Chapter 44

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Chapter 44: Title

“How generous of her,” Feng Yi murmured, watching his sword clash with the Long Sword. His lips curled mockingly. “Pathetic!”

A sword cultivator’s blade should never be carelessly entrusted to others.

Suiyin’s eyes hardened. “Sneaking onto this stage disguised as a junior disciple? That’s the real joke.”

“Cheeky brat!”

Feng Yi’s wrist snapped forward. Spiritual power erupted, sending a gale tearing across the platform. Suiyin staggered under the force, barely keeping her footing.

Behind the barrier’s glow, sect disciples watched as another strike from Feng Yi drained the color from Suiyin’s face, forcing her backward.

“This isn’t a fair fight!” Lu Ciyou seethed quietly, fists clenched to avoid drawing attention.

She turned to find Xia Shi trembling, paler than Suiyin herself.

“Hey!” Lu Ciyou nudged her. “Poison acting up?”

Xia Shi blinked, lips pressed tight. “It’s nothing.”

Her short nails dug into her palms, sharp enough to hurt.

Long lashes hid the pain in her eyes.

The young lady continued obliviously, “That sword looks better on Suiyin anyway.”

Xia Shi: “…”

The deeper she breathed, the sharper the ache grew.

Just now, she saw Suiyin holding the Heartless Sword. The sword body faintly glowed with icy light as if it had "awakened".

Yes, "awakened".

Since Senior Sister Sect Leader repaired the sword and returned it, Xia Shi had held it daily, carefully cleaning it, practicing sword moves whenever possible.

Yet no matter what she tried – even when channeling spiritual power – the sword remained lifeless in her grasp.

Though reluctant to admit it, Xia Shi faced the truth: her reforged sword had become completely "dead".

She’d blamed the Heartless Sword’s missing spirit, yet now it awakened in Suiyin’s hands.

No excuses remained.

The Heartless Sword had chosen a new master.

At this realization, Xia Shi began laughing quietly.

How absurd. How utterly pathetic.

A sword cultivator still lived, yet her blade had taken another master.

Unprecedented – she’d become the first sword master in Nine Realms history abandoned by her weapon.

Countless had discarded swords before, but she pioneered being the discarded one.

"You… alright?" Lu Ciyou asked, watching Xia Shi’s trembling laughter, the red-rimmed eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Wasn’t it cold poison you caught? Did it rot your brain? Why acting so mad?" The young lady flustered, "D-do you have medicine?"

She made to rise and summon her physician.

Xia Shi gripped her arm, face hidden behind one trembling hand. "I’m fine."

Only when Xia Shi stopped shaking did Lu Ciyou reluctantly sit.

The arena situation worsened – Suiyin’s lips now bore bloodstains – yet Lu Ciyou couldn’t focus fully, torn between stage and companion.

The young lady’s eyes darted anxiously between watching Suiyin’s peril and checking if Xia Shi trembled again, until her vision blurred from strain.

As she rubbed her eyes, Xia Shi murmured, "Really, I’m…"

"Who’s worried about you?" Lu Ciyou snapped, jerking her head away when caught staring. "Don’t flatter yourself!"

Xia Shi: "…"

Knowing the young lady’s pride, Xia Shi remained silent. Her gaze sharpened on Feng Yi’s sword moves below.

The man never changed – disguising himself as a Junior Disciple to duel, defeating each opponent with single strikes.

How gratifying.

Four-hundred-year-old…

Xia Shi bit back the thought.

She too counted four centuries.

Yet battling twenty-year-old juniors at his age? Utter shamelessness!

“Enough playing with you. Time for her to come down.” Feng Yi’s sword move abruptly shifted, thrusting toward Suiyin’s vital points.

He refused to believe Xia Wuwei would stand idle while her disciple’s life hung in the balance. The Xia Wuwei from his memory prized loyalty above all.

Whatever had transpired in Qinghu Region during those Four Hundred Years meant nothing to him. He sought only one thing.

Victory.

To surpass Xia Wuwei, to prove himself the sole genius of swordsmanship.

