Chapter 136: Do You Have a Master or Lineage?

The man clad in battle robes saw that refined and handsome Daoist reclining sideways, offering no reply, as if asleep. Though he had come at his master’s behest, given the capabilities of his master and the two martial uncles, there was no need to send word ahead. The very moment he gave rise to the thought of coming to pay a visit, that mere flicker of intent would already have been sensed by his martial uncle.

He was not truly asleep—he simply did not wish to meet.

He recalled again the instructions given by his master before entering closed-door cultivation.

He had said that if he were to visit unannounced, Uncle Shangqing likely would not be too pleased.

It was to be expected that he would [close his eyes and rest lightly] for a short while.

At that time, he had asked his master how he should respond to such a situation.

The Yuqing Yuanshi Great Heavenly Venerable had only smiled and replied:

“Let him be. It matters not if you wait a while.”

Thus, this man—who held great authority even within the Heavenly Court—stood quietly without speaking. He would never take a seat before his martial uncle. His gaze swept slightly across the surroundings, and he happened to notice that beside the Taiji Diagram, there was another meditation cushion prepared. This made him mildly surprised.

Could it be that someone else often came by to sit and drink tea with his martial uncle?

Who could be worthy of taking a seat in the presence of the Shangqing Lingbao Great Heavenly Venerable?

Who could it be?

Perhaps a senior cultivator in secluded cultivation? Or a close acquaintance of his martial uncle?

Though curious, he did not investigate further. Instead, he withdrew his thoughts and calmed his spirit, quietly awaiting the awakening of the Great Dao Sovereign before him.

What Qi Wuhuo saw before him: countless characters radiating spiritual resonance, gathering and coalescing to form a man both real and undeniable. His mind instinctively began to analyze, and in that moment, the black-robed Daoist—his form wavering between illusion and reality—glanced at him and casually asked: “What are you thinking about, little Daoist?”

The youth replied: “Within the Great Dao Sovereign’s written words, there was divine will infused.”

“One who beholds them can see, reflected within their own spirit, the image of the Great Dao Sovereign himself.”

The black-robed Daoist gave a faint nod and said calmly: “That is so.”

Such comprehension, though admirable, was still within the realm of the ordinary.

He merely spoke of what he had come to understand.

In truth, it was precisely because this young Daoist had grasped the meaning of the text inscribed upon the scroll, and had truly formed comprehension within his heart, that the latent mechanism within the scroll was activated—and thus, he appeared.

Hopefully, the boy would not prove too dull.

The young Daoist pondered a moment further, then said: “If the earlier script was like using a brush to paint upon a scroll, then this time, it feels as though the brush falls upon the void itself. No longer is it flat like ink on parchment—it has become something dimensional. Ah… is that it? This time, it is not as if each word simply carries intent directly.”

“Rather, each character bears a different aspect of spirit resonance and will.”

“When assembled together, it becomes like a split divine thought, or a manifested incarnation, capable of walking the world as though real and tangible?”

The black-robed Daoist paused slightly in his movement.

His brows lifted ever so faintly.

Oh? Now that was interesting.

Qi Wuhuo’s voice paused; something stirred within his heart.

If that was so—

Then, if one were to base their writing upon cloud seal script and compose an article using this method, could one not channel spiritual resonance through the strokes, giving rise to myriad wondrous transformations?

If that were the case, raising the brush would bring forth coiling dragons, and lowering it would summon mist rising over Yunmeng.

The myriad things and myriad forms under Heaven—as long as one had seen them, could they not all be summoned forth by the brush’s edge, and thereby reproduced?

Hmm… the scroll did state that the sword was but one branch of the Great Dao. Among the Three Thousand Daos beneath Heaven, none are beyond reach.

If one pursued the sword as a path, could it not be the same?

Such musings were no more than the voice of his own spirit.

Yet to the black-robed Daoist, they were heard as clearly as spoken aloud.

His expression had already shown a trace of surprise.

Such comprehension, to this degree?

Hah!

Most promising indeed!

With this level of insight, he would not fall short even compared to the lineage of Taishang.

