Chapter Thirty: Return to the Mountain Gate

The wind at Sword Burial Cliff carried away the old acquaintance and also dispersed the last remnants of confusion in Xiao Chen’s heart.

He did not linger on the cliff. The moment he decided to descend from Sword Burial Cliff marked his readiness to once again face the world he had once known intimately, yet now found utterly unfamiliar.

The path back to the Heavenly Sword Sect was long.

Once, the journey from Sword Burial Cliff to the sect’s mountain gate was but the time it took to ride a flying sword—an incense stick’s length of time. Below, the sea of clouds roiled; fierce winds howled in his ears. Such was the speed and freedom reserved for the strong. Now, he could only rely on his mortal legs to measure, step by step, this land he had gazed down upon countless times.

Dragging his mortal body along the rugged mountain path, the stones beneath his feet pricked painfully, the midday sun parched his mouth and tongue, and the cold dew of night chilled him to the bone. Like the humblest ascetic, he returned to his “sanctuary” by the most primitive and awkward means.

Yet, unprecedented calm filled Xiao Chen’s heart.

He no longer regarded these hardships as torture but as experiences. The pain underfoot made him feel the earth’s firmness; the thirst in his mouth made him appreciate the sweetness of mountain springs; the cold of his body helped him understand the warmth of a campfire. Through his own body, he verified the truth imparted by Master Jiang—that letting go was to better grasp anew. Only by relinquishing the perspective of the strong could he truly regain his perception of the world.

Half a month later, the towering mountain gate veiled in celestial mist finally came into view.

The Heavenly Sword Sect, the premier sword sect in the Southern Domain—the place where he had grown, cultivated, risen to fame, and fallen.

When the tattered, pale-faced yet clear-eyed figure appeared before the gate, the disciples guarding the entrance were first wary, then stunned and incredulous.

“Is that… Senior Brother Xiao Chen?” a young disciple rubbed his eyes uncertainly.

“Impossible, right? Wasn’t he stripped of his cultivation, heartbroken, and self-imprisoned on Sword Burial Cliff?” another whispered with a hint of schadenfreude.

“Look at his attire—what’s the difference between him and a beggar at the mountain’s foot? Truly a disgrace to the Heavenly Sword Sect.”

Though the murmurs were low, they reached Xiao Chen’s ears clearly. He neither felt anger nor shame, only quietly observed all that was familiar. The towering stone stele inscribed with the words “Heavenly Sword” remained sharp and imposing, yet to his eyes, its oppression had softened, replaced by a touch of warmth.

“Swift Goose Sword” Xiao Chen had returned!

The news, like a gust of wind, quickly spread throughout the Heavenly Sword Sect, stirring considerable waves within the sect.

Sympathizers sighed quietly upon seeing his fallen state, recalling how once he had been so ambitious and imposing, single-handedly overshadowing his peers.

Mockers—mostly those once eclipsed by his brilliance—gathered in groups, whispering and pointing at his retreating figure with schadenfreude. The fall of a prodigy was always a feast worth celebrating for mediocrity.

More common was indifference. The cultivation world was, after all, pragmatic. A cripple stripped of cultivation and hope was not worth their slightest attention. He was merely a living, walking “past tense.”

Xiao Chen accepted all this calmly. He did not seek out anyone, not even his former master, nor did he offer any explanation. Following sect rules, he was placed in the living quarters for outer disciples—a simple, spirit-energy-thin room, a stark contrast to the “Swift Goose Peak,” a mountain he once claimed alone.

But he cared not. To him, this place was no different from Swift Goose Peak—both were shelters from wind and rain. Each day, he sat in quiet meditation, letting the meridians in his body slowly and steadily repair themselves under the nurturing of heaven and earth’s spiritual energy.

Days passed, and the stir caused by his return gradually settled. Like a stone dropped into a lake, after ripples spread, it sank quietly to the bottom, forgotten.

Until a month later, when the sect’s minor competition arrived.

This biannual event was meant to test the cultivation achievements of the disciples. The sword arena buzzed with voices; inner disciples paired off in fierce duels, sword qi slicing through the air, spiritual light flashing, drawing cheers from the crowd.

Xiao Chen came as well. He did not remain in his small room but chose to stand amidst the bustling crowd. He wished to see, after having uncovered the “Sword of No-Self,” what new insights might arise from watching these “Swords of Self.”

He quietly stood in a corner, watching the dazzling sword techniques on stage, his heart unmoved. To him, these techniques, though exquisite, were riddled with traces of the “self”—“how I strike,” “how I win,” “how I display my strength.” The sword had become a tool for self-glorification, not a bridge to communicate with heaven and earth.

At that moment, a slightly mocking voice sounded behind him.

“Well, well, if it isn’t our Heavenly Sword Sect’s former top prodigy, Swift Goose Sword Senior Brother Xiao Chen! What’s this? No cultivation left, yet you still have the nerve to watch the juniors compete?”

Xiao Chen turned to see a familiar face—Lin Feng, an outstanding inner disciple who had long lived in his shadow, harboring both envy and hatred. Now that Xiao Chen had fallen, Lin Feng was naturally the most delighted.

