To explain this, one had to start with the background of this world. There were two intelligent races on this continent: the Human Race and the Demon Race. Their relationship was exceedingly poor. The Demon Race regarded humans as cultivation supplements, prey to raise their experience and cultivation, while humans treated demons as commodities. Once a demon fell into human hands, they would become merchandise at the mercy of the butcher's knife.
Ten thousand years ago, the Demon Race launched a war. The Human Race had nearly been unable to withstand them. At the most perilous moment, a great cultivator sacrificed himself and transformed his body into a realm, sealing the Demon Race within the barren and harsh Far Western Lands. From then on, the Far Western Lands came to be known as the Demon Realm.
The founding patriarch of the Sword Sect had been one of the great cultivators who sealed the Demon Realm back then. He was also the founding ancestor of Red Cloud Peak. Every generation of Red Cloud Peak disciples bore the responsibility of guarding the seal.
However, ten thousand years had passed, and the seal from those days had long since developed flaws. Two days earlier, a tiger demon with Mahayana cultivation had escaped from the Demon Realm. The Demon Race possessed formidable physical bodies; among those of the same level, humans were no match for demons. Even though he was a Sword Cultivator with greater combat strength, he could only fight the tiger demon to a draw. In the end, he killed it at the cost of damaging his foundation, but his injuries were so severe that he temporarily lost both his cultivation and memories.
Severely injured and stripped of his cultivation, he was discovered by a Demonic Cultivator. The Demonic Cultivator tore out his Spiritual Root, stripped away his immortal bones, and even dealt a devastating blow to his Innate Dao Body.
He had barely managed to escape the Demonic Cultivator when he encountered those so-called righteous sects, who coveted his damaged Innate Dao Body. They took his heart's blood to refine pills for comprehending the Dao, hoping to glimpse the Great Dao and attain ascension.
Xie Xiuji had his Spiritual Root and immortal bones torn out, his heart's blood drained dry. Because the Sword Sect had lit his life lamp, they did not dare kill him, so they threw him into the Demon Realm.
Burning with resentment and unwillingness, he used a forbidden art, reshaping his immortal bones with demon bones and replacing his Spiritual Root with a Demon Core, refining himself into a Half-Demon Body.
The suffering he endured in the dream was agonizingly real. In reality, Xie Xiuji bit through his lower lip, blood welling from the wound as though it had stained his cool, aloof features, pale as a shallow moon, with a vivid hue. He looked strangely bewitching, enough to steal one's soul.
Just as he was nearly unable to bear the pain in the dream and was about to develop a heart demon, he suddenly caught a faint sweet fragrance. A trembling voice, carrying a trace of tears, entered his mind.
"Xie Xiuji... slower..."
"Xie Xiuji... it hurts..."
The gloomy, oppressive dream abruptly turned into a scene of lush decadence. Xie Xiuji's breathing remained heavy, but the tight furrow between his brows relaxed. His expression shifted from pain to pleasure, and a faint flush seeped into the tips of his ears.
As the sun set in the west, Xie Xiuji slowly opened his eyes. Instinctively, he made a motion to scoop the person beside him into his arms, but grasped only empty air.
He shot upright in bed and turned to look at the empty other half of the couch. Some ambiguous traces still remained on it, but that side of the bed had long gone cold.
He shook his slightly swollen, aching head.
He remembered now. He was Xie Xiuji, and also the Sword Venerable Mingxiao of the Sword Sect. He was not twenty years old, but over five hundred. Nor was he now the chief disciple of True Person Liuyi from the Heavenly Feather Sect. After turning twenty, he had transferred to the Sword Sect and become the personal disciple of Immortal Venerable Yinglian of Red Cloud Peak. Later, Immortal Venerable Yinglian ascended, and he inherited Red Cloud Peak, becoming the Sword Venerable Mingxiao of the Sword Sect.
Cultivators of great strength did not dream easily. But if they did, then either it was a warning from the Dao of Heaven that chaos would descend upon the world, or it was a prophetic dream concerning their own safety.
What he had dreamed of last night was the latter kind. Yet prophetic dreams only left one with a general impression; many details remained unclear. For instance, he could not remember the exact identities of those who had torn out his Spiritual Root and immortal bones and drained his heart's blood.
Sword Venerable Mingxiao's eyes turned cold. If he had not encountered Song Zhizhi yesterday, if Song Zhizhi had not happened to wake him, then what he dreamed of last night would have been his future.
Song Zhizhi had saved his life. As for what happened last night, though it had been something she did out of necessity to save him, Song Zhizhi had ultimately suffered the greater loss. While he had lost his memories, he had promised to marry her. Now that his memories had returned, Sword Venerable Mingxiao had no intention of breaking his word.
But where had Song Zhizhi gone?
He closed his eyes. His powerful Divine Sense spread across a hundred li, yet he found no trace of Song Zhizhi. Instead, he discovered the tracks of a group of Demonic Cultivators at the foot of the mountain.
Remembering the torment he had suffered in the dream, Sword Venerable Mingxiao's cold phoenix eyes flashed with chilling killing intent.
A moment later, Sword Venerable Mingxiao, dressed in white, slowly emerged from the Demonic Cultivators' stronghold. He carried a white longsword that glimmered with icy, snowy light. Though it had just slaughtered the Demonic Cultivators, not a single stain of blood touched its blade, and it gave excited cries of sword-song.
This was Sword Venerable Mingxiao's natal sword, named Blood Drinker.
Once the sword left its sheath, it had to drink blood.
After Sword Venerable Mingxiao sheathed his sword and returned it to his Dantian for nourishment, he suddenly spat out a mouthful of blood.
His grave injuries had not yet healed. Forcing himself to wield his natal sword and kill those utterly wicked Demonic Cultivators only worsened his injuries.
His storage pouch had been destroyed during the battle, so Sword Venerable Mingxiao could only form a Voice-Transmitting Paper Crane and send it to the Sect Master of the Sword Sect.
"Senior Brother Sect Master, this is Mingxiao. Come here and take me back. Also, help me find someone..."
When the Sect Master of the Sword Sect received Sword Venerable Mingxiao's message, the stone hanging over his heart finally fell halfway down. He immediately set out to bring him back to the sect. As for the person Sword Venerable Mingxiao wanted him to find—
Half a month later, Sword Venerable Mingxiao's injuries had mostly healed. The Sect Master returned with the information he had gathered, his expression complicated.
"Junior Brother, I had people investigate it. There is no 755 Tongxing Street anywhere in the Cultivation World or the mortal realm. Did you give me the wrong address?"
"Couldn't find it?" Sword Venerable Mingxiao frowned. He recalled Song Zhizhi's words and was certain she had given him that address.
Either Song Zhizhi had been muddled at the time and given him the wrong address, or she had lied.
Thinking of how she had suddenly vanished that morning, Sword Venerable Mingxiao felt the latter possibility was more likely. Perhaps even the name Song Zhizhi was false.
Sword Venerable Mingxiao silently ground his back teeth. He had been deceived.
For some reason, the Sect Master suddenly felt a chilly wind whistling through Scarlet Cloud Hall. Looking at Sword Venerable Mingxiao's handsome face, which had abruptly darkened several shades, he was rather curious just what sort of extraordinary person this Song Zhizhi was, to make Sword Venerable Mingxiao—always cold-hearted and emotionless, like a weapon given human form—experience such a great emotional fluctuation.
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