Chapter 141

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Chapter 141: Infusing Demonic Energy

Mu Qian’s laughter echoed through the dark chamber, mingling with Ming He’s soft smile, creating a moment of wild exuberance that seemed to shake the very darkness, causing faint glimmers of light to drift in the depths of the thick fog.

After a long while, Mu Qian’s laughter finally subsided. He steadied himself and used a sword-cleaning cloth to wipe away the tears at the corners of his eyes, his voice low yet resonant. “Junior Sister Ming He, you’re truly terrible at lying.”

The pristine white cloth was now dotted with bright red stains, which accentuated the youthful brightness of his eyes, adding a striking, almost seductive charm that clashed starkly with the gruesome scar marring his face.

His laughter carried a hint of darkness, a strange blend of contrasting energies that somehow coexisted within him.

Mu Qian continued to laugh as he watched Ming He, who remained silent. “The envoy sent me here to destroy your path of Swordsmanship,” he said.

“It has nothing to do with whether you join the Black Wind Alliance. After all, opportunities like this come only once. Miss it, and it’s gone forever.”

They both knew that even if the entire world turned against her, Ming He would never join the Black Wind Alliance.

If that weren’t the case, why would the envoy treat her with such special regard?

Yóu Lìng despised Ming He for her openness and transparency, yet admired her unyielding resolve and steadfastness, for these qualities were never truly at odds.

Having once been a sword cultivator himself, he understood the path well.

Especially someone like Ming He, who had risen to fame at a young age and possessed unparalleled talent.

It was easy to shatter her spiritual ocean, and not difficult to ruin her path of Swordsmanship. But to completely destroy her way of the sword? That was as impossible as reaching the heavens.

Not even the boundary between life and death could achieve such a feat.

So, the first step was to start with Qin Chu Yi.

Mu Qian chuckled softly as he observed Ming He, who kept her head bowed in silence. His demeanor mirrored Yóu Lìng’s—neither haughty nor arrogant, but approachable, as if he were still her senior brother, discussing Swordsmanship with her in a gentle and earnest manner.

“I heard that Junior Sister Ming He was forced to abandon her sword, yet managed to wield a lightweight, blunt bamboo sword to fend off her enemies, defeating the Sword Demon. Her brilliance that day rivaled—no, surpassed—her performance in Tianwu City.”

With a faint smile, he slowly reached out toward Ming He’s trembling gaze, his hand settling on the bamboo sword at her waist. He held it with a gentle, almost reverent touch.

“What a fine sword,” Mu Qian remarked. He flicked away the bloodstained cloth with a casual motion, gripping the sword’s blade with his right hand while his left traced the hilt, his fingers gliding along the bamboo sheath. When he reached the end, he swiftly drew the sword with a lightning-fast motion.

“Clang!”

The hilt of the bamboo sword was carelessly discarded, now soaked in blood alongside the cloth, its once-clear and radiant aura as a spiritual artifact utterly extinguished.

“To sever your path of Swordsmanship with this sword… it feels fitting, as though it completes our bond as fellow disciples,” Mu Qian said coldly, ignoring the sword’s futile struggle to resist. He focused his spiritual energy, his fifth-level Heaven Origin realm cultivation radiating unrestrained in the cramped, oppressive chamber.

The overwhelming pressure of a high-level cultivator bore down on Ming He, yet she remained upright, her gaze cold and unyielding as she faced Mu Qian.

To stand firm, even in the face of death, was her final act of defiance.

Mu Qian paid no heed. Instead, he channeled his spiritual energy into the sword. His power, derived from the Black Wind Alliance and the Blood Fury Pill, was tainted and foul.

The bamboo sword, a spiritual artifact attuned to the purity of a sword cultivator’s spirit, resisted fiercely. But it was merely an unranked artifact—how could it withstand the might of a Heaven Origin realm cultivator?

The emerald bamboo trembled, the sword’s body emitting a mournful cry as its faint spiritual essence was forcibly stripped away by the corrupt energy.

“Though the Floating Cloud Swordsmanship is lost to me, and I am no longer a sword cultivator, I recently comprehended a new technique—one crafted solely for you, Junior Sister Ming He.”

Mu Qian smiled faintly as he raised the bamboo sword, aiming it at Ming He’s heart. His eyes sharpened as he unleashed a surge of crimson sword energy, flicking his wrist to send the strike hurtling through the air.

For a moment, the chamber fell silent. Then, clouds churned and thunder roared—not a natural phenomenon, but the manifestation of Mu Qian’s cold, blood-soaked sword.

He retracted the bamboo sword and stood there, his expression as gentle as ever, the only evidence of his recent actions being the droplets of blood falling from the sword tip.

Despite his gentle demeanor, he had once been a sword cultivator.

Every sword cultivator is sharp and unmatched in brilliance, and Mu Qian was no exception.