Xiao Chen merely glanced at him indifferently, saying nothing.

Lin Feng, ignored, felt even more humiliated and raised his voice, drawing the attention of those around.

“What’s wrong? Lost your voice? Or is it that a cripple who can’t even condense spiritual power has no right to speak to us cultivators?”

Just then, a duel on the sword arena ended. Lin Feng leapt onto the stage, wielding a gleaming longsword, pointing arrogantly at Xiao Chen in the crowd.

“Xiao Chen! Weren’t you once called ‘Unmatched Under the Sword’? Today, right here on this sword arena, I, Lin Feng, want to see your high skill again! Do you dare to step up?”

A roar swept through the crowd.

Everyone knew this was blatant humiliation. To pit a crippled man without cultivation against a Golden Core stage elite? It was no different from sending him to his death.

“Senior Brother Lin Feng is going too far!”

“Shh, quiet. Who doesn’t know he was once crushed by Xiao Chen? This is just revenge.”

“Alas, a tiger fallen to the plains is mocked by dogs…”

Facing the crowd’s gaze and Lin Feng’s provocative sneer, Xiao Chen’s expression remained calm as still water. He did not look at Lin Feng but instead fixed his eyes on a row of practice bamboo swords on the weapons rack beside the arena.

Then, to everyone’s shock, he slowly and deliberately stepped forward.

He reached the rack and casually picked up the most ordinary bamboo sword. It was light, blunt, without even a guard.

Holding the bamboo sword, he ascended the sword arena.

Instantly, the entire arena fell silent. All eyes focused on this fallen figure wielding a bamboo sword. No one knew what he intended to do, but all sensed an unprecedented storm was about to unleash.

Lin Feng, stunned at first, soon burst into raucous laughter.

“Hahaha! Well! You’ve got guts, Xiao Chen! Since you’re courting death, I’ll grant your wish!”

Without further words, he unleashed his Golden Core spiritual power. His spirit sword sang a clear, sharp note, radiating brilliant light. Sharp sword qi shot forth, slicing the air with a hissing sound.

“Behold my Heavenly Star Sword Technique!”

Lin Feng shouted and blurred into a streak of light. His longsword danced, instantly conjuring a legion of sword shadows like stars in the night sky, overwhelming Xiao Chen with their sheer number. Each shadow contained terrifying power capable of splitting stone and carving monuments.

The disciples below gasped, envisioning Xiao Chen pierced through the heart by a thousand swords, blood spraying on the spot.

Yet, facing this magnificent and fierce sword technique, Xiao Chen stood silently.

He neither dodged nor blocked.

At the moment the endless sword shadows were about to strike, he slowly raised his bamboo sword.

Then, he gently thrust it forward.

The strike was the simplest imaginable. No spiritual power, no sword light, no flourish. Like a child first learning the sword, casually extending a wooden stick.

Simple. Direct.

Yet this seemingly ordinary thrust seemed to embody some principle of heaven and earth. It did not shatter the multitude of sword shadows but pierced through their origin—the single, most fundamental flaw in Lin Feng’s sword technique.

That single thrust seemed to flow with the wind and harmonize with the currents of space, becoming the embodiment of “Truth” itself.

An utterly bizarre scene unfolded before everyone’s eyes.

Lin Feng’s dazzling sword shadows, upon touching the bamboo sword, seemed to meet their nemesis—melting instantly like snow before fire, dissipating into nothingness. A force irresistible yet gentle flowed along his spirit sword, coursing through his body.

Lin Feng felt a tremendous power surge but no pain or killing intent. Helplessly, he was flung backward, lightly landing outside the arena. His spirit sword clattered to the ground, yet he remained unscathed.

Dazed, he stood there in blank shock.

He did not understand how he lost. All he knew was that the moment Xiao Chen’s sword struck, he felt he was facing not a man but a mountain, a sea, the entire cosmos! His own sword technique seemed so small and laughable in comparison.

His Dao heart suffered an unprecedented shock, nearly collapsing on the spot.

One sword!

Just one!

A crippled man stripped of cultivation had defeated a fully exerting Golden Core elite with a single bamboo sword thrust!

The entire sword arena fell deathly silent. One could hear a pin drop.

Everyone was utterly stunned, their minds unable to comprehend what had just occurred.

Above the clouds, in the highest hall of the Heavenly Sword Sect, several elders resting with eyes closed suddenly snapped them open simultaneously. Their gazes seemed to pierce through layers of the hall, converging on the sword arena below.

“What… was that just now?” a white-haired elder asked hoarsely.

“That was sword intent… no, not just sword intent, purer and more fundamental… that was the essence of ‘Sword Dao!’” another elder’s face was filled with astonishment.

“He shows no spiritual power fluctuations; he is undoubtedly a mortal. Yet that sword… that sword’s realm makes even me, an old bone who has lived for eighteen hundred years, feel my heart tremble,” the sect leader’s voice brimmed with profound confusion and shock.