Sword-essence Into Thread

A group of cultivators flew to the stone gate. The yellow-robed cultivator’s token light scattered, and the passage vanished without a trace.

“Stay close,” he said coldly, glancing at them.

His ten fingers danced, forming a complex hand seal. He spun around and flung his hands outward.

Two streaks of ruddy-yellow light shot from his palms, striking the heavily restricted stone gate.

Rune after rune flickered to life on the previously sealed blue door. A low rumble sounded, and the gate slowly swung open, revealing a long, rectangular passage within.

The yellow-robed cultivator strode inside without a word.

The others exchanged glances, then followed.

Han Li walked in the middle of the disciple group, keeping his eyes forward. In truth, his spiritual sense swept across everything nearby.

The rectangular passage appeared to have been carved directly through the mountain’s belly with a magic tool. The walls were unnaturally smooth, and every few steps, a deep and obscure talismanic inscription was etched into the surface.

He could not stop to study them now, but he knew they were not mere decoration.

The passage was not long. After about a hundred zhang, the group’s vision brightened, and they emerged into a clean, orderly stone hall.

The hall was roughly five to six hundred feet wide and seven or eight zhang high—a considerable space.

In the center sat a blue stone table several feet across. Its surface was crisscrossed with vertical and horizontal lines, forming an enormous game board. Black and white stones filled the grid, reaching what appeared to be a critical juncture.

On either side of the board sat two figures, one old and one young, each holding a handful of black or white stones. The elder was a long-faced man in brocade robes, about fifty years old. The younger was no more than seven or eight, with ruddy lips, white teeth, and the appearance of a jade-child reborn.

“Uncle-Master Lan? Why would you grace this place with your presence?”

Startled, the white-robed cultivator cried out before quickly stepping forward to offer a formal bow.

“Uncle-Master Lan?”

The gray-robed elder and the middle-aged cultivator from the Hundred Artifacts Institute were taken aback by the strange child’s presence. But upon hearing the white-robed cultivator’s address, their expressions shifted dramatically. A second glance at the child—with his braided little braids, bare feet, and golden bracelets—conjured the image of a legendary senior figure they had only heard of in rumors.

“Your junior Du Hui and Yu Shan’an pay respects to Senior Lan!” they blurted out, hastily offering their own bows.

“Rise. Can’t you see I’m at a critical juncture with Disciple Hu? Not a word. Whatever it is can wait until after this game.” The child’s voice was young and high, but his words carried the authority of long experience.

“As you command!” The three Core Formation cultivators answered without hesitation, then stood with their hands at their sides, careful not to show the slightest displeasure.

The long-faced elder who had been playing the child gave the three a wry smile but said nothing.

The yellow-robed cultivator had taken a respectful position behind the child as soon as he entered the hall, adopting the posture of an obedient disciple.

The young cultivators who had followed in, upon hearing the three Core Formation elders address the child as “Master-uncle,” stirred with excitement.

They knew exactly what that title implied. One by one, their eyes widened, locked onto the child, their minds churning with shock.

Even Han Li was startled for an instant upon seeing the child. He was a genuine early Nascent Soul cultivator. What was he doing here?

But Han Li regained his composure quickly.

He was no match for an early Nascent Soul cultivator, but if he needed to escape, it would not be overly difficult. Besides, he was confident the man was not here for him.

Keeping his expression calm, Han Li silently weighed how the child’s presence might affect his plans.

The game continued for another quarter-hour before the long-faced elder finally pushed the board back and said respectfully, “Senior Lan’s skill is extraordinary. This disciple admits defeat.”

The child’s face lit up with glee, but then his dark, round eyes spun, and he said suspiciously, “Disciple Hu, you weren’t going easy on me, were you? I told you: when you play me, no holding back.”

“How would I dare deceive you, Senior? Senior’s skill has truly improved greatly from before,” the long-faced elder said, his face seeming even longer as he hastily defended himself.

“Heheh. I do feel my play has improved. Getting a few games in with those Weiqi masters from the mortal realm was not a waste after all,” the child said, his smile widening.

“Good. Put the stones away. Let’s get down to business.” The child’s smile vanished as his tone shifted.