In an instant, the clouds dispersed and the thunder ceased, the dim light once again swallowed by darkness. Yet, as a cultivator, he could naturally see through the dark.

Through the short distance of darkness, he clearly saw that Ming He’s black clothes were entirely soaked in blood, not a single piece of fabric left untouched.

Before him, the envoy Yóu Lìng had personally severed the tendons in her left hand.

Next, it would be her right hand.

“Junior Sister Ming He, does it hurt?” Mu Qian asked softly, his voice breaking the oppressive silence of the dark chamber.

Ming He could even faintly detect a hint of pity and helplessness in his tone.

Does it hurt?

Of course it does.

It had hurt when Yóu Lìng severed her tendons, enough to make her body tremble, her face pale, cold sweat dripping down, and leaving her feeling utterly lost.

With her tendons severed, she would never again wield a sword with that hand.

Though it was her left hand, and her main sword hand was her right, she was not foolish.

If they had severed her left, they would surely go after her right as well.

But knowing this, she had no way to resist; she had already exhausted all her means. What remained was to resign herself to fate.

Yet, the sword strike Mu Qian dealt her was a thousand times more painful than Yóu Lìng’s.

It was a pain that shook her very soul, leaving her unable even to tremble from the deep, bone-piercing agony.

Ming He no longer had the strength to lift her head or straighten her body, much less to tremble.

She kept her head down, held upright only by the constraining power of the bloodline, her body weakly standing, barely maintaining its posture.

Blood continuously spilled from the corner of her lips, dripping onto her black clothing and mingling with the blood seeping from her body, pooling on the ground with the existing bloodstains.

Blood flowed like a river, a fitting scene for the moment.

“What… do you still want to do?” Ming He asked in a faint voice, her lips bitter, struggling to speak after a long pause, her words weak and nearly inaudible, fragmented and breathless.

At such a moment, even speaking normally felt like a luxury.

The sword strike from Mu Qian had infused her body with the bloody and violent energy of the Blood Fury Pill, eroding her meridians.

To sever her path of Swordsmanship—this was how it was done.

A sword cultivator’s sword energy should be pure and untainted, unyielding to external corruption, but she was not at her peak. Having been hunted for months, her spirit and energy were exhausted, and over eighty percent of her sword energy had been depleted.

Coupled with the dark, oppressive feeling that came from the fierce energy being drawn out, her sword energy had naturally diminished significantly.

Moreover, this bloodline, along with the several incantations from Yóu Lìng, had stripped away her last remnants of resistance.

Sword energy and foreign blood energy could not coexist; thus, only one could prevail.

As for the Star Lock—

The bitterness at the corner of Ming He’s lips deepened, even seeping into her heart for a fleeting moment.

The Star Lock is an ancient spiritual artifact.

Its origins are extraordinary.

Its significance is profound.

The stakes surrounding it are monumental.

These are truths that the powerful allies she encountered along her journey had revealed to her, both intentionally and unintentionally.

Yet, the Star Lock also belongs to the realm of spiritual arts.

Since the battle at Tianwu City, her spiritual ocean has been damaged, and upon awakening, the Star Lock had shown no reaction.

She could no longer control it.

After the damage to her spiritual ocean, the Swordsmanship she had uniquely developed was ruthlessly discarded by Mu Qian in such a humiliating manner.

But was that all?

Ming He, covered in Bloody Stains and looking utterly disheveled, felt her consciousness blurring. She knew well that her sword energy had completely vanished, yet her gaze remained bright and fierce, untouched by the gloom of the dark chamber.

“There’s still much I intend to do,” Mu Qian said, his eyes deep and inscrutable. Without her noticing, he had taken out a snow-white handkerchief to wipe the blood from the bamboo sword in the same manner, speaking softly as he wiped.

“That sword technique just now was one I comprehended myself.”

The notion that his Swordsmanship had been destroyed meant his heart for the sword had shattered, making future progress in the path of the sword very difficult, but it did not mean he could no longer execute sword techniques.

Mu Qian’s original Swordsmanship was Floating Cloud Swordsmanship, but now that he had fallen into Blood River Hall, it had naturally diminished; yet Mu Chen was far more than that.

So, Mu Qian could still wield a sword, still execute sword techniques, still grasp the sword style, even if it was one born from darkness.

But Mu Chen could not.

“I named this sword technique,” Mu Qian said carelessly after cleaning the bamboo sword and tossing aside the handkerchief. “It’s called Broken Sword.”

“Does it sound fitting?” he asked slowly, looking at Ming He with a brow raised in expectation and hope.

In the next moment, he brought the bamboo sword down with a force akin to thunder, resting it on her right hand that was hanging at her side, lifting it slightly so that blood splattered everywhere as he severed the tendons in her right hand.

