Prestige.
The Spirit King silently repeated those two words in his heart.
His little brother's attainments in the sword path were beyond question, and his cultivation at the second level of the Quasi-Saint realm was solid and genuine.
But when it came to putting on a show, he was still far too weak.
A true major power's headquarters needed more than real foundations. It also needed one or two things that inspired awe at a single glance, things that made people not even dare entertain the thought of testing them.
That was what mattered most.
That was what made countless experts' hearts stir.
After thinking for a moment, he flipped his hand.
A Broken Sword appeared in his palm.
The Broken Sword was no more than three feet long. Its blade had snapped cleanly in the middle, the fracture jagged and uneven, as though some utterly overbearing force had forcibly broken it in two.
The sword was entirely black—black without reflection, black as if it had swallowed all the light around it.
Fine cracks covered the blade, each one steeped in dark red traces. It was impossible to tell whether they were rust or blood.
The instant this Broken Sword, which looked as though it could crumble into dust at any moment, appeared in the Spirit King's palm, the air throughout Dao Sword City seemed to freeze.
The Spirit King lowered his head to look at the Broken Sword, and a rare trace of reminiscence surfaced in his eyes.
Fewer than a hand's worth of people on the Origin Continent knew the origin of this sword.
In that great battle long ago, that man had died, but by a twist of fate, his personal sword had fallen into the Spirit King's hands.
The sword had broken, its owner had perished,