Chapter 25: The Hermitage of the Sword's Martyr

Qin Chuan drew in a sharp breath. At such a moment of utmost precision, there could be no room for error. He couldn't help but inwardly complain—if only he could stop his own heartbeat for a while. Fixing his gaze once more upon the tree trunk, he saw that his sword finger had pierced diagonally through more than half the trunk. Sensing that he still had seventy percent of his spiritual energy remaining, Qin Chuan felt elated.

He clicked his tongue in surprise; he hadn’t expected to develop such a brilliant move by accident. Strangely, this simple technique seemed not to require any particular cultivation method or energy manipulation, so why had he never seen anyone use it? But suddenly, realization dawned: without the Dust of Profound Breath technique, even ten years of practice would not grant such mastery over spiritual energy.

Having accidentally mastered this remarkable art, it ought to be named. Reflecting on recent events, if Wang Hao hadn’t been injured, none of this would have happened. Inspired, Qin Chuan decided to call it the Hao-Spiral Finger.

With the experience of his first attempt, the second was much easier. In no time, he had condensed another Hao-Spiral Finger.

After three strikes, the old tree was left with only its heart connecting top and bottom. When the wind blew, it creaked ominously. The task became simple. By the time Qin Chuan entered the gates carrying the yellowish cane, half an hour had passed.

Wang Hao hobbled out, leaning heavily on his cane.

Summer was nearing its end, and night fell earlier than before. Looking up to where the sky met the horizon, only the last rays of dusk remained; a few bright stars had already emerged, and the outline of the Silver River could be faintly seen.

“Brother Qin, perhaps you don't know—our alchemists hold a very special place in the Azure Mountain Sect.”

“Even though the Alchemy Pavilion has been recruiting more disciples these past years, the sect’s demand for pills is insatiable.”

“Things have been unsettled lately in the Azure Mountain Realm. Many old monsters that used to lurk in the wilds have started wandering, leaving their usual territories for reasons unknown.”

“It’s said that the demon serpent which bit my left arm was caught in the mountains by Elder Ji Xu, who gave it the strange name—Xiangliu.”

“With more wounded, the sect’s pill consumption has soared, and our alchemists’ status naturally rises with it.”

Their conversation drifted along as they walked, Wang Hao moving slowly due to his injured leg. The mountain path was uneven, making their progress even harder.

Along the way, Qin Chuan saw many Azure Mountain disciples greeting Wang Hao; some close acquaintances even cursed Ji Xu openly in Qin Chuan’s presence, showing no restraint.

Wang Hao did not reveal Qin Chuan’s identity, and the two ambled to their destination.

This place was far superior to the average thatched cottage. Qin Chuan was reminded of Xing Hua’s residence on Qingyang Mountain—not extravagant, but spacious and serene.

Knock, knock.

“Steward, Wang Hao has something to discuss,” Wang Hao called, tapping the door.

“Coming, coming!” answered a middle-aged man from within, his tone tinged with delight.

Soon, the lacquered red wooden door swung open from inside.

“Ah, Wang Hao! Come in, take a seat!” The steward stepped aside to let them pass.

The room was simply furnished—a square tea table surrounded by four floor cushions. Four lacquered red pillars each bore a candlestick, and four whale-oil lamps cast a bright, unobstructed light.

On either side of the wooden bed stood iron hexagram flags, and at the foot of the wall hung a long sword of unknown material. Aside from these, there was nothing else in the room.

A wooden teacup on the table still held half a cup of tea. Clearly, the steward had been steeping tea and savoring its fragrance before they arrived.

This middle-aged Daoist was quite amiable, unlike Xing Hua, who always wore the face of a corpse.

He originally meant to invite Wang Hao to sit, but seeing him struggling with his cane, he closed his mouth—the room lacked the ordinary stools found in mundane households.

“I had planned to prepare a small gift and visit tomorrow, but I never expected Brother Wang would be up and about so soon,” the steward said with a smile, though inwardly he cursed whoever had told him Wang Hao would be bedridden for at least two months!

He had hoped to prepare a thoughtful gift to draw closer to Wang Hao, so future requests for pills might be more easily granted. But before the gift was ready, Wang Hao himself had shown up.

“Steward, it’s all thanks to Brother Qin Chuan’s skill. Otherwise, I’d still be lying in bed!”

The steward’s smile grew even wider. “Truly, a hero in his youth! I heard that even the Alchemy Pavilion's experts were helpless, yet Brother Qin cured him?”

He was astonished; word had it that even Wang Hao’s master, a Golden Core cultivator, had scheduled a half-year check but could do nothing. Yet this unremarkable youth had succeeded.

He looked Qin Chuan up and down, noting his robust vitality and handsome bearing, and quietly thought him an extraordinary person.