The action was strikingly similar to that of Yóu Lìng.

Now, Ming He had truly been stripped of her Swordsmanship.

With both hands rendered useless, she could never wield a sword for the rest of her life.

“I won’t cut your foot tendons, though,” Mu Qian said coolly.

After all, losing her hands meant she could forgo the path of the sword, but losing her feet would be problematic.

He glanced at Ming He, whose face was pale and drenched in cold sweat, blinking as he lowered his gaze, “As for this sword, you should have no further need for it.”

Upon hearing this, Ming He bore the excruciating pain throughout her body and the soul-rending tremors as she looked up, her hazy consciousness retaining the last shreds of stubbornness, forcing her eyes to meet Mu Qian’s mocking and playful gaze.

She ignored him, fixing her gaze on the bamboo sword in his hand, which was now stained dark and grimy after being wiped clean, her expression dark and filled with resentment, her whole being devoid of any brightness, replaced only by blazing hatred and fierce determination.

Very good, just right; this is what the envoy wanted to see.

The more she hated, the better, the more ruthless, the better.

Hate to the extreme, ruthlessness to the extreme—the old Ming He would naturally vanish.

This truth was understood not only by the envoy but also by him.

Mu Qian’s eyes flickered as he placed the bamboo sword across his raised knee and then slammed it down with force, his expression calm and devoid of emotion.

His knee would inevitably ache, so much so that even with spiritual energy coursing through it, bruises would still form by the next day.

But Mu Qian had never cared about such things.

He lifted the bamboo sword, now broken into two pieces, and let it slip gently from his fingers. It fell swiftly into the pool of blood below, joining the long sword and several blood-soaked cloths, creating a stark and unforgettable scene in the vast expanse of the Blood River.

Ming He’s eyes widened in fury, her gaze icy and filled with seething resentment as she stared at Mu Qian.

Ming He rarely allowed herself to feel anger.

When the demon race invaded, she had fought them with her sword, but she had not been angry—they were not worth her wrath. When the Imperial Palace issued a bounty and the human race turned against her, she had felt a cold detachment but no anger.

Because they were fools.

But now, she was truly angry, her fury giving way to a deep, consuming hatred.

Yóu Lìng had said she would find someone who understood to carry out this task.

And indeed, she had found the right person.

Mu Qian had once been a sword cultivator, so he understood the essence of Swordsmanship and the profound significance a sword held for a sword cultivator.

A sword cultivator cherishes their sword more than life itself.

The bamboo sword might not be as renowned as the Jing Ying Sword, the Blue Sea Sword, the Longquan Sword, or the Ghostly Sword, but that did not diminish its importance.

Every sword that belonged to Ming He carried the weight of a life.

They were all part of her Swordsmanship, each one a testament to her growth.

Few things could stir her emotions so deeply, but Qin Chu Yi and her swords stood at the forefront.

How dare Mu Qian? To destroy a sword cultivator’s Swordsmanship was to invite the wrath of heaven and earth.

Especially for a sword cultivator like her.

Ming He pressed her lips together as if to speak, but when she opened her mouth, a thick mist of blood sprayed forth. The light in her eyes dimmed gradually, yet her gaze remained locked on Mu Qian, unyielding.

This face—even if she were to fall from the heavens after death, she would never forget it.

But Mu Qian was not finished. He saw Ming He’s condition and knew she would not last much longer. If her wounds were left untreated, death would surely claim her.

Yet, he still had one more thing to say.

“Junior Sister Ming He, what I infused into your meridians through the Broken Sword Style was not the blood energy of the demon race, but the demonic energy of the demon race.”

The envoy had indeed wanted Ming He to fall into darkness, but their ambitions did not end there.

Beyond the obsession in her heart, they sought to bring the demon race to power over the Tianwu Continent, making the Star Lock an indispensable tool.

It belonged to Ming He, and so Ming He could only belong to the demon race.

Even if she were reduced to nothing more than a puppet.

A puppet!

Mu Qian sighed, watching as Ming He’s pain overwhelmed her, her consciousness fading and her eyes closing. He raised his hand slowly, tracing an incantation in the air. Darkness flowed into her forehead, and for a moment, his face turned pale.

He paid it no mind, pausing only briefly to observe Ming He’s silent form before stepping out of the dark chamber.

With her meridians infused with demonic energy and her tendons rendered useless, this step was complete.

What came next would be the responsibility of the hall master and the envoy.

His role in this matter was likely over.

“Shen Yue, take good care of her,” Mu Qian said lightly, addressing the woman standing outside the dark chamber.

“Yes,” Shen Yue replied in a low voice, brushing past him. She glanced into the dark chamber, where the shadows could not conceal the crimson stains, and for a moment, her breath caught. Then, with a wave of her hand, she severed the bloodline and lifted Ming He, moving her to a different place.