Chapter Fifty-Seven: Sword Training in the Vast Desert
Ziyan descended like a celestial maiden, her clothes stained with blood, her arms dyed crimson as if draped in the glow of sunset. The thick clouds gathering at the horizon were slowly being parted, and a sliver of light slipped through, illuminating her.
The nine men, witnessing this, bared their fangs and laughed wildly. The man who had been drinking in the tavern earlier shouted, “Brothers! We’ve got good work tonight. Take turns, don’t rush!”
In that moment, the light streaming from the clouds shone not only on Ziyan, but also on the prone Xu Xing. A faint radiance spread along Xu Xing’s arm, gradually reaching his mind.
“Xu Xing, are you willing to let those you care about be taken from you?” came a mysterious and commanding voice from deep within Xu Xing’s mind.
As Xu Xing struggled to open his eyes, he found himself standing in a vast desert—the same wasteland he had glimpsed within the mystic tortoise tablet’s memory. Chaos reigned over the dunes, and it was the hour of sunset.
A solitary plume of smoke rose straight in the distance, the long river glowed round beneath the setting sun—a scene perfectly described by those timeless lines.
Though Xu Xing knew all of this was illusory, the pain coursing through his body was real. He could not tell where the voice had come from and cried out helplessly to the empty surroundings, “Who are you?”
Under the waning sun, a weary old man appeared, slowly emerging from the twilight. Backlit, Xu Xing could not see his face, but instinctively knew this figure was formidable beyond measure.
With his arrival, the desert trembled, the sands grew fiery hot—though the heat of day had passed, the place now felt like a furnace.
“I am the spirit of the sword,” the old man said calmly, floating three feet above Xu Xing’s head.
Both fell silent, unsure what to say. Xu Xing recalled the words the sword spirit had spoken earlier, and a spark ignited in his heart: Ziyan was fighting for him, yet he was powerless to help. Frustration overwhelmed him.
“I know what you’re thinking. You want to save her, don’t you?”
“Yes!” Xu Xing replied.
The sword spirit said nothing, hovering quietly. Xu Xing could not fathom his intentions—was he playing coy?
“Hey, sword spirit, why didn’t you appear to me before? Why now?” Xu Xing shouted.
“Because I came for the woman fighting for you. The previous master lost his beloved, fell into madness, and brought disaster upon the world. I do not wish for that to happen again. Strictly speaking, you should only meet me once you reach the Golden Core stage.”
After Xu Xing spoke, the sword spirit floated down beside him, now standing at equal height. His features bore a striking resemblance to Xu Xing himself.
“Do you remember the sword technique I bestowed upon you? The Nine Solitary Sword Arts?” the sword spirit asked.
“Yes, I remember. But I can’t comprehend the second form. I need to fight, but I’m helpless against those nine—they each surpass me, and they don’t even let me get close, using a sword formation!”
It was simply not on the same level—the most crucial problem was that Xu Xing had no spiritual energy left to use.
“You blame yourself for your depleted energy? That’s just an excuse. Do you know what makes the sword technique I gave you truly powerful?” the sword spirit asked.
“What is it?” Xu Xing pressed.
“It’s that the sword arts require no spiritual energy at all. They manifest your harmony with the way of the sword.”
No spiritual energy needed to unleash such a formidable sword art? Xu Xing doubted—how could that be?
He recalled Kong Mo’s teachings: all treasures, divine abilities, and cultivation techniques were born from understanding the great Dao. Spiritual energy was the very foundation for gathering power—it seemed absurd.
“You don’t believe me, do you? That’s because your knowledge is limited. One can never comprehend what lies beyond their perception!” the sword spirit said, his tone sharp, then continued, “Watch closely. This move will serve you from youth to middle age. Master it, and you will have the power to save her!”
With those words, the sword spirit landed, stepping before Xu Xing to face the setting sun.
No trace of spiritual energy emanated from him. He calmly raised his hands.
Bathed in the last light of the sun, the sword spirit’s body seemed to transform into a sword, possessing the power to cleave earth and pierce the heavens.
A peerless aura radiated from his bearing.
He clasped his hands above his head, then forcefully brought them down in a slashing motion.
Instantly, a whirlwind swept across the desert, sand flew in all directions, and sword energy erupted from the sword spirit’s hands, capable of cleaving the very sky.
The wasteland became a blur, visibility reduced to mere meters.
When the storm settled, Xu Xing stared in awe at the scene before him.
A bottomless chasm had appeared, beginning at the sword spirit’s feet and stretching toward the horizon, the air above it filled with the furious hum of sword energy.
The wind rose, lifting the hem of the sword spirit’s robe as he turned to face Xu Xing.
“So...so powerful,” Xu Xing murmured, feeling the vast gulf between them. What kind of terrifying figure was the sword spirit’s previous master?
The sword spirit smiled faintly, left Xu Xing with a single sentence, and drifted on the wind toward the sun, disappearing, leaving Xu Xing disoriented amid the swirling sands.
“Because of your Divine Essence secret technique, time here is nearly frozen for you. I give you time to train—until dawn tomorrow, you will return to reality.” That was the sword spirit’s final message.
A fire ignited in Xu Xing’s heart—he now knew what he must strive for: to become as powerful as the sword spirit!
He concentrated on recalling the Nine Solitary Sword Arts. He had mastered the first form, but the second was still a mystery.
“Yes, the sword spirit is right. I cannot fall. I must fight. I have someone to protect! I cannot give up just because I’ve exhausted my spiritual energy.”
Watching the wind whip up sand, Xu Xing reflected, “When the wind rises, some wallow in self-pity, while others set sail and traverse the world. I will not abandon hope because of hardship!”
Xu Xing swung his arms aimlessly in the desert—even without a sword, he could practice. He vowed to be like the sword spirit: even with empty hands, he could stand unchallenged.
With the body as sharp as a blade, none could oppose him; a single sword could cleave three thousand feet of wasteland!
Night fell, and the stars glittered ever brighter.
The desert, which ought to have been silent and oppressive, was filled instead with the sound of swords slicing through the wind. Xu Xing grew ever more engrossed.
In his mind, the second form of the sword arts began to clarify.
“To become one with the sword—I am the sword, the sword is me; in essence, there is no difference.” Xu Xing seemed possessed, forgetting all else as he swung his sword relentlessly.
Under the dazzling stars, Xu Xing gripped the air, as if a transparent blade formed in his hand.
He practiced tirelessly; every swing, every slash, every thrust stirred the wind.
Soon, the first chasm—ten feet wide—was carved out of the desert.
By lamplight, Xu Xing studied his sword technique through the night, not relaxing for a moment. Only when he was utterly exhausted did he stop.
He traced the first form of the sword arts into the sand, but strangely, each line vanished as soon as it was drawn.
After resting, he resumed training. That night, the desert was anything but silent—the sound of swords rang out across the sands.
At the edge of the desert, the sword spirit watched Xu Xing with satisfaction as the night wore on.
When the gentle morning sun rose, Xu Xing lay on the cold sand, exhausted, but smiled as the sun climbed the sky.
Around him, chasms of all sizes—ten feet, a hundred feet, three hundred feet—scarred the desert, making it look like a land ravaged by war.
The sword spirit hovered above, a pleased smile on his face.
“Child, it’s time for you to return and save the one you care for.”