Ye Lin's method seemed to accord with a certain sword principle: amid chaos, one must carve out order with absolute sharpness.
Countless obstacles had to be shattered by focusing to the utmost on a single point.
As the sun rose and the moon set, Ye Lin was like a tireless blend of hunter and farmer.
Each time he finished recovering, he would condense a brand-new Sword Qi, more refined and pure than before, delve deep into the Sword Field, find a thorny opponent, and then risk his life to eliminate it.
Every strike was fraught with danger. His divine sense endured tremendous pressure, and his Sword Qi would often be exhausted and dissipate the moment it achieved its goal.
Though the price was so great, the results were remarkable.
The frenzied noise within the Sword Field gradually diminished, and patches of varying sizes began to emerge—relatively tranquil areas amid the turmoil.
More and more sword grass sprouts began to unfurl. From the thickness of a hair, they slowly grew to the length of a grain of rice. Their color also changed from nearly transparent to a tangible silvery-white sheen, like scattered starlight upon the chaotic dark iron ground.
Ten years...
Thirty years...
Fifty years...
After countless forays and recoveries, Ye Lin's aura became increasingly deep and restrained, while the Sword Qi he unleashed grew less and less dazzling.
Instead, it moved toward a simple, sharp quality that returned to the essence. Often, a single strike could hit the core of a remnant intent, vastly increasing his efficiency.
In the blink of an eye...
The eightieth year.
Ye Lin sat cross-legged at the edge of the Sword Field, his aura perfectly rounded and harmonious.
Before him, the more than ten mu of Sword Field had undergone a drastic transformation.
Though countless