His narrowed gaze slid to the sword in Suiyin’s hand, sparking recollection of his last duel with Xia Wuwei. The memory was so distant he couldn’t recall how long they’d fought or how many sword moves they’d exchanged. Only the ending remained sharp—his blade knocked aside, that triumphant young woman gazing down at him, pride blazing in her eyes as she declared:

“I won. Again.”

How casually that “again” had been uttered.

Never had he bested Xia Wuwei. Never!

This defeat festered into one of Feng Yi’s heart’s demons, haunting him like vengeful spirits during critical moments of meditation, repeating endlessly:

«I won again.»

«I won again.»

«I won again.»

…

Dark crimson flickered in his pupils. His sword tip veered toward Suiyin’s wrist.

Even absent from Xia Wuwei’s grasp, he’d make this blade taste dirt today.

Suiyin tensed, attempting retreat, but an invisible force pinned her in place.

That descending strike would cripple her hand.

The injury mattered little, but dropping Xia Shi’s sword meant enduring her wrath.

As sword energy surged, Suiyin suddenly let go of the sword, allowing the Long Sword to drop straight down.

Feng Yi faltered, his spiritual power stuttering.

Unavoidable energy slashed through. Suiyin’s right hand went limp at her side, white-hot pain searing through her nerves.

Her foot hooked the falling blade, flinging it back into her left grasp.

Crimson rivulets raced down her fingers, drenching the red dress at her hip.

Tendons severed. A heartbeat slower, and her entire palm would’ve been shorn off.

“Madwoman! Sacrificing her own hand!” Lu Ciyou’s face flushed scarlet below the platform. “Shameless fossil!”

Xia Shi’s jaw tightened. Fool, she thought. What good was saving the sword if she ruined her sword hand? Did the girl not grasp how vital hands were to sword cultivators?

Onstage, Suiyin smiled through the sweat beading her brow. Her trembling left arm raised the wavering blade.

“Not my sword. If it fell… she’d be cross.”

“Foolish,” Feng Yi scoffed. “Was this truly worth sacrificing a hand for?”

His earlier sword strike had aimed to force the opponent to drop her weapon, yet this junior chose to sever her own tendons rather than relinquish her blade.

“Absolutely worth it,” Suiyin answered solemnly. “She entrusted this sword to me. How could I betray that trust? One hand matters little when I still have another.”

She lifted her sword-bearing left hand with casual defiance, showing no trace of pain from the severed tendons.

Feng Yi studied her, an unsettling familiarity washing over him – through her, he glimpsed another’s shadow.

He snorted. “Truly cut from the same cloth.”

Even their infuriating stubbornness matched perfectly.

“Then I’ll claim your remaining hand.”

Wind blades coalesced around his sword energy. Feng Yi vanished, his blade tearing through air with explosive force.

Suiyin’s left-handed swordsmanship remained flawless. Eyes narrowing, she summoned whirling snow beneath her feet. Crimson robes flared against white powder, her movements flowing like drifting clouds.

She knew his cultivation level far surpassed hers – he wasn’t truly confined by the barrier between life and death. Yet his true aim was forcing Xia Shi’s appearance. She’d never yield to such schemes. Especially when…

Aunt Yan desired the Wugui sword. Retreat meant surrendering it to him.

Compromise wasn’t an option.

Her missing hand slowed reactions. As Feng Yi pressed his assault, Suiyin suddenly shut her eyes.

Within her consciousness, beneath the Ten Thousand Sword Tomb, a white-clad figure dueled a shadowy mimic.

The shadow perfectly replicated Feng Yi’s current techniques!

The familiar white swordsman countered each move, exposing weaknesses Suiyin now mirrored.

Her blade rose, following the phantom’s guidance.

Eyes closed, her strikes grew sharper, more precise than before.

“Impossible!” Feng Yi’s brow furrowed.

Late Winter Snow and Everything Awaits Spring were Xia Wuwei’s original sword techniques, inseparable from her personal sword intent. Few could master them.

This junior… posed real threat.

Given time, she might claim the Nine Realms’ swordsmanship crown.

First the master surpasses me, now the disciple?

