"Don't stop! Take thought as your sword; guide the qi and draw in your breath."
At that moment, An Jing's breathing was ragged after unleashing that sword strike. The Sword Spirit, watching the scene with admiration, immediately called out with guidance. "You've consumed a tremendous amount of Demon meat, building up a deep reserve. The moment you broke through, you actually reached the realm of Internal Breath Like a River—but that's exactly why the backlash is so much stronger!"
"Guide your breath. Return it to your dantian!"
An Jing took a deep breath. The instant he unleashed the Blood Fiend Sword, he had sensed a rich, pure warmth surge through his body. He had no idea where that mellow breath came from. It surged like a river, and there was no doubt that it was his Innate Qi!
His heart gave a sudden thump. The beat was far louder than before, like a thunder god pounding a drum, making heaven and earth ring as one.
In that instant, the rich warmth had all become Internal Breath that he could control. But after unleashing that sword strike, An Jing no longer had the mental strength to command all of it. For a moment, his Internal Breath scattered, about to return to every corner of his body.
Fortunately, the Sword Spirit was there. An Jing followed its guidance, breathing deeply. Great drops of sweat kept welling on his arms and chest, carrying a strange fragrance.
It was the medicinal potency that had accumulated in An Jing's flesh and blood from consuming Demonic Beast meat and Heartless Water over a long period. That potency had dulled and numbed his senses, subtly reshaping his body and mind.
But not anymore.
At that moment, a searing, swordlike sensation of qi coursed through An Jing's body. Like swallowing a mouthful of molten iron, it burned a path through him. Wherever it passed, sweat poured from his skin, expelling the harmful medicinal potency from his body.
This was An Jing's Innate Qi—in other words, his Internal Breath.
The sensation was scorching and difficult to control, as hard to command as the churning of one's stomach or the workings of one's organs. Even guiding it was difficult.
But martial artists could direct it in a particular direction by practicing sword techniques, strengthening specific parts of their bodies. It was simple, swift, and exhilarating.
By expending and rousing it again and again, and by eating and training again and again, they could strengthen their Internal Breath and improve their control over it.
This was the origin of the saying, "The poor study, the rich practice martial arts." Once someone truly entered the ranks of martial artists, the energy and blood consumed by training their Internal Breath each day became immense. They could only replenish it with vast quantities of food or pills.
But the great sects had special visualization methods. Through visualization, one could guide the flow of Internal Breath and build up a deep reserve while using as little energy and blood as possible.
The Qingjing Sword Temple was precisely such a visualization method. Under the guidance of the Rusty Sword in the Qingjing Sword Temple, the overly heated energy and blood in An Jing's Internal Breath gradually became more controllable and refined as he honed away the rust. As long as he continued practicing, not only would his Internal Breath improve, but An Jing's Divine Soul would also grow immensely stronger!
No wonder the Sword Spirit had called it "the foundation of all methods"!
"I should head back."
After settling his Internal Breath, An Jing gathered it all into his dantian, then circulated it through his entire body along the circuit of the microcosmic orbit before returning it to his dantian, completing a cycle.
An Jing's eyes shone brightly. Their light gradually dimmed, and the Blood Fiend Sword Qi in his hand receded into his body as well.
He had no idea where the Blood Fiend Sword had come from, but he could wield it at will, with effortless agility. It did, however, consume a great deal of energy and blood, leaving him weaker.
He could ask the Sword Spirit about it later. But if time flowed the same in both worlds, An Jing figured it was nearly dawn. He had to get back to the dormitory at once.
Even so, An Jing hadn't forgotten the most important thing.
First, he used the Qingjing Sword Temple to calm and disguise his Internal Breath, then the Sword Spirit stirred and concealed it.
Then he put away the two large-caliber pistols he had collected, along with a Spirit Light Pistol and several magazines, and summoned the Rusty Sword.
