Chapter 129

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Chapter 129: Nine Styles of Swordsmanship

“Ming He, draw your sword.” Sword Demon stood upright on the mountain rock, his gaze gentle yet commanding, even the wrinkles and scars on his face seemed to shimmer with starlight. “Demonstrate the Unsheathing Style.”

Ming He nodded, her right hand gripping the white hilt of the Jing Ying Sword. She steadied her breath, her aura sinking as she focused. With a flick of her wrist, the sword light cascaded like moonlight, illuminating the peak of Sword Demon Mountain. The sword tip gleamed with a cold brilliance, slicing through the air like an eagle soaring, a shooting star chasing the moon, or fireflies flickering in the dark.

The wild winds stilled at the sword tip, yellow leaves fluttering to the ground. The Jing Ying Sword surged forward, leaving a trail of afterimages, and Ming He’s gaze remained sharp and clear, her focus locked on the sword tip, her entire being honed to a single point.

It was akin to the primal instinct of a hunter capturing prey, a survival skill etched into her very bones.

The Unsheathing Style, the foundational sword technique of the Ancient Sword Cultivators, was the entry-level sword move.

Since learning it from the Liu Yun Sect, Ming He had practiced tirelessly, each unsheathing carrying the essence of the Unsheathing Style, embodying the sharp, unwavering gaze and upright posture of sword cultivators depicted in ancient texts.

At this moment, Ming He could proudly declare that this was the pinnacle of her current abilities, a strike she was deeply satisfied with.

This strike embodied the sword cultivator’s brilliance, scattering the light of the nine heavens, powerful enough to pierce through darkness and herald the dawn.

She was content.

But Sword Demon was not.

The blood-stained elder, his white hair flowing, stood unmoved on the rock, his expression unreadable, his voice calm and unyielding. “That was a commendable Unsheathing Style, but it’s still lacking.”

“Not fast enough, nor strong enough.”

“Do you understand the essence of sword intent?” His gaze softened as he looked at Ming He, his eyes deep and luminous, as if illuminated from within despite the surrounding darkness.

He was like the last ember of a flame passed down through generations, on the verge of extinguishing yet still radiating warmth, enough to ignite the longest night.

“I do,” Ming He replied, her stance unwavering, the sword extended forward, the sharp brilliance in her eyes unyielding. “Unsheath, gather power, strike suddenly, and reach the pinnacle.”

This understanding had come to her under the shadows of the Chang Ming courtyard, where she had witnessed Qin Chu Yi draw her sword with unparalleled depth.

That single strike had illuminated half of her path in swordsmanship.

“Correct,” Sword Demon nodded. “But still not profound enough.”

As he spoke, he leaped down with a slight motion, raising his hand. A leaf from the Winter Weed tree above drifted down, hovering in mid-air, its faint green hue swaying in the breeze.

“Watch closely; I will only demonstrate once,” Sword Demon said, his voice deep. His bloodied, incomplete right hand clenched, as if grasping the sliver of green in the darkness, gently swaying with the breeze, like a sword dancing or poised for battle.

The illuminating light and sharp brilliance intertwined, piercing through the dark night in an instant. The starlight behind Sword Demon Mountain seemed drawn by an unseen force, surging across the ridge and crashing down like waves of sunlight, causing the Winter Weed tree to shimmer, its autumn leaves now bathed in radiant glory.

Ming He stood transfixed, her entire being trembling.

She witnessed the boundless night retreating feebly before the fierce brilliance, saw a person and a sword moving heaven and earth, a force that even the forces of nature could not withstand.

This was a light born from the sword, radiating brilliantly, transcending the natural order, commanding the universe.

In that moment, he and the sword were the creators of all.

It wasn’t even a sword, but a mere leaf.

On Luoheng Peak, she had seen her Shishu Xie Dan Chen wield a leaf to demonstrate the Falling Balance Sword; that too had been etched into her soul, a testament to the unmatched grace of sword cultivators.

But Sword Demon was different.

He was neither of the human race nor the demon race; he was a fragment of a remnant soul, gripping the branch not as it should be held.

He was using his soul power to move the leaf.

As Ming He realized this, her eyes widened, and she dared not blink, fearing she might miss even a glimpse of its pure, unparalleled magnificence.

She fixed her gaze intently on Sword Demon.

