Chapter 128

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Chapter 128: Passing the Flame

Her question struck sharply, piercing the old man’s heart like the sharpest sword, instantly wiping the smile off his face and turning his expression serious.

“If you’re referring to the title of Sword Demon, then yes, I am.” The old man sighed, then turned to face the sea of clouds, his back, covered in bloodstains, turned to Ming He. His fingers trembled beneath his blood-soaked robe. “I am the Sword Demon of Sword Demon Mountain, once a sword cultivator of the human race.”

“Then how does a sword cultivator of the human race, known for their open and upright demeanor, gradually become the Sword Demon?” Ming He raised her gaze, a smile playing at her lips, completely unconcerned about the sharpness of her words.

Under her piercing stare, Sword Demon’s face paled. He moved his lips silently for a moment but could not find his voice, lowering his head in silence. His weary silhouette blended with the sorrowful cries of crows, as the black fog rolled in, casting the ancient pavilion into a somber haze.

“Aren’t you of the human race?” Ming He asked without waiting for his reply. “Are you a remnant soul? A soul that lingers on after a cultivator’s fall?”

His heart felt pierced by some sharp weapon, a bloody hole terrifying and gory within the dark—this was a deadly killing move, robbing the cultivator of their life and flesh.

He could not possibly still be alive.

“Yes.” Sword Demon forced a bitter smile, a hint of sorrow lacing his laughter. “I am no longer of the human race; I ceased to be long ago.”

He was unworthy of being called human. He was neither human nor demon, but merely a remnant soul in this muddled world.

“Is a sword cultivator who has fallen into darkness still a sword cultivator?” he murmured to himself, as if asking and unable to answer his own question.

He should have already disappeared from this world; lingering on for this moment was merely because his sins had not yet been fully paid.

“What is your name?” The old man turned back, his gaze clear as he looked at Ming He.

If one overlooked the gaping hole in his chest and the bloodied wounds on his body, he bore a demeanor reminiscent of a senior elder imparting teachings, humble and gentle.

“I am Ming He.” She glanced down at her blue clothes, which were the ceremonial robes of the Qin Royal Palace, naturally purging dirt and mending flaws. Thus, the Bloody Stains on her were erased, and the rips from the Tian Yan Tribe were as good as new.

She still stood as a blue-clad sword cultivator, her elegance unmatched.

“Why do you cultivate the sword?” Sword Demon’s gaze fixated on her, devoid of any powerful ally’s aura, making it seem like a simple query, as if merely curious.

Why cultivate the sword?

Ming He fell silent, recalling Qin Chu Yi. She had found the answer and wanted to share it with her, but it was not yet time.

Her Senior Sister had not yet awakened.

“Because I like it.” Ming He lifted her gaze, her eyes bright and burning with passion, enough to pierce through the darkness. “Because I love swordsmanship, I cannot do without the sword.”

Her voice was light, almost fleeting, yet it carried an unwavering firmness that would stand against mountains, an undeniable truth etched into her bones.

Her words encapsulated her lifelong path to cultivation.

The white Ghostly Sword in the Sea of Souls rang out joyfully, swirling luminescent light through the vast sea, pouring forth soul power like moonlight, gently flowing into Ming He’s meridians and roots.

She was completely unaware of it, only feeling a distinct clarity in her mind akin to a gentle breeze sweeping across, rippling like water—a wonderfully pleasant sensation.

Sword Demon gazed at her intensely, seeming to see a figure through her, perhaps understanding a sign at that moment. He smiled slightly and continued to ask, “Then why do you like it?”

He waved his hand to stop Ming He from blurting out her answer. “Liking someone might not require a reason, but liking a sword must have one.”

“What do you like about the sword?” He sat on a mountain rock, as layered darkness enveloped him, while the gentle wind blew, lifting Ming He’s blue robes and rustling the yellowing leaves of the Winter Weed tree. When it passed Sword Demon, it seemed to leave a void.

As if it had never touched him at all.

As if he, like the mountain, had been abandoned by the world.

“What is the reason for liking the sword?” Ming He repeated, slowly closing her eyes. Time rewound, and in an instant, she saw herself in the blue outer sect disciple robe, standing beneath the towering trees, bringing down a beast with her sword.

The joy and pride from that time remained vivid in her memory.

