Chapter 117
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“Back then, we did no wrong.”
The old man, in a rare drunken stupor, ate his fill for the first time in seven years, and finally had a peaceful sleep—for the first time in just as long. After that, he never opened his eyes again. Just like that, he passed away in his sleep. This elder, whom the village children used to call Old Monster, passed with a calm expression upon his face. His once twisted features relaxed, and the deep furrows of his brows smoothed out.
Even the ghastly visage—once as though chewed by some fiend—grew still and serene.
“Ah, what a pity.”
“Someone had finally come looking for him, but just as they did, Old Monster was gone.”
So the villagers sighed.
“Look at that face—his wrinkles aren’t even that deep anymore. Must be that young man promised to take him away, and that made him happy, truly happy for once. And when the heart is light, when all the burdens are let go, it’s often not a good thing. When the heart clings to something, when there’s still longing, a person can hold on, can carry on breathing. But when the burden is released, and the wine is poured too freely… well, this is what happens.”
“He was just about to enjoy some peace. Such a shame.”
“Indeed, far too great a shame.”
The people all said so, voices full of regret.
Even the old village head shared in that sorrow. But he had always been warm-hearted, and so he personally helped handle the Old Monster’s funeral affairs.
The young Daoist remained behind, staying to see to the last rites of this former Iron Cavalry Commandant. He didn’t have enough worldly coin for a coffin, so he returned to the Mingzhen Dao Alliance, exchanging his medicinal pills for mundane silver. Then he hired a village carpenter to prepare the coffin. The old man was dressed in clean robes, and now lay peacefully within the coffin—as if only asleep.
It was as though he’d clung to life like a man hanging from a cliff’s edge, unwilling to let go, his last breath held fast—just to witness one final outcome. And when he finally saw it, at last, he let go, and departed. He had left behind a will. It was short. He said when he died, just bury him up in the mountains. But there was one request—
Let him face the direction of the capital.
Everyone was moved by this. “Truly a former war hero. Loyal and brave to the end.”
Beside him lay a cavalry waist token—ironwood inlaid with copper, with characters cast in silver.
On one side, the word Loyalty.
On the other, Bravery.
The young man ran his fingers over the token. The side engraved with Loyalty was already covered in scratches—each one made by carving the words kill the thief again and again. The characters had long since lost their shape. As for the side with Bravery, it seemed to have been touched countless times. The character had been worn smooth. On the day of the burial, the old village head looked on with emotion. He reached into his robe and pulled out a wine flask. “Seven years of the worst wine, but now the day has come. Let me show you what real wine tastes like.”
“To tell the truth, young brother, you might laugh at me—but this bottle was originally meant for myself.”
“I used to say he drank only swill, and he mocked me right back, said I wouldn’t know a good wine if it bit me. How could I take that? So I had my son buy me a fine bottle from the prefectural city. Real good stuff. I planned to bring it back, wait for the right moment, and then give him a taste—open his eyes a little. I came up with all sorts of plans in my head, you wouldn’t believe it. Hah… it’s funny, I’d sometimes think about it so much, I’d end up laughing to myself.”
“I just wanted him to see the world a little, lose a bit of face, give me a moment to feel smug about. But now that he’s gone so suddenly, it’s like the fun’s all drained out. I just feel… empty inside.”
“A whole life, and not one cup of good wine. What a waste.”
The old village head poured the wine out.
Then he gave a sheepish smile, leaned on his walking stick, and slowly walked away.
The young Daoist held that waist token in his hand, and buried it along with the wine.
Just as the old man had written in his will—he was laid to rest in the mountains, his body facing the capital. The young Daoist could almost see it: those lion-like eyes, wide open, glaring fiercely toward that direction. Even in death, he refused to look away. He left no name behind. No need for a so-called grave marker. To be buried in the green mountains—that was enough.
After the burial, there were still a few matters to tend to. When Qi Wuhuo helped clean out the old man’s room, he found something curious: though the one-legged old man had spent seven years pawning off everything he had for cloudy wine to numb the days, he had somehow kept one final possession. Even the village head was surprised. “That old rascal, so he did still hold on to something…Young brother, come give me a hand…”
“Hhhrgh—why’s this thing so heavy!”
The village head grunted from inside the house.
When Qi Wuhuo stepped in, he saw the old man dragging out a box.
The young Daoist reached out and lifted it. It was incredibly heavy. Even for him, his wrist sank slightly under the weight, and his brow rose just a little.
