Ye Lin only needed one glance at this sword to feel that it was anything but ordinary.
He could not say exactly what was extraordinary about it, but it was extraordinary.
Very extraordinary.
Ye Lin crouched before the bluestone, his gaze falling on the lustrous white short sword, his brow faintly furrowing.
He could not discern the sword's origin.
Among the countless ancient swords in the Sword Graveyard, some bared their sharpness, some were deep and heavy as an abyss, some had names and eras engraved upon their blades, while others had the life stories of their successive masters inscribed on their steles.
But this sword before him was white as bone from end to end, narrow as a willow leaf, embedded in a bluestone no larger than a palm.
There was neither a stele recording its history nor array patterns surrounding it. Not even a thread of Sword Intent leaked from it. It was as quiet as a stone casually left by the roadside.
Ye Lin's gaze swept back and forth across the blade several times. His divine sense reached out, only to slide away upon touching its surface, like a droplet falling onto oiled cloth—unable to seep in no matter what.
A strange feeling gradually rose within him.
This sword's aura had not been concealed. It simply had never existed to begin with.
It was like a withered tree, a pool of stagnant water, a rotten log—placed there without a trace of life.
Yet it was precisely this lifeless short sword that made the depths between his brows faintly burn.
That was the true essence of his own Sword Dao.
This sword resonated with the true essence of his Sword Dao?
That was rather miraculous.
Ye Lin stared at the little sword for a long while.
The sword