He would far surpass the disciples taken by Yuqing. Those under the Yuqing lineage were all rigid thinkers—upright and earnest in cultivation, with extraordinary perseverance and no lack of talent. Yet they lacked flexibility of mind. They clung solely to the Great Dao, never questioning the teachings of Yuqing, and few among them could take one principle and draw forth many.

Now this was beginning to grow interesting.

The black-robed Daoist gave a slight nod.

Then, without hurry, he sat down.

Not leaving the young Daoist a moment to speak, his gaze deep and unwavering, his voice calm and even, he said:

“I am but a form born from a single thought, relying upon words to exist—not a lasting entity.”

“Neither true body, nor original self.”

“No need for formalities, no need for many words.”

“Today, there is no distinction of rank or status—only a discourse on the Dao, and a discussion of the sword.”

The young Daoist immediately understood. He held the sword in reverse, its tip resting lightly against the ground, and offered a subtle bow with both hands cupped in salute.

“This humble Daoist, Wuhuo, pays respects to the Great Dao Sovereign.”

The black-robed Daoist, seeing that the youth had grasped his intent, nodded slightly and said: “Good.”

“Be seated.”

He gestured for the young Daoist to sit cross-legged before him. The horsetail whisk in his hand was held like a sword, and with a single sweep, he began to speak. Each word fell into the ear like a chime of truth. Its profundity could only be sensed in the heart—it was beyond the confines of words. What was spoken could not be neatly passed on or discussed with others; it was something known only to the self and to the one before him.

Qi Wuhuo simply calmed his heart and listened. Gradually, he was drawn into the world the black-robed Daoist spoke of.

It was not a divine ability, nor could it even truly be called cultivation.

It was simply a conversation. A pure and simple exchange. It did not touch upon any key cultivation techniques, nor any sword-immortal arts or dharma formulas.

In fact, to call it a discourse on the Dao might even be too lofty—

It was more like idle talk.

They spoke of the myriad things beneath Heaven, of experiences and travels, of all the things one sees and passes through.

The myriad stars and celestial signs, the mountains, rivers, lakes, and seas. The multitude of living beings and their forms, and even the affairs of the mundane world.

Only occasionally did the conversation brush against swordsmanship—yet when it did, everything they had spoken of earlier was drawn together and woven into it, like a grandmaster of the game setting a trap, where what once seemed like idle play became the killing move.

The young Daoist lost all self-awareness and became utterly immersed—bewitched as though drunk.

Suddenly, the black-robed Daoist stopped speaking. He said only: “You’ve listened to my words—but I too should see what you’re made of.”

“Only with give and take can this be called a discourse.”

“Otherwise, would it not become merely a lecture in which I pass down a method to you?”

“That would not do. That would not do.”

“Let me see your swordsmanship.”

The young Daoist rose to his feet and reached for the Kill the Thief Sword.

Yet before he could even touch it, without any visible movement from the black-robed Daoist, the sword naturally rose into the air and came to rest before him.

The Great Dao Sovereign lowered his gaze slightly, observing the blade—its body bore traces of tempering the Red Dust into Lingbao. Though the method was crude, and the technique nearly non-existent, this style of refining the mundane into the sacred held a purity and authenticity far surpassing that of so-called masters of artifact refinement who prided themselves on their knowledge of Lingbao techniques. He raised his eyes just a touch and gave his evaluation: “Crude and unworthy of praise in technique—”

“Yet not without its charm.”

“It is unlike those fools who squander heaven’s treasures to forge weapons—what they create, for all their carvings and ornamentations, are but elaborately wrought dead wood.”

“Take it. Temper and nurture it yourself.”

He tapped his finger lightly upon the sword three times.

Then, with a sweep of his sleeve, the sword returned to its scabbard—not slowly, but like a homing bird returning to its forest, far swifter than when Qi Wuhuo himself had ever commanded it, near to a streak of flowing light.

The Daoist then added: “No good, no good. This sword, though forged by your own hand, is still too immature.”

“Like a fledgling newly breaking its shell—one may place hopes in it, but to ask it to soar the nine heavens now is folly.”