Guided by the Sword Spirit, he made another empty slash, tore open a rift, and returned to Huaixu.
Inside the ruins.
Some time after An Jing had left,
a faint rustling arose. Countless shadows gathered, coalescing into a pitch-black silhouette that silently made its way to the spot where An Jing had been.
It lingered before the sword mark An Jing had left behind, studying it for a long while. Wary, it looked around, then silently scattered and retreated into the shadows.
Huaixu Realm.
Xuanming Manor.
The torrential rain continued, and the lights flickered, but the patrolmen had all vanished.
An Jing emerged from the storeroom, concealed his aura, and sprinted toward the main manor.
The rain washed away the medicinal scent his body had expelled. When he passed the "water tanks," An Jing paused for a moment.
Then An Jing, having made up his mind, turned and headed for the main manor.
He wouldn't forget.
When he returned to his dormitory, everyone was sleeping soundly. No instructor was making rounds or keeping watch, because An Jing himself was in charge of the dormitory.
Manor Master Yao wouldn't keep an eye on him all the time. As long as the "patrolling instructor" hadn't caught An Jing, and An Jing could still lead the group in their practice the next day, that was a perfect score.
How An Jing had managed to evade the instructor's patrol was a matter of his own ability. Manor Master Yao wouldn't care.
An Jing easily wrung out his clothes, changed back into his original ones, and hid the firearms.
An Jing closed his eyes and fell asleep.
In the wordless darkness,
An Jing dreamed of a sword.
It was an ancient-looking longsword. Its dark, mysterious guard joined the blade, which resembled a cold, clear spring beneath the moon.
The blade was three fingers wide and four feet long. Within its almost transparent, silver-white surface, faint patterns of rolling green clouds shimmered in the light.
Its cold, heavy aura had been tempered by a transparent killing intent, and an indescribable chill slowly seeped from its edge.
Just looking at the blade was enough to make one feel transported to the far northern ice fields, even in the height of summer.
Someone held it in one hand—pale and slender, yet strong.
Long, jade-white fingers, their joints clearly defined, gripped the hilt. A solitary figure stood Above the High Heavens,
looking down upon a cruel, fallen world.
Across the earth, tower upon tower rose in heaps, and cities stretched for a thousand miles in flames. At the dome of heaven, countless Cloud Cities fell, while Grotto-Heavens hung high like stars.
Hundreds and thousands of kingdoms waged war and slaughtered one another. Blood surged over mountains like a sea, and fields of bones carpeted the barren plains. Emperors, insatiable in their luxury and debauchery, sat in their capital atop the Pillar of Heaven. Countless slaves and servants prostrated themselves on the ground, while men and women entwined like worms filled the ornate gardens. The pools of wine and forests of meat stank of blood, and the black smoke of torture rose to the very top of the heavens.
Above the Pillar of Heaven, atop the Cloud Cities and the many Grotto-Heavens, pairs of eyes gazed down on the turbulent world. They were neither indifferent, nor pleased, nor compassionate; naturally, they were not malicious either.
They merely watched, waiting for some seed to emerge from this mountain of corpses and sea of blood, this ocean of desire and forest of flesh, and become one of them.
They never saw the True Demon seed that would emerge from endless suffering and despair, reaching enlightenment.
What they saw was a sword.
At first, it was merely a star flickering at the edge of the heavens. Then it rapidly grew, growing larger than all the Cloud Cities floating in the sky, large enough to cleave the entire firmament. A towering divine sword burst through the clouds at the top of the heavens, split the sky, and cleaved the whole world in two.
As soon as An Jing saw the sword clearly, he felt as though it had struck him—but it hadn't.
Because it was already broken.
Broken at the root.
It was merely an echo from ages long past, a remnant image from the eternal years of antiquity.
[Fuxie]
At last, the young man heard only a cool voice softly echo in his ear: [Unsheathed]
Clang—
An Jing awoke to the ringing of the sword.
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