Rancor blossomed. Feng Yi abandoned pretense, shattering the life-and-death barrier disguise. The oppressive aura of a Great Ascension cultivator erupted, concentrated on the stage yet still making spectators gasp under its weight.

“Old fox finally shows himself,” Lu Ciyou spat through bloodied lips, complexion ghostly pale. “Hear this, you decrepit fraud! I’ll say it – cough – shameless relic!”

Xia Shi pressed an elixir to her mouth. “Silence.”

Feng Yi’s killing intent now carried demonic taint.

“Halt!” Ye Xiao rose from the highest seats, voice thunderous.

The arena barrier couldn’t be lifted – unleashed Great Ascension spiritual power would crush nearby disciples. Sword energy crackled as containment spells strained.

"You probably don’t want your disciples suffering unexpected calamities." Ye Xiao spoke to those beside him before turning an icy gaze toward Mo Ye. "Sect Leader Mo, will you truly not intervene?"

Mo Ye glanced helplessly at the competition stage. "Sect Leader Ye, you know I can’t restrain him now."

"Then remove your disciples from this area!" Ye Xiao snapped.

The sky darkened abruptly, thunder growling within the clouds. Disciples below hunched under the oppressive pressure, quickly scattering at their leaders’ orders. Thousands retreated through the air, fanning outward from the venue’s center.

To watch the spectacle, one needed to stay alive.

Sanqing Realm disciples followed Yan Li’s lead. Before departing, she threw a glance toward Lu Ciyou, relieved to see Master Lu already dragging people away.

"Father! Release me! That’s my friend!" Lu Ciyou struggled against the grip.

"Move!"

Dragged forcibly past Xia Shi, Lu Ciyou grabbed her arm. "Why are you frozen?! Flee! Your frail body can’t withstand this!"

_Riiip._

The young lady stared at the torn sleeve in her hand—its edge cleanly sliced as by a blade. When she looked up, the seated figure had vanished.

Within moments, the grand competition grounds held only a handful.

Ye Xiao began lowering the barrier when white fabric flashed in his peripheral vision. Shen Huaiwen’s urgent cry followed: "Junior sister’s gone!"

His gaze snapped to the stage. Where two had stood, a third now appeared—none other than Xia Wuwei.

Onstage—

Feng Yi provoked repeated uses of Late Winter Snow. He’d realized Suiyin mimicked the sword moves but lacked true comprehension of sword intent, making her execution clumsy.

Satisfaction swelled as he toyed with her—Xia Wuwei’s blade in her hand, Xia Wuwei’s techniques failing miserably against him. It felt like battling Xia Wuwei herself.

Madness tinged his bloodshot eyes. His blade danced erratically, carving wounds across Suiyin’s body. The final strike aimed unerringly at her sword-holding left hand.

Today, he’d seize Xia Wuwei’s blade.

The woman before him had become the embodiment of his centuries-old hatred.

Suiyin couldn’t count her bleeding wounds. Her soaked robes clung uncomfortably.

_Why?_

She’d replicated every move from the white-clad figure in her consciousness sea. Why did her Late Winter Snow falter so completely?

Gritting her teeth, she forced her trembling arm upward, channeling the last dregs of Dantian’s spiritual power into the sword. She even split off wisps of consciousness.

Xia Shi’s words echoed: _A sword cultivator needs but one blade in their lifetime._

Then she would stake everything on this one sword!

The moisture on the arena instantly froze. Suiyin gripped her sword and bellowed, finally unleashing the technique "Everything Awaits Spring."

What did it matter if there was no sword intent? As long as she remained standing last, even mutual destruction couldn’t frighten her!

After the strike, iron bitterness flooded her throat. Darkness swallowed Suiyin’s vision as relentless buzzing filled her ears.

Though her limbs turned leaden, she clung to the blade. Summoning her final strength, she pressed the weapon to her chest before collapsing to her knees.

Darkness claimed her mind as arms encircled her, carrying the achingly familiar scent of winter blossoms.

Choking on blood, she strained to curve her lips upward:

"Your sword… unharmed."