There seemed to be a man offering a saber

Spring gave way to autumn, cold and heat alternating.

Time was the world's most merciless butcher's blade—and Mo Chen's staunchest support.

At first, those princes still occasionally sent a few idle, overbearing ruffians to make trouble at the Wenyuan Pavilion. But as time passed, some inherited the throne and became busy governing, some became princes of the blood and died leading armies into battle, and others were poisoned by rival factions, reduced to handfuls of yellow earth.

Outlast me? Let's see who outlasts whom.

White clouds turned to gray hounds, and martial alliance leaders came and went. The Wenyuan Pavilion never lacked a stream of visiting dignitaries and bold wanderers of the martial world.

Some made enemies here over a secret manual, some won worldwide renown through a military treatise, and some never returned.

Yet Mo Chen remained the same utterly inconspicuous copyist, seated behind a counter in a corner of the first floor.

By day, he methodically recorded loans and repaired ancient books.

In the evening, once everyone borrowing books had left, Mo Chen took out the Black Turtle Breathing Method and worked through it with a dictionary, learning a little, memorizing a little, understanding a little.

When the night grew deep and all was quiet, Mo Chen sat cross-legged in his cramped side room, stubbornly grinding away at the Black Turtle Breathing Method, which the immortal had declared he would fail to master even the basics of in a hundred years.

By a certain year, Mo Chen had become exceedingly cautious, intent on remaining hidden in this imperial capital for a long time.

He continually used his fully perfected Disguise and Bone-Shrinking Art to alter his appearance, adding a few wrinkles to his face and a few frost-white strands to his hair at regular intervals.

Every twenty years or so, Mo Chen arranged to die of illness, then buried himself in the mass graveyard overnight.

A few days later, he forged an impeccable household registration, assumed the identity of the previous copyist's distant nephew, and returned to the Wenyuan Pavilion to take over the post.

The position was so humble, and such a thankless chore, that no one bothered to investigate whether his identity was genuine.

And so the years flew like a shuttle through a loom.

Until one day, while cultivating, Mo Chen suddenly felt heat flare in his head, as though something had exploded in his mind. His five senses immediately extended outward, making him aware of everything happening within ten paces, while his naked eyes could see faint wisps of five-colored spiritual energy in the air.

Mo Chen knew then that he... had succeeded...

And in the blink of an eye, fifty years had hurried past.

The Great Qian Dynasty no longer enjoyed its former glory. Years of natural disasters and human calamities, compounded by endless warfare along the borders, had left the entire realm swaying in wind and rain.

It was a day in late autumn.

An unbroken autumn rain fell over the capital, its chill piercing to the bone.

The Wenyuan Pavilion stood deserted.

Mo Chen, now a hundred and thirty years old, went by Old Mo. Using his disguise art to wear a face covered in age spots, he sat dozing behind the counter, his back slightly stooped.

Tap, tap...

Steady footsteps pierced the curtain of rain and stopped before the entrance.

A white-haired old man in a straw rain cape stepped over the high threshold.

The old man's body was imposing as a mountain. Though he carried no visible weapon, his arrival lent the entire Wenyuan Pavilion a sharp, menacing air.

He sat at a desk and drew a deep breath. Even sheets of paper some distance away trembled faintly under the invisible stir of his true qi.

This was a grandmaster who had brought mortal martial arts to the realm of transcendence.

But Mo Chen saw at a glance that this grandmaster's blood and vitality had utterly withered, his internal organs eaten away by hidden injuries. He was plainly a dying lamp about to burn through its last drop of oil.

The old man surveyed his surroundings, his cloudy yet piercing gaze finally settling on Mo Chen.

"Greetings, old brother." His voice was hoarse, carrying a trace of the weariness of old age. "May I ask whether Mo Chen, young Brother Mo, who once worked on the first floor of this Wenyuan Pavilion, is still alive?"

