Heavenly Sword Fuxie (Seeking Follows)

"Don't stop! Use your intent as a sword, guide the Qi and lead the breath."

At this moment, An Jing, who had just slashed out with that sword, found his breathing somewhat labored. The Sword Spirit, watching this scene with appreciation, immediately spoke to guide him: "The amount of fiend-beast meat you consumed was immense, and your accumulation was profound. To think that upon your first breakthrough, you would reach the realm of Internal Breath like a river—but precisely because of that, the backlash is all the more intense!"

"Guide the breath, return it to the Dantian!"

An Jing took a deep breath. The moment he slashed out with the Blood Fiend Sword, he sensed a thick, pure, warm current surging within his body. That mellow energy, coming from who knows where, rushed like a galloping river; there was no doubt that this was his 'Innate Qi'!

His heart gave a violent jolt. This heartbeat was far louder and more resonant than before, like a thunder god beating a drum, with heaven and earth echoing in unison.

In that very instant, this thick, warm current all became 'Internal Breath' that he could control. However, after unleashing that strike, An Jing lost the mental strength to fully command all the Internal Breath. For a moment, the energy scattered, threatening to return to every part of his body.

Fortunately, the Sword Spirit was there. An Jing followed its guidance, breathing deeply. Large beads of sweat were constantly erupting from his arms and chest, carrying a strange fragrance.

That was the medicinal power accumulated in An Jing's flesh and blood from long-term consumption of fiend-beast meat and Heartless Water. These medicinal residues had been interfering with and numbing An Jing's senses, subtly transforming his body and spirit.

But that would no longer be the case.

Right now, inside An Jing's body, a scorching, sword-like sensation was wandering. It was as if he had swallowed a mouthful of molten iron, burning a path through his body. Wherever it burned, that area would break out in a heavy sweat, expelling the harmful medicinal residues from his system.

This was An Jing's Innate Qi, which was his Internal Breath.

This sensation of Qi was extremely scorching and difficult to control, much like how it is difficult for a person to consciously control the peristalsis of their stomach or the operation of their internal organs; even guiding it was arduous.

However, a martial artist can control it by practicing sword techniques, directing it to flow in a certain direction to strengthen a specific part of the body—simple, swift, and exhilarating.

Through repeated consumption and exertion, and through repeated eating and training, one could strengthen their Internal Breath and enhance their control over it.

This is also the origin of the saying that "the poor study, the rich practice martial arts"—once one truly steps into the realm of a martial artist, the physical strength and blood energy consumed by daily Internal Breath training are immense, requiring large amounts of food or medicinal pills to replenish.

However, large sects possess special 'meditation techniques'. By using these, one can guide the circulation of Internal Breath through visualization, strengthening a thick Internal Breath with minimal consumption of blood energy.

The Qingjing Sword Temple is precisely such a meditation technique. Under the guidance of the Rusty Sword from the Qingjing Sword Temple, those overly volatile blood-energy Internal Breaths gradually became controllable and refined during the process of polishing away the rust... As long as he continued to practice, not only his Internal Breath, but An Jing's soul would also receive a tremendous boost!

It truly lived up to being called the 'foundation of all techniques' by the Sword Spirit!

"Time to go back."

Having calmed the Internal Breath within his body, he gathered it all back into his Dantian, then circulated it through his entire body along the celestial path before returning it to the Dantian, forming a cycle.

An Jing's eyes were bright at this moment, the light slowly receding, and even the Blood Fiend sword energy in his hand retracted back into his body.

He did not know where this Blood Fiend Sword came from, but he could wield it as he pleased, with agility and ease; it just required consuming a lot of blood energy and would lower his physical stamina.

He could ask the Sword Spirit about such matters later, but for now, if the time in both worlds was the same, An Jing estimated it was nearly dawn. He had to return to the dormitory immediately.

However, even so, An Jing did not forget the most important thing.

First, he operated the Qingjing Sword Temple technique to calm and disguise his Internal Breath, and then, with a slight movement from the Sword Spirit, it was masked.

