A familiar memory suddenly surfaced in Pei Ling's mind.
A mountain peak!
A lonely peak, barren and utterly devoid of grass, yet bristling with countless flying swords, stood amid an endless sea of clouds. It was not especially tall, but countless sword intents intertwined and surged upward, thrusting straight into the heavens.
He wore a simply styled robe and straw sandals, and struggled to walk across the lonely peak.
His robe had once been exceptionally durable, but now it was covered in sword marks, torn and riddled with holes, nearly reduced to rags. The flesh beneath it had been slashed with countless wounds, blood streaming freely. The bamboo hairpin that had bound his hair had long since fallen away, and his long hair hung loose. He looked utterly wretched, pain coursing through his entire body.
Every step left a splash of blood behind.
Looking back toward the foot of the peak, he saw a winding trail of blood stretching an unknowable distance.
Pei Ling felt utterly weak and exhausted. Beyond his weariness and injuries, the countless swords atop the lonely peak radiated an overwhelming sword intent that constantly bore down on him, drove him away, and challenged him...
At every moment, he felt he had reached his limit, that he could not take another step. It seemed he had to exhaust every last bit of will and strength just to move forward.
Pain, isolation, despair, cold... Pei Ling soon sank into numbness. He did not know how much time had passed before a clear sword cry, like lightning slicing through the night, cut through his muddled consciousness.
He instinctively raised a hand. A streak of clear light shot toward him from afar, circling his arm with the nimble grace of a fish. With a ringing hum, it leaped lightly and