Mo Chen slowly opened his eyes and rubbed them with callused hands, pretending he was too hard of hearing to have caught the question. "Who are you asking about, sir?"

"Mo Chen," the old man said, slowing his speech.

"Oh... you mean my great-uncle." Mo Chen rose shakily and sighed. "The old fellow wasn't blessed with much good fortune. He caught a chill over twenty years ago and has long since passed away. I'm his grandnephew, filling his old position now."

At that answer, the old man's towering body trembled slightly, and profound loneliness and loss flashed through his eyes.

"Yes... sixty years have passed. What ordinary person could endure such long years?"

The old man gave a bitter laugh, walked to the counter, and slowly removed the bundle from his back.

Mo Chen watched him.

Dust-covered memories surged through his mind.

Sixty years ago, he had been seventy.

Back then, a poverty-stricken boy in ragged clothes often crouched outside the Wenyuan Pavilion, beaten black and blue by the guards for trying to look at martial arts diagrams.

One rainy day, while tidying the shelves, Mo Chen casually tossed a copy of the Gale Saber Manual he had transcribed onto the windowsill, then turned away to sweep the floor.

The boy stared fixedly at the saber manual from outside the window for four full hours, then kowtowed three times, his forehead striking the ground loudly, before disappearing into the rain.

Sixty years later, that impoverished boy had become Lu Canghai, whose might shook the world. With a single long saber, he had slain three enemy generals and earned the name of a living legend of the martial world.

"I am Lu Canghai."

The old man opened his bundle. Inside lay a booklet sewn from fine sheepskin, bearing the title Vast Sea Blade Intent in bold characters.

Lu Canghai gently pushed the booklet toward Mo Chen.

"Back then, I was nothing but a beggar boy. Without your great-uncle's kindness in giving me that half a saber manual, I would never have survived. I devoted my life to martial arts and never married. Now my old injuries have flared up, and my final hour approaches..."

Lu Canghai coughed violently several times, a trace of black blood seeping from the corner of his mouth.

Yet he wiped it away indifferently and gazed at the booklet with gentle eyes.

"This contains a lifetime of my efforts in martial arts, drawing together those of the neighboring kingdoms. I leave it with you today to fulfill my last wish in this mortal world. If any descendant of the Mo family possesses an exceptional root bone, this book can ensure a hundred years of prosperity for your family."

Mo Chen looked at this martial legend whose oil had run dry and whose lamp was dying, and said nothing. He neither revealed his identity in excitement nor shed the moved tears of an old man.

He merely took the Vast Sea Blade Intent in his withered, trembling hands and solemnly put it away inside the counter.

Then he turned, lifted the boiling kettle from the stove, and brewed a cup of the most ordinary broken tea leaves for this greatest warrior under heaven, who was about to reach the end of his life.

"If my great-uncle knows of this beneath the springs of the underworld, he will surely be comforted."

Mo Chen handed him the hot tea and bowed slightly. Just as he had seen off countless passing visitors over the past sixty years, he said softly:

"Safe travels, sir."

Lu Canghai raised the coarse tea and drained it in one gulp, feeling a long-forgotten warmth flow through his chest.

The old man laughed three times, his laughter ringing with the heroic freedom of one who had seen beyond life and death. Then he turned and strode into the autumn rain, never looking back.

Three days later, mourning bells rang throughout the martial world.

Lu Canghai, the martial legend of his generation, passed away seated in meditation in a ruined temple outside the capital. Saber wielders throughout the realm donned white mourning clothes.

And that very evening.

Inside the Wenyuan Pavilion, Mo Chen had finished his day's work.

After closing the pavilion's doors, he sat behind the counter, cracking melon seeds while leisurely opening the Vast Sea Blade Intent.

First read, then comprehend, then put it into practice.

Afterward, Mo Chen returned to his routine: by day, he served as a copyist and historian recording the affairs of Great Qian; at night, once the doors were shut, he cultivated.