In the Daoist path, when one walks the Three Talents, each step enters a state beyond the ordinary.
Moreover, his Primordial Essence originated from the [Great Yellow Court of the Heavenly Realm]. Coupled with a full year of unceasing cultivation beneath the starlit firmament, day and night, from sunrise to moonfall, he had laid a solid foundation. In terms of sheer strength alone, he was already formidable.
Yet even he felt its weight—one could well imagine how heavy the item was.
With a single breath, he pulled it out and opened the casket. Though it was broad daylight, an indescribable chill suddenly emerged, seeping out like flowing water.
The old village head couldn’t help but shudder.
It was a sword—a broad one. A common sword would have a blade no wider than three fingers, but this one was a full palm in width.
The blade was quite heavy.
By the standards of orthodox sword techniques—those that emphasized agility, with thrusts and flicks at their core—this sword was undoubtedly ill-suited.
Qi Wuhuo cultivated the [Hunyuan Sword Canon]. With one glance, he could tell this was a rare and unorthodox weapon. It did not follow the path of light and nimble strikes. Instead, its way was of grand, sweeping movements, centered on cleaving and slashing. Should one ride forth astride a steed, armored and armed, with the weight of several thousand—perhaps even over ten thousand—jin driving its momentum, a single swing of the blade would carve through even fearsome beasts with ease.
The old village head braced against his knees, panting heavily. “Huff… huff… huff…”
“That old fellow… I didn’t think he still had something like this lying around.”
“I thought he’d long since pawned off everything he owned.”
“A sword this heavy—even if sold merely as scrap metal, the money would’ve been enough for him to drink the finest wine in the village till the day he died. And yet he never touched it. It seems this thing truly meant a great deal to him.” The old village head reached out to touch the sword, but just as his hand neared it, he seemed to be pricked by something. Even without making contact, a sudden, searing pain shot through his wrist. Reflexively, he yanked his hand back.
He could almost hear a furious roar echoing by his ears. The suddenness of it shook his spirit. Alarmed, he looked around.
“Hm? What was that sound?”
“Did I imagine it?”
Qi Wuhuo’s fingers moved subtly. With the Mudra of Fearlessness, he calmed the village head’s momentary panic into clarity and stillness.
He followed his own Dao. Whether methods were of the Buddhist or Daoist path, so long as they served his purpose, he would make them his own.
The village head’s emotions soon settled. He dismissed the sensation as a figment of his imagination and quickly put the incident out of mind. After exchanging a few words with Qi Wuhuo, he finally patted the young Daoist on the shoulder and sighed. “That sword was his keepsake. You’re a good child—not here to take advantage, and even helped him on his final journey. This blade ought to be yours.”
“Don’t be fooled by this old man’s years—my eyes may be old, but they’re not blind.”
“If it had been those so-called relatives of his, hah… they wouldn’t even have gotten past the village gates.”
The old man’s smile carried a tinge of melancholy.
“Thank you.”
“You let that stubborn old bastard finally have a sip of warm wine and a proper sleep.”
He patted Qi Wuhuo’s shoulder once more, then leaned on his cane and walked away.
The young Daoist watched the old village head depart, then crouched down. As his fingers touched the sword’s body, he too felt a piercing sensation—an illusion akin to ten thousand fine needles stabbing into his skin. The first time he touched the blade, his hand instinctively recoiled. But after a brief pause, he reached out once more, this time running his palm across the sword’s surface.
He sensed a dense and potent aura contained within the blade, and in that moment, it was as though he heard the roars of ten thousand soldiers charging across the battlefield. Fierce howls echoed by his ears.
His hand brushed from the tip of the sword down to the hilt. His fingers closed around it.
He paused.
Then, his arm exerted force, lifting the sword in a sudden, powerful motion.
Zheng!!!
A low, resounding sword cry rang out, like thunder cracking across the earth.
Dust surged around him in concentric ripples.
The blade trembled in his grasp. Qi Wuhuo tightened his grip and raised the sword until it was parallel to the ground, the blade held horizontally before him. Its luster was clear and bright, as if it had often been lovingly touched by someone over the years. In his mind’s eye, he saw the image of that old soldier drunkenly cradling the sword and howling into the night.
In the reflection along the blade, the youth saw his own eyes—but in that fleeting instant, it was as if he were once again the boy who, at the age of nine, had already walked through a living hell.
He stood in silence for a moment. Then, holding the sword in his right hand, he raised his left.