The elder, whose frail and broken frame had moments ago seemed so fragile, now stood tall and unyielding as a mountain. His right palm cradled a single branch, and with a deliberate, horizontal motion, he rose to his feet. His wrist twisted, and the branch slashed diagonally across the mountain rock, swift and elusive as a flash of lightning.

When Ming He blinked, he was already swaying the faintly green branch with a playful smile, his fingers twirling it effortlessly as he counted the few remaining leaves.

Ming He closed her eyes, and the image of Sword Demon replayed endlessly in her mind—from the moment he grasped the branch to the effortless, almost weightless swing, from the depths of a long, dark night to the brilliance of radiant light. It was a strike that defied replication.

She would continue to refine her Unsheathing Style, but no matter how much she practiced, she could never replicate the strike she had just witnessed.

It might grow stronger, or it might fall short.

But Sword Demon’s Unsheathing Style was his alone, just as Ming He’s Unsheathing Style belonged solely to her.

Every sword cultivator would forge their own Unsheathing Style.

Unique.

Irreplaceable. Unrepeatable.

Unsheathing Style.

Ming He whispered the words, her fingertips tightening, her palm pressing against the hilt of the Jing Ying Sword. She gathered her strength in an instant, yet the sword remained sheathed.

Her fingers slackened, her knuckles pale.

Ming He’s breath hitched; she could not match such grace.

When she opened her eyes, a faint green branch swayed before her.

Sword Demon leaned casually against the Winter Weed tree, his fingers lightly guiding the branch as it circled around her, like a child at play.

Ming He smiled faintly, her gaze shifting to the rock where Sword Demon had once sat. It was now shattered into fragments, dust rising into the air only to dissolve under the gentle breeze, as though it had never existed.

With the Unsheathing Style complete, the radiant light born from the sword faded, and darkness crept back in. Yet the sharp, biting chill that once seemed poised to devour was now absent.

“Well?” Sword Demon’s right hand twitched slightly, making the branch sway before Ming He’s eyes. His face bore a light smile, but his eyes held a satisfaction and expectation she had never seen before. “How much did you grasp?”

“I don’t know,” Ming He replied, her gaze fixed on the branch as though it were nothing. “I’m… pondering.”

“Pondering, are you?” Sword Demon’s smile widened. “Then you may be pondering for quite some time.”

“Do you know of the Nine Styles of Swordsmanship?” Sword Demon shifted the topic casually, though it was clear he wasn’t expecting an answer.

Before Ming He could voice her confusion or bow to ask for clarification, he continued with a grin, “The Nine Styles of Swordsmanship are the foundational techniques of ancient sword cultivators. They are said to embody the very essence of swordsmanship.”

“When Sword Master emerged from the remote western lands, it was these Nine Styles that elevated him above all others. His grace was unparalleled, his brilliance unmatched.”

“In those days, the savage, blue-faced races were utterly humbled by the Nine Styles of Swordsmanship. Their cries were so pitiful, so melodious, they could almost be called music.”

“A pity I could not witness such grace myself.”

Sword Demon’s smile deepened, his white hair stirring as though touched by an unseen breeze. His expression was one of longing and fervent admiration, as though he wished he could have lived thousands of years earlier to witness the supreme mastery of his predecessors.

Ming He remained silent, thinking to herself that while Sword Demon had not seen it, she might have.

Even if it was only a fleeting glimpse, it still counted.

She parted her lips, tempted to speak, but then she remembered the elder’s ruthless demeanor when consumed by battle. She touched her own smooth neck and decided against boasting. Perhaps she would tell her Senior Sister later, in private.

“The Unsheathing Style is the first of the Nine Styles of Swordsmanship,” Sword Demon said, observing Ming He’s silence. He felt a flicker of disappointment that she couldn’t share his enthusiasm.

But then he reminded himself that she was still in the Wind Master realm. Her understanding of the world was limited, her experience still shallow.

Moreover, she hailed from the Eastern Region and likely had no knowledge of the Central Region’s Sword Pavilion.

Sword Pavilion.

Sword Demon sighed, his eyes momentarily shadowed, then he blinked away his emotions, his voice deep and soothing, “Today, on Sword Demon Mountain, with heaven and earth as witnesses, I formally pass down to you the Nine Styles of Swordsmanship.”