Once he had thoroughly grasped the Vast Sea Blade Intent, he did not rush to experience the terrifying blade intent within him, powerful enough to tear rivers apart.

His attention was focused entirely on the depths of his dantian.

As this pinnacle of mortal martial arts nourished his cultivation in return, the Black Turtle Breathing Method, which Mo Chen had practiced painstakingly for fifty full years, finally produced an exceedingly faint pop.

A pure, enduring stream of spiritual power flowed through his sluggish meridians like a clear spring.

Qi refining third layer!

According to the miscellaneous notes at the back of the Black Turtle Breathing Method, he had now completed the qi refining early phase and crossed the boundary between mortal warriors and those who transcended mortality.

Fifty years of relentless effort, day and night, without pills or spirit stones—in a mortal world where spiritual energy ran thin, Mo Chen had relied on the persistence of dripping water wearing through stone to force his way across the heavenly chasm between mortal and immortal.

"Slow? Yes, slow enough to drive a man to despair."

Mo Chen brushed the melon seed shells from his hands and casually stuffed the Vast Sea Blade Intent, which he had memorized and thoroughly understood, into a corner of the lowest bookshelf.

Watching the sky darken outside the window and the countless people hurrying along the long street to earn their living, Mo Chen came to his own understanding.

Lu Canghai had become a martial legend whose name shook the world, yet he could not withstand the erosion of time and had become a handful of yellow earth.

Mo Chen remained an unknown copyist, yet his face was unchanged, and he had only just pushed open the door to the immortal path.

"A hundred years in the mortal world is nothing but one great dream."

Mo Chen stood and stretched luxuriously, his bones releasing a series of crisp cracks like beans popping.

Beneath his aged mask, his skin remained exactly as it had been at seventeen or eighteen.

He had grasped most of the finest saber art the mortal world had to offer and completed the three layers of the qi refining early phase. If he stayed here any longer, his cultivation would only grow slower.

It was time to find somewhere else. Failing anything better, he could first find a place to work as a librarian, hole up, and conceal his brilliance while nurturing his strength.

The next morning, the Wenyuan Pavilion was missing a copyist named Old Mo.

And on the road into the vast mountains where immortals were rumored to appear, there was one more saber wielder, carrying a traveling pack and walking with faltering steps.

The tales of immortals passed from mouth to mouth had given Mo Chen endless room for imagining. Besides, he had attained longevity before even setting foot on the immortal path. He might as well make his way in the cultivation world; perhaps it would offer an even better place to hide.

Of course, before seeking the Dao, Mo Chen returned home. Following the villagers' directions, he used his mastered Vast Sea Blade Intent to hack down everyone who had once come to his door to trouble his family.

After eighty years, most were already dead. Only a handful had lived past a hundred; Mo Chen slaughtered their entire families before their eyes, then personally carved them into human swine.

But as the saying went, a father's debts fell to his sons.

Whether they were hillside villages of thugs or wealthy local tyrants and gentry in the city, he spared not one—even the yolks of their eggs were shaken apart.

He chopped those enemies and their descendants into mincemeat and fed them to the pigs and stray dogs, leaving only after watching the animals excrete them that same day.

Mo Chen did not care which of them had bullied his family back then. Their bloodlines were all extinguished now.

Without cultivating, he could not avenge that blood debt. Being unable to personally put his original enemies to the blade was something he had been forced to accept.

But nothing like this would happen again. Mo Chen silently resolved that, whenever he had an enemy in the future, he would make certain to kill them while they were still alive.

A month later, word spread like wildfire that the bandits and several martial gangs around Great Qian's Hidden Immortal Valley had been slaughtered to the last man.

This became a major unsolved case in the southern Great Qian Kingdom. However, because Hidden Immortal Valley lay in a remote region, and those wiped out were notorious bandits and gangs, the Great Qian court did not investigate deeply and hastily closed the case.

As for Mo Chen, guided by rumors and ancient records he had secretly gathered over several decades, he had already traveled far into the mountains...