Eastern Region, Burial Sword Tomb.
East Mountain, worshipped by countless swordsmen, resembled a massive edgeless sword, planted upside down with its scabbard as its base, yet still soaring into the clouds.
Within East Mountain, sword intent crisscrossed everywhere.
A song rose and fell in rich cadences, as though someone were singing opera in high spirits.
Only when the golden scroll high in the Ninth Heaven drew itself away, and that overbearing, decadent Dao melody finally vanished, did the operatic singing within East Mountain cease as well.
"Through a hundred generations, Ba Zunan is replaced by me...
"Tsk, tsk. After sinking low for so long, I've finally regained some of that uninhibited feeling from decades ago...
"I truly miss it."
Wen Ting, clad in an opera costume and barefoot, walked through the dim mountain interior, his tone brimming with nostalgia.
Before long, a low sobbing from the distant Sword-Washing Pool caught his attention. Wen Ting listened closely for a while, the corner of his lips curling up as he strode over.
"Splish."
One foot stepped into the Sword-Washing Pool, sending water splashing in every direction.
He found the source of the sobbing. It was a broken sword.
By rights, the Burial Sword Tomb only took in ownerless swords. Their masters were either dead or missing, and it was rare for a damaged, discarded weapon to retain such vigorous life after being abandoned.
Yet this broken sword was crying, droplets still hanging from its blade.
Whether they had splashed onto it from the Sword-Washing Pool or whether the iron sword was truly shedding tears, it was a sight seldom seen in a thousand years.
Wen Ting smiled and crouched down. Looking at the broken sword trembling in grievance before him, he reached out and lightly flicked it.
"Buzz, buzz, buzz!"
The broken