11 Nameless in Qinchuan

Qin Chuan flicked his sword, leaving a slender pink line across the man's throat.

The people surrounding him instinctively stepped back, holding their blades and swords before them as if the cold steel offered immense reassurance.

Qin Chuan had grown accustomed to this place, awash with slaughter—though he disliked it, he endured calmly.

The Eternal Battlefield was divided into countless Shui Mu spaces. Some held as few as two combatants, while others—like today’s hundred-man arena—could contain thousands or even tens of thousands.

Death here did not seem final. At least for Qin Chuan, it was not. Once, after being carelessly slain by a one-eyed middle-aged man, all his accumulated insights were stripped away, but his soul seized another body anew.

Yet why was it that Qin Chuan could always rise swiftly? The natives of this battlefield absorbed only thirty percent, sometimes fifty or sixty percent, of the radiant insights, while he was an anomaly. With the aid of the Profound Breath Dust Formula, he devoured the entirety, reaching one hundred percent.

This deepened his sense of the heart formula’s mystery and his doubts—what was its origin, and how had she obtained it?

Suddenly, Qin Chuan’s heart stirred. He glimpsed a familiar figure—the swordsman.

But now, the man wielded two short axes instead of a sword.

Had Qin Chuan not been channeling the Profound Breath Dust Formula, his surprise might have shown. This world seemed to hide secrets far beyond its apparent surface.

“Again!” Qin Chuan, inhabiting the body of a tall, gaunt-faced middle-aged man, shouted, prompting those around to fall back like wolves circling their prey.

For a moment, Qin Chuan dominated the hundred-man arena, his reputation soaring yet perilously unstable. The mark at his brow signified only ten-soul rank—though higher quality than others, sheer numbers threatened to wear him down.

On the other side of the Shui Mu space, another battlefield unfolded.

A burly man, his brow marked with the yellow hundred-soul rank, fought fiercely, his predicament even more dangerous than Qin Chuan’s.

Qin Chuan was aware of the commotion over there—he was, after all, collateral damage. He was but a ten-soul, yet the Shui Mu space held hundreds. Clearly, this battle was not aimed at him, but at the hundred-soul man.

“Brother, we are surrounded on all sides. Why not join forces for now?”

Qin Chuan held a pair of short swords—his left ablaze with red, his right gleaming blue—seizing the moment to push the crowd back again. Taking advantage of the opening, he called out, hoping to catch the other man’s attention.

“Cooperate?” The burly man’s eyes flickered with confusion, as if he did not understand the word, but then clarity returned.

“Very well. Come to me quickly; let’s deal with these rabble first,” he shouted, his eyes shining with a rare vitality. With a mighty thrust, his lengthy halberd drove back the crowd.

Before they could regroup, the cross-shaped halberd whirled, stabbing in rapid succession. Metal rang out; the side blades tasted fresh blood.

Seeing the burly man unleash his power, Qin Chuan wasted no time. He sprang forward, his short swords dancing. To those watching, the blades seemed almost sentient—sometimes swift, sometimes slow, always striking at impossible angles, impossible to guard against.

How could Qin Chuan, a ten-soul, exert the pressure of a hundred-soul? The secret lay in the Profound Breath Dust Formula.

Essence, energy, and spirit are a person’s foundation. Essence is bones and flesh; energy is the pulse and vigor; spirit is the soul. Of course, Qin Chuan’s cultivation was not high enough for his soul to be truly complete.

The Profound Breath Dust Formula tuned his essence, energy, and spirit to their peak. His sword never wavered, each ounce of strength perfectly controlled. This was not merely sword technique—it was mastery of the physical form.

Not only did the formula optimize his body, it also sharpened his mind. Qin Chuan felt no joy nor sorrow, half a step from attaining the heartless state of supreme detachment.

His control over mind and body was at its zenith, able to focus on many things at once. Every sensation from his flesh was processed flawlessly, reaching the realm of seeing in all directions and hearing all around.

“I am Qin Chuan, disciple of Green Mountain Sect.” For the first time, he spoke thus on the battlefield.

He had often sought to understand this place, but his efforts were always thwarted. The one-souls seemed human, but lacked vitality; most could not speak, and even ten-souls were largely mute.

But now, it seemed that hundred-souls might be capable of real communication.

“I have no name. Call me Qin Zhou,” Qin Zhou replied, stumbling over the words, then fell silent.

For a brief respite, they entrusted their backs to each other.

It was the first time Qin Chuan had heard someone on the battlefield speak a complete sentence. Reflecting on his past encounters, he began to form an idea.

He had assumed that higher soul ranks meant greater vitality, but perhaps it was the reverse: the more complete the soul, the more vital the person, and the easier it was to rise in soul rank.

Threads of soul drifted from the corpses’ brows, reminiscent of midsummer fireflies, soon settling into the brows of the two men.

Unlike Qin Zhou, Qin Chuan could immediately refine the soul threads upon merging, his mind multitasking. The spirit of his swords shone, striking real targets, their shadows fluttering. For a moment, red and blue butterflies seemed to dance within the Shui Mu space.

Whenever Qin Chuan saw the swordsman, his eyes burned with fervor, his attacks growing aggressive. This forced the steady Qin Zhou to struggle to keep up, exhausting him.

He was not Qin Chuan—facing a formidable foe, he could not afford distraction, and soul threads entering his brow could not be refined instantly. Besides, as a hundred-soul, he bore the brunt.

Gradually, the gap between their strengths narrowed, even reversing at times.

Ten-soul, eleven-soul... twenty-soul... twenty-five-soul! The swordsmen in the hundred-man arena were nearly wiped out.

In this battle, swordsmen were plentiful; as their numbers dwindled, Qin Chuan’s orange mark at his brow grew ever more solid.

“Whew! That’s enough!”

Catching Qin Zhou in his peripheral vision, Qin Chuan’s sword style shifted from aggression to defense, ready for anything.

He glanced behind. Qin Zhou’s body was covered in wounds, deep and shallow, but he was unharmed overall; with only a scattering of one-souls left, this hundred-man Shui Mu battlefield was nearly over.

But fate intervened—a murderous intent climbed into Qin Chuan’s heart.

With a flick of his wrist, he spun two sword flowers, one red, one blue, swift as lightning.

Qin Chuan’s stamina was fully restored; focused, his twin swords thrust forward, unstoppable. With intent and surprise, victory was assured.

Seeing the two gleaming short swords stabbing from the side, Qin Zhou’s eyes widened in terror, his heart seized with shock.