When the swords moved the heavens and earth during the outer sect grand competition, when the sword cleaved through darkness in the ancient cave dwelling, and every life-and-death moment thereafter—whether perilous, fortunate, or driven by sheer will—each had been faced with the sword by her side.

She lowered her gaze, her palm brushing against the hilt of the sword, its surface rough and unpolished. It was a weapon, a blade meant for killing, and naturally, it could not be as smooth and delicate as silk.

Ming He opened her eyes, her fingers tightening around the hilt; the answer came to her effortlessly, without need for deliberation. “I love the sword. I love how it allows me to reach the heights and touch the blue sky and white clouds. I love how it makes me grow strong, empowering me to protect the weak and vanquish evil.”

“I love the sword just as I love this world. Here, there are those I hold dear in my heart; she is here, and I wish to protect her, and in doing so, protect this land as well.”

Thus she spoke.

The Jing Ying Sword had been her steadfast companion, a partner she cherished in battle, and Ming He felt no need to justify this bond.

She and Jing Ying were intertwined in purpose; she wielded Jing Ying to draw blood, to brave storms, and together they pierced through darkness. Both were destined for the light.

“Protecting the weak, eradicating evil, safeguarding what I love and this world,” Sword Demon murmured these words, his expression a blend of laughter and sorrow, a glimmer of moisture in his blood-red eyes.

His right hand clutched a jagged shard of stone, yet it was translucent and insubstantial, passing through his palm without leaving a trace, as though it were mere air.

His white hair fell, veiling his expression.

Ming He stood motionless, her mind adrift, as his voice—hoarse and tinged with self-mockery—reached her ears on the desolate mountain wind, “If one day, the sword in your hand slays the one you love, and its tip is aimed at all you once sought to protect, what would you do?”

“You would destroy your own cherished dreams, and the long sword in your hand would no longer be your ally but a weapon of destruction aiding the wicked. What would you do then?” He lifted his gaze, fixing it intently on Ming He, as though seeking an answer.

Ming He frowned, her resolve unshaken. “If I love it, and it is my sword, how could I betray my own heart and wield it against my deepest desires?”

“You are still young and naive. You do not yet understand that in this world, there is a phrase called ‘being compelled by circumstances,’” Sword Demon replied, rising unsteadily, his appearance more pitiful than even his bloodied and battered state.

Yet Ming He remained unconvinced.

She ran her fingers over the white, warm hilt of the Jing Ying Sword, her expression serene, her lips slightly pursed. “I am a sword cultivator; I will not be compelled by circumstances.”

Sword Demon paused at her words, turning to gaze deeply into Ming He’s eyes, his own filled with a mix of astonishment and unease. After a long moment, he exhaled slowly, his expression momentarily clouded by a complexity of emotions—one Ming He could not decipher.

“Let us speak no more of this,” he said, nodding lightly as he reined in his turbulent emotions. “Let us discuss the Four Seasons Flower.”

Sword Demon met Ming He’s gaze, his eyes softening with a faint smile. “The Four Seasons Flower is in my possession, and the terms I’ve set remain unchanged.”

He raised two gnarled, scarred fingers, his aged and fierce visage betraying nothing but calm.

“Senior Sword Demon, I am no match for you,” Ming He admitted with a wry smile, her lips pressed together.

Her sword domain, forged from sword energy and imbued with sword intent and Ninth Level Sword Intent, was a true manifestation of the Sword Domain.

Though still somewhat unrefined, it was indeed a domain that could stand alongside those of the ancient sword cultivators.

Yet the elder had shattered it with a mere gesture, effortlessly dismantling what she had believed to be an undefeatable defense. She could not hope to defeat him.

Confidence and arrogance were two different things, and Ming He had always been clear about her own limits.

Even with another decade of training, she doubted she could surpass him.

For her, a decade was still a distant horizon.

She had only been cultivating for four years thus far.

And the mountain was teeming with the Tian Yan Tribe.

Ming He shuddered at the memory of those formidable Tian Yan Tribe members, fearless and relentless—they were the very essence of killing machines, their numbers endless, their onslaught unceasing.

She stood in the darkness, unable to see the full extent of the Tian Yan Tribe, only sensing their presence through her sword energy, surrounding her like a vast, unyielding sea. This place was not merely Sword Demon Mountain; it was a mountain ensnared by the Tian Yan Tribe, a prison of their making.