“The Inheritor—Mu Chen.” His words were soft, almost lost in the echo of his next declaration.

“The Successor, Ming He!”

“Ming He, pay close attention! The inheritance of Swordsmanship is profound and not to be taken lightly; I can only demonstrate this once.”

Sword Demon took hold of the branch once more, beginning with the Unsheathing Style. The branch sliced through the air, dispelling the darkness as a radiant light reclaimed dominion over the heavens and earth. Thunder roared from the ground, winds stirred, clouds shifted, and the sun, moon, and stars seemed to converge at the sword tip.

The sword moved mountains and rivers, the sword shook the very world!

“Point Sword Style.” Sword Demon murmured, the tip of the branch quivering subtly, concentrating the force of the entire branch into a single point, effortlessly piercing through mountains with its unyielding sharpness.

“Lift Sword Style!” The branch touched the ground and rose, stirring the winds and shattering the air, a faint glow appearing where the leaf fell, concealing a lethal intent.

“Cleaving Sword Style!” The verdant branch descended with the might of heaven and earth, plunging downward with a flick of the wielder’s wrist, cleaving through mountains.

“Hang Sword Style!”

“Collapse Sword Style!”

“Thrust Sword Style!”

“Cloud Sword Style!”

“Intercept Sword Style!”

The Nine Styles of Swordsmanship flowed from the slender branch, the elegance beneath the leaves reaching the heavens, a sharpness even the divine sword could not rival.

It was not the branch’s sharpness; it was not the divine sword’s weakness.

The difference lay solely in the wielder’s dedication.

The Jing Ying Sword at Ming He’s waist let out a resonant cry, harmonizing with the unparalleled sword cultivator, yet at this moment, it paled in comparison to that humble branch.

Ming He lowered her gaze, her right hand gently caressing the Jing Ying Sword, thinking that though she couldn’t match it now, perhaps in the future she could.

She was confident she could, that she could catch up to Sword Demon, that she could surpass Sword Demon.

So, just give her a little more time.

The Jing Ying Sword swayed faintly, as if in quiet agreement.

Ming He then raised her eyes, a subtle smile playing at the corners of her lips. The Nine Styles of Swordsmanship—were they not the Basic Sword Techniques of the Ancient Sword Cultivators?

It turned out she had already encountered and practiced them.

Liu Yun Sect, Liu Yun’s Nine Styles, Qu Lingyun.

Ming He lifted her head to gaze at the drifting clouds in the sky; the Liu Yun Nine Styles and the Nine Styles of Swordsmanship were strikingly similar.

Was it truly a coincidence?

While the sun and moon cycled in the outside world, the summit of Sword Demon Mountain remained shrouded in endless darkness.

Ming He had grown accustomed to the darkness, even beginning to cherish the fleeting moments when the sword light pierced through, heralding the dawn.

Though it couldn’t rival Sword Demon’s sword that moved heaven and earth, illuminating the skies, and though her sword light could only briefly illuminate half of the ancient pavilion at the mountain’s peak, Ming He still felt a quiet joy and pride.

Because that sword light belonged to her.

It belonged solely to her.

No Star Lock, no Four-direction Compass.

No chirping, no Big Dipper Seven Star Sword Array.

“Hiss—”

Sword Demon let out a long hiss, his blood-red eyes blazing as he lunged at Ming He with a clawed hand. She dodged with practiced ease, her robes untouched, and countered with a swift Cleaving Sword Style from above. The sharp blade nearly sliced off half of his hand.

Ming He raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on her lips as her wrist twisted, unleashing a relentless flow of sword intent. Her movements were unbound by any single style, every technique she had learned flowing seamlessly into the next.

Though her sword techniques were not connected, under her command, they moved like flowing clouds, layer upon layer, surging like waves, as if they had always belonged together, born for the same purpose.

Sword Demon’s killing moves missed their mark repeatedly, and his frustration grew. The magical mist coiled around him, the black energy thickening, making him appear even more menacing, almost merging with the darkness itself.

Yet Ming He remained calm and unshaken. Her sword struck his right shoulder, the blade slicing through a patch of black mist. A voice, aged but tinged with pain and a hint of amusement, followed, “Little Fellow, you strike hard!”

“Oh,” Ming He replied flatly, sheathing her long sword and turning to leave without a second glance at Sword Demon.

