Lu Chen lowered his head to look at the sword. The silver-white glow had already faded, and the blade had returned to its cold metallic hue, though a faint, elusive halo still lingered along its edge.
He tried channeling a thread of true essence into the blade—yet the instant it touched the edge, it was like a drop of water falling into the desert, swallowed dry in an instant.
His brow furrowed. He sent in another thread, and it was swallowed again. A third thread met the same fate.
The sword was feeding on his true essence.
Like a newborn beast instinctively seeking food.
After hesitating for a moment, he poured every last trace of true essence into the blade.
This time, the sword did not drain it all. Instead, as though it had eaten its fill, it let out a low hum.
The hum was soft, yet it carried far enough for even the soldiers atop the wall to hear it. They all leaned over to look down.
The silver-white radiance flared anew, brighter and steadier than before.
Fine patterns began to emerge across the blade—designs unlike anything he had ever seen, like tree roots, like blood vessels, like cracks splitting the earth.
The patterns spread from the hilt to the tip, then curled back from the tip to the hilt, forming a complete cycle.
Yun Qingyue ran down from the wall, her medicine chest bouncing against her back with a clatter.
When she reached Lu Chen, she did not say a word. She seized his right hand and turned it over.
The wound in his palm, cut open by a fragment of the Azure Dragon Halberd, had already healed, leaving only a shallow scar. The scar was silver-white, identical to the patterns on the sword.
"Your hand..." she