A voice, old and gentle, suddenly sounded behind him, quiet yet piercing through the howling mountain wind:

“Young man, it’s still early. Why not come over for a cup of hot tea to warm yourself?”

The voice was as plain as a neighborly old man’s invitation on an ordinary afternoon, starkly out of place amid the grim and resolute atmosphere of the Sword Burial Cliff.

Xiao Chen’s body stiffened abruptly, his resolve for death interrupted, stirring a flash of irritation within him. He slowly turned, with those lifeless eyes, toward the source of the voice.

Not far off, beneath a sheltered rock, a small campfire unexpectedly burned. An elderly man with white hair and kind features sat cross-legged. Beside him stood two ethereal young girls—one with lively, curious eyes; the other with a cool, aloof demeanor. The old man held a coarse ceramic teapot, steam curling from its spout, a faint fragrance of tea mingling with the mountain spring’s sweetness drifting in the wind.

They looked like ordinary travelers resting during a mountain excursion, incongruous with the solemn and deadly aura of Sword Burial Cliff.

Xiao Chen’s gaze swept over them, finding no spiritual fluctuations—just mortals. He said nothing, turning back to continue his unfinished “journey.” What did the life or death of mortals have to do with him? And what of his own death to them?

Yet, the old man did not seem to give up on him despite his coldness.

With a soft “thud,” a ceramic bowl filled with clear tea was gently placed on a flat rock between them. The old man said no more, simply gesturing “please,” then poured himself a bowl and leisurely savored it, as if tasting the world’s finest delicacy.

The bowl of tea sat quietly there, steam rising stubbornly into the biting mountain wind, refusing to dissipate.

Time seemed to freeze in that moment.

Xiao Chen stood on the edge between life and death, behind him a bowl of warm tea symbolizing the mundane world. He could feel the gazes of the two girls upon him—one filled with pure concern, the other with scrutinizing inquiry.

Long, long moments passed.

Perhaps it was the warmth of the tea, or the unexpected calm that unsettled his will to die. Xiao Chen’s Adam’s apple bobbed once, and finally, he took a stiff step forward—not toward the cliff, but slowly, toward the campfire.

He did not sit, only stared intently at Jiang Xiuyuan. A hoarse voice, as if unused for years, forced its way from his throat:

“Sir, aren’t you afraid of me? I am an ill omen, a bringer of misfortune.”

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Jiang Xiuyuan lifted his heavy eyelids, a trace of a smile in his cloudy eyes. He pointed at the bowl of tea and leisurely said:

“I’ve lived a long life, seen many pitiful souls who wanted to live but couldn’t. Yet it’s the first time I’ve met a young man who insists on dying. Besides, the wind on this cliff is fierce—having a cup of hot tea, even if you’re on your way, will keep you warm, won’t it?”

His words were casual but carried a strange kind of logic.

Xiao Chen was stunned. He had imagined countless possible responses—comfort, fear, reproach—but never these words.

“On your way… and warm…” he murmured, almost bewitched, extending a trembling hand to lift the cup of tea.

The warmth touched his fingertips and traveled up his arm, spreading deep into his cold heart.

At that moment, Jiang Xiuyuan looked at him and slowly began to recount a story, as if telling a distant tale unrelated to him:

“Let me tell you a story. Far away in my homeland, there was a tyrant, a hero unmatched, victorious in every battle. But in the end, defeated and besieged, he fled to the riverbank. Ashamed of his defeat and unable to face his people, he took his own life there. Later generations praised him for his heroic spirit and dignity.”

Jiang Xiuyuan paused, then shifted tone, a strange light flickering in his eyes:

“But later, a young girl wrote a poem about him—‘The sons of Jiangdong are talented and brave; who’s to say they won’t come back again?’”

“Come back again… who’s to say…”

Those seven words thundered like a bolt of lightning in Xiao Chen’s deadened mind.

His hand holding the cup trembled violently; a few drops of the scalding tea spilled onto the back of his hand, searing pain following. But that pain was nothing compared to the storm raging in his heart.

Yes… death meant nothingness. But if he lived…

To come back again—could it really be possible?

In his hollow eyes, for the first time, a faint, almost imperceptible glimmer of thought appeared.