Chapter 10: The Eternal Battlefield

This azure cauldron was far more exquisite than the one in the great hall, its surface adorned with carvings that seemed to depict swords and sabers in motion, halberds and spears clashing in tumult.

Qin Chuan stepped closer, his gaze inadvertently drawn to the intricate patterns. A profound melody lingered at his ear, mingling with the thunderous beat of war drums and the clamor of clashing blades.

In the depths of his mind, a spiritual platform quietly took shape, gathering his thoughts and focus. If anyone had approached Qin Chuan at that moment, they would have discovered that his body no longer breathed, his heart no longer beat—like firewood burnt to ash, like a withered axe-handle.

He remembered neither his origin nor his destination, his soul adrift as the spiritual platform carried him onward. He drifted through shadowy tombs, across barren deserts, and finally entered a golden palace. Around him, a shroud of gray mist—like a marsh—enveloped him.

In a daze, Qin Chuan awoke, suddenly aware of his strange surroundings. It was as if he were a drunkard, blacked out and unsure how he’d arrived, uncertain where this spiritual platform was leading. Only the gentle warmth from the golden palace offered fleeting comfort. Yet that peace was gone in an instant.

The spiritual platform carried him through the golden palace, the gray mist outside barred from following. His vision cleared, no longer clouded as it had been in the gloom. He summoned the Profound Breath Dust Technique, striving for a state of serenity free from sorrow or joy. But as he attempted the basic breathing method, an anomaly arose.

He could not activate the basic breathing method at all—a situation he had never once encountered.

Then, realization dawned. He looked down, and saw that he was no longer human-shaped, but merely a drifting soul.

With this shift in perspective came an unparalleled calm. His mind was clearer than ever, as if freed from the body, his thoughts were now utterly transparent. What Qin Chuan did not realize was that his flesh was saturated with dust energy—anathema to cultivators. Now, in this otherworldly realm, his soul was freed from its shackles, his mind unbound and luminous.

The gray currents were kept at bay by the golden palace; no trace remained to obscure his sight. Gazing out, he found this world much like the one he knew. Before him stretched a chaotic arena, where for thousands of miles, swords and blades glinted in endless combat. At that moment, a flash of cold steel broke into a ragged sword shadow, thrusting straight at him.

Qin Chuan’s heart tightened; he tried to dodge, but realized he had no control over this form. Suddenly, he remembered—he was only a wandering soul.

A clear, crisp sound rang out ahead, swords and sabers lamented. Listening closely, he heard faint panting in his ear, the thumping of a heartbeat in his chest.

Did he still have a body? Qin Chuan stared at the unfamiliar scene, his thoughts in turmoil, nearly shattering his composure. After all, this was the first time he’d used the Profound Breath Dust Technique for anything beyond cultivation.

As he watched, understanding dawned. He was inhabiting someone else’s body—an observer, unable to act. The body he occupied was of similar age and stature to his own, clad in a short azure tunic, wielding a hook-nosed dagger.

Blade and sword clashed rapidly, the two combatants engaging and retreating, the sounds of impact rising and falling. The swordsman seemed exhausted; after a blow, he staggered back several steps.

The knife-fighter pressed his advantage, stepping forward swiftly, then leaping like a wild goose. He struck from midair, cleaving with his blade, his attack carrying extra force.

But the swordsman had feigned weakness, his disordered steps suddenly regaining their rhythm. Seeing his opponent take the bait, he remained patient—knowing his own strength was insufficient, he could not match force with force, so he wisely chose to evade. His sword flicked against the dagger, then he retreated several steps sideways.

The knife-fighter, thinking to split the swordsman in two, found his foe unexpectedly stable and able to parry the blow. His own strength spent, caught between waning old force and unformed new.

The swordsman, seeing his opponent unsteady, ignored the numbness in his right arm and thrust with his sword—first at the eyes, then at the throat.

The knife-fighter raised his blade to block, but these were feints. The swordsman’s true strike came lightly, almost as an afterthought.

Speed was the swordsman’s strength, not power. In this back-and-forth, the outcome became clear.

With a soft sound, the third strike pierced the left chest. The sword broke through with a faint hiss, and as it was drawn free, blood spurted from the wound in a crimson arc.

The knife-fighter stared dumbly at the pain in his chest, disbelief in his eyes.

The swordsman, seeing his foe slain, let out a long breath. The struggle had been fierce, and he was wounded all over. He stretched out both arms, closed his eyes, and seemed to embrace the very heavens. Indeed, there was something mysterious about this realm. A gray blade of light emerged from the knife-fighter’s brow, then in an instant entered the swordsman’s own. It was as if enlightenment poured into him, his spirit journeying outside his body.

In this arena, two would always duel, and the loser would be devoured by the stronger. Just as the swordsman was savoring the world’s baptism, the knife-fighter rose again behind him.

The one holding the knife—Qin Chuan! He had no scruples against striking a foe from behind. Blade flashed, and the swordsman’s head was severed in a single blow. Qin Chuan’s face showed no emotion; he did not even spare a glance for the fallen man.

He had wandered far and wide, witnessed countless storms of blood. So long as he clung to the truth of that year, he was but a fugitive—past, present, and future. This world had unleashed the darkness in his heart; did it now expect him to rein it in?

Now inhabiting the knife-fighter’s body, the wound in his chest had long since vanished. Controlling this new form was awkward—he was unsteady, partly from blood loss. He flicked the blood from his dagger, ever mindful of the Profound Breath Dust Technique. Yet the basic breathing method seemed alien to this realm, failing even after regaining flesh.

Qin Chuan felt ever more certain of the Profound Breath Dust Technique’s mysterious origins. It could attune any body to its peak, even this unfamiliar one. He waited, expecting the strange radiance to emerge from the swordsman. Sure enough, reality followed expectation.

A stream of blue-gray light emerged from the swordsman’s brow, instantly merging into his own. His brow grew warm, and fragments of insight drifted into his mind like willow down. These were not memories, but a kind of intuition.

Other than unarmed combat, Qin Chuan knew little of weaponry. To him, a long sword was just a sharp stick, the dagger less useful than a trowel. Yet as these insights blended, clarity washed over him—the sound of banners snapping in the wind and the clash of arms filled his mind.

He was like a veteran, raising a rusty blade once more. The sword, though merely sharper, proved far more effective than a stick; so too with the dagger. The sound swelled, magnificent, as faint memories surfaced—reminding him why he was here. He was in the Alchemical Chamber of Divination, choosing a cultivation technique.

“So, this is where I am. This chaotic arena—its name is the Eternal Battlefield!”