Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Selfless Sword

The empty cup was ready; fresh tea arrived on its own.

When Xiao Chen deliberately poured out the tea that symbolized the past, his entire demeanor underwent a profound transformation. The aura of deathly silence and desolation that had clung to him and lingered unshakably seemed to be swept away by the morning sunlight. He was still the same ruined man who had lost all his cultivation, yet his eyes became clearer and more serene than ever before.

No longer sitting listlessly, he rose and slowly paced along the edge of the cliff. He looked down at the earth beneath his feet, feeling its weight; he reached out to touch the cold hardness of the rocks; he closed his eyes to listen to the wind howling through the valley, discerning the distinct sounds each leaf made as it was brushed by the breeze.

In his senses, this world blossomed with vividness and life.

Jiang Xiuyuan merely smiled and watched without interrupting. Jiang Xiaobai tilted her head in curiosity. She could sense that something within this man was dying, while another, stronger and purer force was being born.

After an unknown length of time, Xiao Chen stopped. He approached a withered tree by the cliff and casually broke off a branch as thick as his arm. Holding the branch horizontally across his chest, he closed his eyes.

He began to practice swordsmanship with this branch.

At first, his movements still bore the shadows of his past. His opening stance was the most familiar foundation of the Heavenly Sword Sect’s basic sword techniques. But as soon as he executed a move, he felt unprecedented heaviness and awkwardness. He had been used to the lightness and sharpness of the “Surging Swan” style, to the surging spiritual energy coursing through his meridians and flowing freely into the sword’s edge at will. Now, he held only a heavy, clumsy branch, his body empty of spiritual power, relying solely on mortal strength.

He wanted speed but lacked the power; he sought sharpness but had no edge. Every move he once knew felt strange and laughable.

Sweat seeped from his brow. Yet he did not become discouraged or agitated. He simply stopped and stood quietly, pondering Jiang Xiuyuan’s words—“The sword’s heart is not in the sword.”

If the sword’s heart is not in the sword itself, why cling so stubbornly to the form of sword techniques?

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, clearing all memories of the Heavenly Sword Sect’s swordsmanship and the “Surging Swan” sword from his mind. He no longer thought about how “he” should wield the sword, nor about the power it should possess, nor whether it conformed to the way of the sword.

He simply raised the branch once more.

This time, he did not immediately strike but quietly felt it. He sensed the wind blowing past the cliff, its direction, its strength. A mountain breeze swept past, fluttering his robe. In that instant, he moved.

The branch in his hand followed the wind’s momentum, gently and slowly extending forward. There was no target, no enemy—simply allowing the branch to “travel” with the wind.

His movements grew slower and simpler. Sometimes, he merely raised the branch, mimicking the grandeur of the mountains; sometimes, he held it horizontally, tracing an arc like clouds drifting across the sky; sometimes, when a sudden shower fell, he waved the branch, weaving an invisible curtain before him, his motions flowing with the rhythm of the raindrops—sometimes urgent, sometimes gentle.

Gradually, he forgot the existence of “I.” He forgot he was Xiao Chen, forgot he had once been the world’s foremost swordsman, and forgot he was now a crippled man. In his heart remained only the natural world. The wind moved, clouds drifted, rain fell, stones stood still... and he was but a tiny yet harmonious stroke in this grand painting.

He transitioned from “man commanding the sword” to “the Way commanding the sword.”

Jiang Xiuyuan watched alongside, nodding repeatedly with approval in his eyes. Jiang Xiaobai trembled all over, her gaze filled with disbelief. The path she pursued—the “Sword with Self”—was to impose one’s own will above heaven and earth, to replace heaven’s heart with one’s own. Yet what Xiao Chen now displayed was the complete opposite path—merging the “self” entirely into heaven and earth, following the heart of heaven, letting the great Way of the world become his sword.

These two paths of swordsmanship held no superiority over each other but represented two utterly distinct extremes.

Xiao Chen danced his sword from dawn till dusk, from night till dawn again. Tirelessly, without food or drink, he immersed himself completely in this mysterious realm of unity with heaven and earth.

Suddenly, a crisp “crack” rang out.

The branch that had accompanied him for days could no longer withstand the invisible force of heaven and earth during a wind-guided slash. It snapped abruptly, shattering into countless fragments that drifted away from his hand like dust.

From destruction comes creation!

The breaking of the branch felt like a signal. Yet Xiao Chen’s movements did not pause in the slightest. Though he had lost the “sword” in his hand, it was as if he now held the entire world.

He pressed two fingers together like a sword to replace the broken branch and continued his sword dance.

Without a physical blade, his movements became even more ethereal and expressive. His fingers sliced through the air, tracing the wind’s path, the rhythm of water, the weight of mountains.

At that moment, a withered yellow leaf was carried on the wind, drifting past in front of him.

Xiao Chen’s eyes remained clear and bright. Seemingly casually, his joined fingers flicked lightly in the direction of the leaf.

There was no spiritual fluctuation, no sword aura blazing, not even a sound.

Yet the leaf, twisting and tumbling in the air, was suddenly and silently cleaved perfectly in two right before his fingertips! The cut was smooth as a mirror, as if made by the world’s sharpest blade.

Having completed this motion, Xiao Chen slowly stopped. He lowered his gaze to his utterly ordinary mortal fingers, then raised his eyes to watch the two halves of the leaf falling gently.

An unprecedented enlightenment surged through him like a devastating flood, instantly breaking down the last dam in his heart.

“I understand now... I finally understand...” he murmured, tears streaming uncontrollably from the corners of his eyes.

These tears were not born of sorrow or grievance but of overwhelming joy brought by profound awakening!

He finally realized that the sword could be the “Surging Swan” in his hand, the branch, or even his own fingers. The sword could be himself—or could transcend self. When the heart clings to “I,” the sword has limits and shackles; but when the self dissolves into heaven and earth, submitting to the heart of heaven, then the wind, frost, rain, snow, mountains, rivers, and all living things in the universe become one’s sword!

The “Sword with Self” is rigid and easily broken; the “Sword without Self” is endlessly vital!

At this moment, his sword’s heart was completely reshaped amid the ruins! It no longer gleamed with sharp brilliance as before but became as resilient as the mountain rocks, as clear as flowing water, as vast as heaven and earth.

Tears streaming down his face, Xiao Chen lifted his head and let out a long, piercing roar. His cry rang clear and high, soaring into the clouds, stirring the entire sea of clouds above Sword Burial Cliff into restless turmoil!