“It may be suitable for killing. But for manifesting the Dao? It falls short.”

The black-robed Daoist said lightly: “In this city, only one sword may still be of use.”

He gently tapped the void with his fingertip.

Qi Wuhuo immediately heard a long and resonant sword cry—an ancient sword that had hung atop Lu Zu Tower of Lianyang Temple rang out in fierce resonance.

Then, it transformed directly into a streak of sword light.

It flew out from the scabbard, brimming with intense spiritual essence, and the vigorous sword qi surged forth as if it would pierce straight through the stars of the Big Dipper.

It seemed to want to vent the sword qi that had been pent up for several hundred years.

Yet in the end, it restrained itself obediently, withdrawing all its killing intent, sword qi, and murderous aura, transforming into a single thread of sword light that flew directly through the window.

Though the doors and windows were tightly shut, the sword qi was like frost—yet it passed through without leaving the slightest trace, not damaging the window in the least. It was clearly an object of a Sword Immortal.

Then, before the young Daoist, it slowly resumed its original form.

It was a sharp sword, with the inscription: [With this sword I walk the world; the slaughter grew excessive, and I could no longer restrain myself. Many times did it wound me, biting back at its master. I cast it away and sealed it here. I left a trace of my lineage to suppress it. Named Lianyang—Refining the Yang—so that the most yang, most rigid energy might wear away the chilling murderous aura. — Lu Chunyang]

The black-robed Daoist Lord gave what seemed to be a scoffing laugh, then swept his sleeve and said lightly: 

“You may use this sword for now. Let me see what measure of skill you possess.”

The immortal sword, suspended in mid-air, slowly floated before Qi Wuhuo.

The young Daoist stretched out his hand and grasped it.

This sword, which Lu Chunyang had abandoned because [its slaughter was too heavy and it repeatedly bit back at its wielder], and which had been sealed in this place for several centuries, now emitted a sharp cry the moment it was gripped. It trembled violently, as if it wished to shake the heavens and the earth. The entirety of the Lianyang Temple seemed to be enveloped in this vast, terrifying killing aura. That aura, cold as the netherworld, surged like a beast starved for centuries—a malevolent dragon or demonic tiger breaking free of its cage—and began to spread madly outward.

Judging by the momentum, it looked as though it intended to engulf the entirety of Zhongzhou City and its million souls in one breath.

The sword’s cry was like a tiger’s roar, splitting the heavens and rending the earth, as though baring its fangs, ready to rip everything to shreds.

Just then, a strand of will carried through a line of script from the black-robed Daoist brushed down with indifference.

“Hmm?”

The sword fell silent at once.

It hovered quietly in the air for a while.

Its hilt lightly nudged the palm of Qi Wuhuo.

The blade still let out a soft hum.

But it was no longer shrill or domineering, no longer crazed and bloodthirsty, no longer attempting to bite back as it once did with Lu Chunyang.

Instead, the sound was low and subtle, like a lingering breath.

The young Daoist held the sword. The air parted naturally around its edge. He could feel an uncanny smoothness—something almost fluid.

Obedient now, like a kitten not yet weaned.

He raised the blade and pointed it skyward.

One hand struck the sword, and then he began to move.

His swordplay was free and flowing, born of whim and will. At first, it resembled the style of a roaming swordsman from a fleeting dream—bold and unrestrained. The sword moves were sharp and swift. As the blade danced, it was like a thousand flowers blooming in full force, its forest of sword qi penetrating the soul, piercing the sinews and bones. 

But then, in an instant, the style changed.

It became refined, pure to the extreme.

There was, faintly, already the magnificent bearing of a Sword Immortal descending into the mortal world.

It was precisely the Hunyuan sword style that Yumiao had comprehended.

What that black-robed Daoist—formed from the words—had spoken of was not swordsmanship, nor did it contain any detailed moves or essential formulas.

He merely spoke plainly of the contents of that scroll.

It merely pointed out a direction.

Everything else was left to personal comprehension.

Some may only pick up a few scattered stones; others might carry away towering mountains—what one could take away depended solely on one’s own grasp.

