Song Chi had grown used to his current state.
Naked, sword in hand, he wandered among the ruins.
Whenever he encountered dark figures, he attacked.
Sometimes there were one or two, sometimes a whole swarm.
After a fight, he occasionally stood where he was and offered a few words to the dispersing black mist:
"Decent moves, but your mastery was lacking."
"To die beneath this sword was your honor."
His voice echoed through the ruins. No one answered.
But he had already grown somewhat numb to it.
"Parading in finery through the night is also a form of cultivation."
That was what Song Chi told himself.
Occasionally, he would even nod slightly toward a spot in the empty air, as though an audience sat there.
Once, after finishing a hard battle and putting away his sword, he solemnly cupped his hands toward an empty stretch of rubble ahead and to his left:
"Forgive my humble display with that last strike."
Even he froze for a moment after saying it.
Then he felt at peace.
"With an audience in your heart, everywhere is a stage."
He felt that his cultivation realm had risen yet again.
Gradually, Song Chi noticed something strange.
Ever since he had stripped naked... shed all worldly trappings...
Those whispers that used to sound deep in his heart when he absorbed black crystals, tempting him to "let go" and "be himself," had never appeared again.
Not even once.
At first, he had felt a little unused to it, as though something were missing.
But soon, he "figured it out."
"So that was it..."
Atop the ruins, Song Chi stood facing the wind (naked), his white hair and black aura dancing wildly behind him.
He lowered his head to look at his palm, his gaze solemn.
"Those voices before