He bit into the tip of his finger, and with the blood that welled forth, he wrote upon the surface of the blade.
[Decree]!
Before the chaos of the world, there was the Supreme Scarlet Spirit Script.
In that instant, spiritual resonance erupted. Qi Wuhuo’s robes billowed outward, stirred by the force that surged from the single word. As though awakened by it, cries and wails rang in his ears—shouts of desperation, screams of anguish. The young Daoist slowly closed his eyes, and within that inner stillness, he saw countless karmic entanglements, the fleeting dust of all living beings, myriad regrets, myriad obsessions—
‘Amitābha… this disciple breaks his vows today…’
‘Senior Brother! Eldest Senior Brother! My leg—it’s broken! Go! Just go!’
‘Help us! Please, help us! Master! Please save us…’
‘Exorcise the demon! Exorcise the demon!’ ‘The Dao esteems life, delivers all beings—disciples of the Sword Sect, draw your swords!’
‘Without killing, there can be no salvation. Amitābha… Ancestral Masters, this disciple must commit slaughter today…’
‘To kill to end killing—your soul will fall into the endless netherworld, forsaken by the Buddha.’
‘Then so be it—this disciple renounces the Buddha.’
‘The Dao treasures life. To kill or to protect, all within a single thought—this too is the Dao.’
The voices overlapped endlessly, slowing the youth’s movements. Though hindered, he did not cease. And finally, after the last of the howls of rage, the cries of the dying, and the cacophony of voices faded away, one last cry remained—one final, blood-soaked roar:
‘Kill the thief! Kill the thief!!’
‘Kill the thief!!!’
The final stroke of the command character was completed.
A surge of Qi burst forth.
Every famed sword must possess spirit. It cannot be a mere tool of slaughter. Only those that bear the souls of the living, that carry within them the sorrows and remnants of the mortal world—only they may be called a true weapon. Otherwise, it is no more than a mundane object.
The young Daoist opened his eyes and said: “Slay the thief…”
The long sword in his hand swept out horizontally and then slashed downward with force—each stroke imbued with a chilling, ruthless intent, like a long-restrained roar finally let loose. In the end, he drew back the sword, gripping the hilt with both hands, the tip resting against the earth like a ceremonial bow. He said:
“Seven years ago, I thank you all.”
“Seven years hence, it is mine to shoulder.”
With a flick of his wrist, the sword rang out with a long cry, like a dragon’s roar. Its body shimmered like flowing spring water, and the young Daoist sheathed it into the sword case upon his back.
Even now, a trace of Qi still lingered upon that blade.
Upon it, a name inscribed in Cloud Seal script:
“The sword’s name—Slay-the-Thief!(Sha Zei).”
After all matters here had been settled,
Qi Wuhuo pushed open the door and departed. The neighbors nearby watched as the young Daoist shut the door behind him, fastening the wooden gate with a rusted chain and lock. Someone asked curiously: “Say, little brother, you’ve been working hard these past few days. But come to think of it—we still don’t know: what is your relation to this old wierdo—I mean, this old man?”
“Relation?”
The young Daoist thought for a moment, then replied:
“I am an old acquaintance of [theirs].”
“Oh, I see… An old acquaintance. No wonder. No wonder.”
“Hm? Wait, that’s not right.”
“They? That’s strange. Wasn’t there only one person living here?”
Only after a while did the neighbor react and try to ask further—
But the young Daoist had already gone far, his figure growing smaller with each step, until it could no longer be seen.
A Daoist robe on his body, a wooden hairpin holding up his black hair, a sword case on his back.
Within that sword case were now two swords. The first sword—a blade of a mortal soldier. Picked up when he was nine, forged from iron tempered a hundred times, three feet three inches in length, with a round hilt. He once relied on it to survive and escape death amidst a great calamity. The second sword, named Slay-the-Thief, is inscribed with Cloud Seal script. Four feet one inch long. It responded to cause and effect, took on the red dust of the mortal world, and thereby became a Lingbao.
“The [wish] you all once held, Qi Wuhuo—”
“No.”
His right hand rose, middle and ring fingers curled inward, thumb pressing down upon their tips.
He formed a Daoist hand seal.
“This poor Daoist, Taishang Xuanwei, has accepted it.”
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Orluros’s Vault of Secrets: Hi everyone, I’m taking a small vacation XD The posting will resume in September. If you liked the chapter feel free to donate 🙂 and if you find any errors in the translation please mention them in the comments here or in discord