At this moment, he sat in meditation, holding a horsetail whisk, his expression calm as he watched the young Daoist practice his sword.

Yet deep within his gaze, there was a trace of regret.

So this is all? Then it is hardly worth much attention.

Under his tutelage, those with exquisite sword technique were beyond count. Though this latter portion of swordplay was indeed of the highest quality, what difference did it make?

It was merely a refined sword formula.

And the world was full of such refined techniques. Practitioners of elegant swordplay could be found everywhere.

Even the Heavenly Marshal who guards the Southern Heavenly Gate—was his swordsmanship not also peerlessly refined?

How dull. How utterly dull.

As these thoughts passed through his mind, Qi Wuhuo’s foot suddenly paused mid-step. His sword momentum halted.

After a long moment of contemplation, he moved again—but now, the rhythm of the sword changed. The forms broke apart.

Within it appeared sword moves once scolded by Senior Sister Yumiao in the scroll—moves from mundane swordsmen in the Jianghu, techniques from sword immortal lineages he had seen, and countless sword techniques drawn from the Hunyuan Sword Canon itself.

But to wield a sword formula properly, there must be an internal mental method—there must be a way to circulate one’s qi. It is not something that can be done by arbitrarily slashing and swinging.

Worldly swordsmen may speak of casting off the shackles of form, but true sword formulas are the flowing of one’s Innate Qi and Primordial Spirit.

Should one be careless, and the flows of qi clash—the result may well be blood coughed from the mouth…

And one’s own Primordial Spirit could even be torn asunder.

This time, the young Daoist’s swordplay was full of twists and turns. Whether in terms of the intricacy of technique, or the imposing sword intent it displayed…

It was far inferior to what he had shown before.

Almost like a young child or playful brat, waving a tree branch in the air. Nearly laughable.

Yet the black-robed Daoist—who had grown utterly bored—suddenly lifted his gaze slightly. And in the depths of his eyes, there appeared a faint glimmer of interest.

When the second round of swordplay came to an end, the young Daoist stood quietly for a long time, gripping his sword in silence, eyes closed in deep thought.

Once more, he raised the sword and struck.

The movements became even more scattered and fragmented—even the traces of Jianghu sword forms and the Hunyuan Sword Canon began to fade.

The black-robed Daoist swept his horsetail whisk, and it seemed an invisible force dispersed in all directions, concealing the sound of the sword’s cry and the marks left by its aura.

The first time, he was merely performing the techniques and methods of the Hunyuan Sword Scripture.

By the second attempt, he had already lost a portion of its original charm. With the loss of that charm, the distinctive essence of the Hunyuan Sword Canon also faded.

By the third time, it had completely become unrecognizable.

And finally, after who knows how many repetitions, the sword technique within the young Daoist’s hand no longer bore the traces of anyone else. There were no longer distinguishable moves or divine abilities. The sword strikes were fierce yet unhurried, and at last, he had entirely broken away from the bounds of the Hunyuan Sword Canon.

At this point, there was no longer any concern for whether the method came from high-grade mental doctrines or coarse, low-grade forms—it all flowed from a single thought, from the stirring of his heart.

The black-robed Daoist’s eyes lit up. Suddenly, he swept his horsetail whisk and sternly questioned: “Youngster! The sword technique you wield—what sword style is it?!”

The youth, immersed in the no-self state, answered naturally, guided only by the intuition of his spirit:

“It is not a sword style.”

“Good. If it is not a sword style, then what sword art is it?”

“It is not a sword art.”

“Even technique is insufficient? Then what sword Dao is it?”

“It is not a sword Dao.”

“Then what Dao is it?!”

“Not Dao—only me.”

At that, the black-robed Daoist burst into unrestrained laughter: “Hahahaha! What a ‘Not Dao—only me’! What a ‘Not Dao—only me!’”

“You understand my Dao.”

“And I have seen your heart.”

“This is the highest virtue—none greater than this.”

The black-robed Daoist appeared incomparably joyful and pleased. Then, as if compelled by his very nature to act thus, he swept his horsetail whisk once more—

And, naturally and matter-of-factly, said:

“Do you have a master or lineage?”