Then, gathering the two large-caliber pistols he had collected, one Spirit Light Pistol, and several magazines, An Jing summoned the Rusty Sword.

Under the guidance of the Sword Spirit, he slashed into the void once more, tearing open a gap, and returned to Huaixu.

Inside the ruins.

Some time after An Jing left.

A faint, rustling sound arose. Countless shadows converged, coalescing into a pitch-black silhouette that arrived silently at the spot where An Jing had been.

It paused before the sword marks An Jing had left behind, observing for a long time. It looked around warily, and then silently dispersed, retreating back into the shadows.

Huaixu Realm.

Xuanming Manor.

The heavy rain continued, and the lamps flickered, but the patrols were nowhere to be seen.

An Jing stepped out of the storage room, then suppressed his aura and dashed toward the main manor.

Taking advantage of the heavy rain, he washed away the medicinal scent expelled from his body. As he passed by those 'water vats', An Jing paused for a moment.

Then, having made up his mind, An Jing turned his head and headed toward the main manor.

He would not forget.

Returning to his dormitory, everyone was sleeping soundly. There were no instructors patrolling or supervising, because the one supervising the dormitory was An Jing himself.

Manor Master Yao would not keep an eye on him constantly; as long as the 'patrol instructor' did not catch An Jing, An Jing could continue to lead the team in practice the next day, and that would count as a perfect score.

As for the methods An Jing used to evade the instructor's patrols, that was his own capability, and Manor Master Yao would not care.

He easily wrung out his clothes, changed back into his original attire, and hid the firearms.

An Jing closed his eyes and drifted into a dream.

In the silent darkness.

An Jing dreamed of a sword.

It was a long sword with an archaic design. The crossguard was profound and mysterious, connecting to the blade like a cold, clear spring under the moonlight.

The blade was three fingers wide and four feet long. Within the nearly transparent, silvery-white blade, faint cyan cloud patterns shimmered with the light.

A cold, heavy aura was refined from piercing killing intent, and an indescribable, lonely chill slowly seeped from the edge of the blade.

Gazing at the blade, even in the sweltering heat of midsummer, one felt as if they were standing in the frigid rivers of the far north.

And it was held in a hand—pale, slender, but powerful.

A slender, jade-like hand with prominent knuckles gripped the sword hilt tightly, a solitary figure standing high above the heavens.

Looking down upon a cruel and fallen world.

On the earth below, layers of buildings were piled high, and cities stretching for a thousand miles were engulfed in flames; at the zenith of the firmament, thousands of cloud cities plummeted, while hidden realms hung like stars.

Countless kingdoms waged war and slaughtered one another; blood flowed like a sea over the mountains, and white bones carpeted the plains. Extravagant emperors sat in the capital atop the Pillar of Heaven, with countless slaves and servants prostrate on the ground, while the magnificent gardens were filled with men and women entwined like maggots. In the pools of wine and forests of meat, one could smell the stench of blood, and the black smoke from torture devices reached the very top of the sky.

And there, above the Pillar of Heaven, at the summit of the cloud cities and the many hidden realms, pairs of eyes looked down upon the turbulent world. They felt no indifference, no pleasure, no pity, and naturally, no malice.

They simply gazed, waiting for some seed to emerge from such a mountain of corpses and sea of blood, from such a forest of desire and flesh, to become one of them.

They did not wait for that true demonic seed to emerge and find enlightenment amidst endless suffering and despair.

They waited for a sword.

At first, it was merely a star flickering at the edge of the horizon, but it rapidly grew larger, growing until it surpassed all the cloud cities floating in the sky, growing until it was large enough to cleave the entire firmament. A towering divine sword broke through the clouds from the top of the sky, tearing the heavens asunder and splitting the entire world in two.

As he saw this sword clearly, An Jing felt as if he had been struck by it—yet it did not strike.

Because it was already broken.

Broken from the root.

It was merely an echo from the distant past, a lingering shadow from eons ago.

[Fuxie]

In the end, the youth heard only this cold, clear voice echoing softly in his ear: [Draw the blade]

Clang—

An Jing woke up amidst the sound of the sword's chime.