He turned his small body and faced the assembled cultivators who had been waiting patiently. He blinked his large, black-and-white eyes, scanned the faces of the few Core Formation cultivators, and then let his gaze settle on the Confucian scholar.

“Disciple Bai, how many years has it been since you joined the Ancient Sword Sect?” the child asked slowly.

“This disciple joined over a hundred years ago,” the white-robed cultivator replied, momentarily confused, but answered honestly.

“Over a hundred years. That must have been quite a burden for you.” A flicker of emotion crossed the child’s face as he sighed softly.

“Uncle-Master, what do you mean by that?” The green-robed Confucian scholar’s expression shifted slightly, but he immediately forced a smile.

“What do I mean? As the closed-door disciple of the Righteous Path’s Haoran Pavilion Master, you’ve been spending this much time in our sect. The Ancient Sword Sect cannot accommodate such an exalted figure. Have you ever thought of returning to your master’s side?” The child’s voice turned icy as he stared at the scholar.

The white-robed Confucian scholar’s face instantly drained of color.

The gray-robed elder and the middle-aged cultivator from the Hundred Artifacts Institute stared in shock, instinctively stepping back from the white-robed cultivator.

“Fellow Daoist Bai, is what Senior Lan says true?” the middle-aged cultivator asked in disbelief.

The white-robed Confucian scholar’s face went from pale to red and back again, but he offered no denial.

“Since you’ve already investigated my background so thoroughly, Uncle-Master, it seems denying it is pointless. But I have no intention of surrendering without a fight,” the scholar finally said, his expression ugly.

The moment the word “fight” left his lips, white light flashed around him. He shot backward like a crossbow bolt into the crowd of disciples. With a sweep of his hand, a vast, white, luminous palm descended toward one of them.

It was the black-robed youth, Meng Di, the one with the “Nine Spiritual Swords Physique.”

“What are you doing?” The gray-robed elder and the middle-aged cultivator roared in unison, their own auras flaring as they prepared to intervene. But they were clearly a step too slow.

Meng Di was not caught off guard. He raised his hand and released a sword aura, slashing fiercely at the giant palm.

The gap in their power was far too wide. The sword aura struck the luminous hand without leaving a mark and crumbled under the pressure. Just as Meng Di was about to be seized, the white-robed cultivator shuddered and collapsed to the ground.

The luminous hand dissolved into glittering light and vanished without a trace.

The black-robed youth stood frozen, not knowing what to do.

“Hmph. You’ve trained our sect’s ‘Great White Qi Hand’ quite well. But you forgot—I’m not really here to play Weiqi.” The child rubbed his small hands together, expressionless, and muttered to himself.

No one in the hall except Han Li could tell how the child had struck or how he had subdued the scholar.

Squinting, Han Li looked at the fallen scholar, then at the child. A flicker of curiosity passed over his face.

The moment the scholar made his move, Han Li’s spiritual sense had caught it: a faint red thread shot out from beneath the child’s foot. The thread entered the scholar’s body, and the man collapsed on the spot.

At first, Han Li thought it was some kind of covert flying-needle-type treasure. But his spiritual sense revealed something else entirely: the faint red thread carried a barely perceptible chilling edge. It was sword-essence refined into silk.

Han Li was deeply shaken.

He had heard of it before. The best and brightest sword cultivators, when they reached a certain level, could transform their sword-essence into thread at will, breaking ten thousand techniques with a single sword.

Now he had seen it with his own eyes.

To refine sword-essence to such a state was truly an impossible feat.

“Disciple Hu, lock him in the Dragon-Trapping Pit. We cannot kill him yet. The old fellows still have use for him.” The child twisted his slender neck and spoke to the long-faced elder who had just played him.

The long-faced elder felt a chill in his heart. He acknowledged the order, walked over, picked up the scholar, and disappeared through a side door in the hall.

Seeing this, Han Li shifted his gaze briefly to Dong.

The man’s expression seemed calm, but a close observer would notice his hands, hanging at his sides, had unconsciously balled into fists. His tension was plain.

Han Li allowed himself a faint, private smile, then dismissed the matter.