“Do you know why there are so many members of the Tian Yan Tribe on this mountain, senior?” Ming He asked Sword Demon, a flicker of speculation in her gaze.

“Their aim is to level the mountain,” Sword Demon replied, his eyes fixed on the horizon, his expression unreadable. “My existence is tied to this mountain. If Sword Demon Mountain is flattened, I will vanish.”

So, the Tian Yan Tribe had come for him.

The elder raised his right hand, his fingers brushing lightly against the Winter Weed tree outside the ancient pavilion. Suddenly, his brow furrowed, and a deep crimson hue began to seep into the depths of his eyes. His aura grew chaotic, merging with the darkness as black fog enveloped him, making him appear as he had when he first emerged.

“Ming He, do you recall what I said when you awoke?” he asked, his hand tightening around his throat as he struggled to breathe, yet forcing himself to remain conscious.

What had he said when she awoke?

Ming He’s gaze lingered for a moment. When she had awakened, Sword Demon had indeed spoken. He had said, “Do not worry; you are safe for now.”

For now?

Ming He’s heart tightened. When she looked up again, all she saw was a swirling, demonic presence. Sword Demon’s face was twisted into a grotesque expression, half-smiling, half-snarling, shrouded in magical mist that seemed to radiate both agony and ecstasy.

“Ming He, draw your sword! Survive my onslaught!” Sword Demon bellowed, and in an instant, he lunged toward her, his fingers poised to strike with a sinister grin.

Ming He recoiled instinctively, her toes pushing off the ground as she leaped backward. Her back collided with the sturdy trunk of the Winter Weed tree, and only then did she hear Sword Demon’s soul-piercing roar.

Did “safe for now” truly mean that she could face a life-and-death crisis at any moment?

Ming He silently cursed, drawing her sword in a swift, fluid motion, slashing toward Sword Demon’s outstretched fingers with the force of a rushing river. Her eyes were cold and resolute, sparks flying as her blade clashed with his, illuminating the darkness. The impact was a clash of equals, a battle of wills.

Sword Demon had fully embraced his role as a demonic cultivator, his nails elongated and razor-sharp, each finger moving with the speed and ferocity of a thunderstorm, intent on striking her down.

His technique was as swift as wind and lightning, yet he was unmistakably a sword cultivator.

Ming He narrowed her eyes, wincing as she felt the searing pain of a wound on her right shoulder, unable to dodge in time. She could barely muster the strength to move.

Gripping the Jing Ying Sword, she realized for the first time what it meant to be in a desperate situation. Her movements were confined, her sword unable to break free from the cage of his techniques.

For a sword cultivator to be unable to wield their sword was the gravest of weaknesses.

Yet, she could only watch helplessly as her vulnerability left her at the mercy of fate. Sword Demon’s fingers struck again, this time aimed directly at her heart.

“Buzz!”

The purple Merchants’ Guild token emitted a resonant hum, releasing a burst of violet light that Ming He could hardly believe. It mimicked a previous action, intercepting Sword Demon’s killing strike and enveloping him in its glow.

When the light faded, Sword Demon had reverted to his original form—a broad-shouldered elder. The back of the purple Merchants’ Guild token now bore a faint crack.

“Now you understand what ‘safe for now’ truly means,” Sword Demon said with a bitter smile. “I once fell into darkness, and so I am prone to succumbing to it.”

“Before you arrived, I had killed many of the human race with these ten fingers.”

Sword Demon’s face was etched with pain and despair. Killing members of the human race had meant little to him in his fallen state, but now, having rediscovered his true self, each life he had taken weighed heavily on his conscience.

With every person he had killed, his sins had multiplied. He had long since become a sinner against the human race.

Ming He opened her mouth, wanting to ask how Sword Demon had killed so many if the mountain was so desolate that no ordinary human would venture there.

But as she looked at the elder, his face lined with age and sorrow, she held her tongue. She sensed that the truth behind his actions might be a source of deep pain for him.

“As you are now, you are no match for me, nor can you eradicate all the Tian Yan Tribe members on this mountain,” Sword Demon said gently. “But that’s all right. I can teach you.”

He bent down, his gaze meeting hers with a solemn intensity, as if passing down a sacred flame. “I will teach you how to defeat me, how to slay the other races.”