Sword Demon didn’t seem to mind. His eyes cleared momentarily, and he chuckled, following her to sit by the ancient pavilion, reverting to the gentle, harmless old man he once was.

“You’re just a hair’s breadth away from defeating me,” he said, his smile fading as he met Ming He’s indifferent gaze. He tried to sound reassuring, his tone light and casual.

Ming He let out a cold laugh, her eyes dark as night. “But I’ve only killed half of the Tian Yan Tribe on this mountain.”

Since Sword Demon had taught her the Nine Styles of Swordsmanship, she had devoted herself to training in the ancient pavilion.

To obtain the Four Seasons Flower, she had to defeat Sword Demon and eradicate the Tian Yan Tribe.

Sword Demon Mountain knew no sunrise or sunset, and Ming He could not draw upon spiritual energy. Time passed unnoticed, and all she could do was train relentlessly, hoping to achieve her goals sooner.

Over time, Sword Demon had fallen into madness many times. At first, she had survived thanks to the Merchants’ Guild token, but gradually, she had learned to rely on her own skills.

She had gone from being battered and bruised to emerging unscathed, protecting herself completely, and eventually turning the tide, striking back with her own blows.

Sword Demon was a remnant soul; ordinary attacks couldn’t touch him, let alone injure or defeat him. But the Nine Styles of Swordsmanship could.

He had told her she was just a step away from defeating him.

Yet Sword Demon Mountain was vast and endless, and the Tian Yan Tribe seemed inexhaustible. Even working tirelessly, she had only managed to kill half of them.

Obtaining the Four Seasons Flower would still take a long time.

Ming He sighed. After spending so much time with Sword Demon, she had asked about his past, but the old man had always remained tight-lipped, refusing to reveal his name or his story.

She knew he had a history, but if he didn’t wish to share, she wouldn’t press him.

To her, Sword Demon wasn’t a bad person—at least, not the one before her now. He was like a mentor, even if all he had taught her were the Nine Styles of Swordsmanship.

He was kind, yet he refused to give her the Four Seasons Flower.

Why?

“Actually, it’s not just a tiny bit,” Sword Demon said, breaking the silence. He hesitated before adding, “Once you’ve wiped out the Tian Yan Tribe, your chances of defeating me will be at their peak.” Given her current mastery of Swordsmanship.

Ming He: “…” Did he think that was comforting?

She exhaled, about to respond, when Sword Demon’s expression suddenly shifted. He glanced at her apologetically, his soul drifting lightly to the top of the ancient pavilion, vanishing from her sight in moments.

There was a deep panic in his eyes, as if he had been consumed by madness, overwhelmed by sorrow.

Ming He frowned, puzzled, but her gaze quickly sharpened as she turned toward the sea of clouds. A new presence had emerged—a human aura, yet one that didn’t belong to Sword Demon Mountain.

She stood, watching as a figure clad in black clothes emerged from the sea of clouds.

The man met Ming He’s wary gaze with a faint smile. “Friend Ming He.”

He waved casually, as if greeting an old friend.

But Ming He felt her breath catch, her body locking in place.

This was… the Binding Spirit Technique!

Yóu Lìng!

Envoy of the Black Wind Alliance.

Ming He was frozen, unable to move, as she watched him cross the sea of clouds, approaching her with deliberate slowness. His lips curled into a smile, but his eyes flickered to the cliff, then to the ancient pavilion, where his smile faltered for a moment. When it returned, it was cold and merciless. “Where is Sword Demon?”

He studied Ming He, unbothered by her silence, and let out a low chuckle, his voice tinged with madness. “Are you afraid of me?”

The “you” was directed at Sword Demon.

Yóu Lìng clenched one hand into a fist and rested the other on Ming He’s shoulder, his fingers tightening slightly around her collarbone. The pressure wasn’t painful, but it carried an air of destruction.

Ming He couldn’t resist or retaliate.

Yet Yóu Lìng himself trembled, nearly collapsing.

He leaned on Ming He for support, his laughter filled with bitter absurdity. “You, the one who orchestrated my clan’s downfall, who brought me to this wretched state—”

“Are actually afraid of me!”

He laughed until he was breathless, then grabbed Ming He and began to drag her toward the sea of clouds. His icy voice echoed across the mountain peak, shaking the very heavens. “Continue flattening the mountain!”