“Wang Hao owes Brother Qin Chuan a great debt and dares not go ungrateful. He wishes to settle on Linpu Mountain, so I brought him here to request an available room,” Wang Hao explained.

“Of course, of course!” The steward dared not refuse; opportunities like this were rare.

Residences on the mountain were not the steward’s to allocate, nor did he have any say. Any Azure Mountain disciple could register and rent an available room, paying a modest fee to the sect.

The only inconvenience was the registration, which usually took half a day, but with the hour late, things were less convenient.

The steward tapped his storage pouch and produced a brush and register.

“It’s late today, Brother Qin. You may take any vacant room and settle in. I’ll record it now and report to the sect first thing tomorrow.”

He opened a thick register and dipped his purple brush in black ink.

He wrote “Qin Chuan” in small characters.

“Brother, which main peak and hall do you belong to? Who is your master?” the steward asked, turning to Qin Chuan.

“Fuluan Mountain, Fuluan Hall. My master is Elder Su,” Qin Chuan replied softly, lest he disturb the newly risen moon.

“Oh, Fuluan Mountain, Fuluan Hall...” As the steward wrote “hall,” something seemed to strike him, and his hand trembled. But he steadied himself and finished the entry.

When he looked up, the calm in his eyes was gone.

“Steward, we’d like the room next to the Spirit Spring. Is that possible?” Wang Hao asked, his gaze sharp and unwavering.

Despite the steward’s cultivation being higher than theirs, years without advancement had worn away his sharpness. He had started as a disciple like them, but lacking sufficient fortune and insight, his cultivation stagnated, leaving him in his current position.

Some like him had left the sect to seek their fate elsewhere; others, like this steward, Xing Hua, and Wen Yuan, remained to serve.

Whether they had lost the courage to face life and death and settled for a quiet existence, or genuinely wished to focus on cultivation, was unclear.

The steward’s eyes flickered, then he gritted his teeth. “Fine, that room—I’ll speak to the current occupant!”

Qin Chuan glanced curiously at the steward's reaction, wondering about the room by the Spirit Spring. Turning to Wang Hao, he saw him winking mischievously, making Qin Chuan even more intrigued.

Once the steward had weighed his options and transferred the room to Qin Chuan, the two left, leaving the steward alone in the empty room, sighing in melancholy.

“Ah, Linpu Mountain will not be peaceful…”

The two had already gone and could not hear his lament. The evening wind swept through the mountains, carrying the scent of grass, brushing against their faces and lifting the hair from their shoulders—a pleasant sensation.

Perhaps because it was late, with stars and moon shining bright, there were fewer people on the road, and their pace quickened.

At a fork in the path, they took the more secluded trail, where the grass grew nearly waist-high.

Bird nests perched on branches filled the quiet air with the soft cries of fledglings, which fell silent as their footsteps passed, then resumed once they had moved on.

“Brother Qin, let me rest for a moment,” Wang Hao said, finally unable to continue. He apologized, then used his cane to clear a patch of grass and sat down, unbothered by the dirt.

“No matter, I’m tired too,” Qin Chuan replied, wiping imaginary sweat from his brow, and found a comfortable spot to sit.

Wang Hao wasted no time, immediately circulating his energy. The medicinal warmth of the Bone Renewing Pill suffused his left leg, and when spiritual energy met it, a tingling numbness arose.

If he rolled up his trouser leg under the moonlight, he might see the skin faintly flushed.

For a while, silence reigned, broken only by the chirping of crickets hidden under stones and grass nearby. If one listened closely, the tinkling sound of running water could also be heard.

Suddenly, Qin Chuan realized this must be the Spirit Spring mentioned by Wang Hao and the steward.

Once Wang Hao finished his energy circulation, they resumed their journey.

Sure enough, the sound of rushing water, like jade beads clattering on a jade plate, grew clearer.

Oddly, since entering this side path, they had not seen any other dwellings.

Without thinking too much, they followed the winding mountain trail, pushing aside brambles and branches, until they finally saw a house.

“Ah!”

“This house must have quite the history.”

No wonder Qin Chuan asked—the house itself was ordinary, but the scene before it was anything but.

Sword marks were carved everywhere in chaotic patterns, as if wild beasts had gnawed at the place. It seemed long untended, with fallen leaves deep enough to cover their feet, yet the courtyard was spotlessly clean, untouched by dust, and even the plants kept their distance.

“Indeed, indeed. This house once belonged to a senior sword cultivator of the Azure Mountain Sect.”

“This elder’s Daoist name was Swordmartyr. As the name suggests, he was mad for the sword, obsessed, and devoted to it above all else!”

“Ah…”

Wang Hao’s expression seemed to choke back many words, lost in thought, and finally released only a sigh.

His face shifted through admiration and puzzlement…