Chapter Twenty-Five: What Is a Sword?

That night, Xiao Chen did not leave.

Jiang Xiuyuan and his family of three seemed to have forgotten they were mere travelers passing through, settling down right there on the Sword Burial Cliff. Jiang Xiuyuan found some animal skins from somewhere to spread on the ground, and the campfire burned all night, dispelling the chill of the cliffside. Jiang Yiyi excitedly gathered wild fruits and mushrooms from the nearby woods, skewering them on bamboo sticks and roasting them over the fire until they sizzled, filling the air with a tantalizing aroma. Jiang Xiaobai remained silent, simply finding a smooth rock to sit cross-legged upon, the withered branch in her hand occasionally tracing mysterious, profound patterns in the air.

Xiao Chen sat at the other end of the campfire like a stone statue, saying nothing.

He did not eat or drink, staring blankly at the dancing flames. In his mind, there was the glory of the past hundred years, as brilliant as the scorching sun, and the humiliation of his current state—having lost all his cultivation, reduced to something less than an ordinary mortal. On one side was the resolve of a "hero committing suicide," and on the other, the uncertainty of a "comeback." Two starkly different thoughts warred and collided within him, causing him unbearable pain, yet also forcing his heart, which had already turned to ash, to begin beating once more.

Jiang Xiuyuan did not disturb him; he knew that this internal destruction and reconstruction could only be achieved by oneself. All an outsider could do was light a lamp; as for the road ahead, that was a journey one had to walk alone.

He simply spoke, in his aged and calm tone, sharing more stories from "Earth."

He spoke of "sleeping on brushwood and tasting gall," telling of a fallen monarch who, to restore his kingdom, willingly became a slave, enduring twenty years of humiliation until his three thousand Yue soldiers could swallow the state of Wu. He spoke of "Great Yu controlling the waters," telling of a leader who, to quell the floods, passed his own door three times without entering, spending thirteen years of his life until his achievements earned eternal praise. He even told the story of "Yu Gong moving the mountains," about a ninety-year-old man who, determined to clear away the two great mountains before his door, vowed to dig generation after generation, a spirit so persistent it moved the heavens.

Xiao Chen had never heard any of these stories. In this world of cultivation where the strong reigned supreme and could destroy the heavens and earth with a whim, these mortal tales seemed so "insignificant," yet they contained a power that shook him to his core—a power called "resilience." That persistence, which cared not for the outcome but only for the labor, that indomitable will that thrived through hardship, was a side he had never encountered in the "Sword Dao" he knew so well.

Jiang Yiyi listened with great interest, occasionally asking follow-up questions. Jiang Xiaobai captured a sense of "purity" in these stories that resonated with her own path of the sword. And Xiao Chen, the silent listener, felt the chaotic battlefield within his heart gradually being illuminated by the light emanating from these tales.

He began to realize that failure, perhaps, was not to be feared. What was truly terrifying was believing that everything had ended simply because one had failed.

The next day, as the first rays of morning light pierced the sea of clouds and spilled onto the Sword Burial Cliff, Xiao Chen finally spoke again. His voice was still hoarse, but it held a flicker of vitality: "Old man... those stories you told, they are all tales of mortals. I... am a sword cultivator."

The implication was clear: the logic of mortals might not apply to him. The world of the sword cultivator was purer, and far more cruel. When the sword breaks, the Dao is severed. This was an ironclad law.

Upon hearing this, Jiang Xiuyuan stopped his storytelling. He turned his head and looked steadily at Xiao Chen, as if he had been waiting for this very sentence for a long time.

"Oh? You are a sword cultivator." Jiang Xiuyuan nodded, and then he suddenly asked a question that seemed simple, yet struck directly at the heart of the matter:

"Young man, then tell me, what is a sword?"

"What is a sword?"

Xiao Chen was stunned. To him, this question was like asking why one needs to breathe. It was instinct, common sense, an answer rooted deep in his soul ever since he first sensed energy at age three and held a sword for the first time.

Almost subconsciously, he replied: "The sword is the monarch of all weapons! It is an instrument of slaughter! It is the path of protection! It is the sharp blade with which I slay demons and eradicate evil; it is the barrier with which I defend the honor of my sect! It... is my pride, it is my Dao, it is my everything!"

His voice was not loud, but every word was filled with power—it was the summary of his hundred-year journey in the Sword Dao. In his eyes, the luster of the past rekindled, the pride that belonged to the "Jinghong Sword," Xiao Chen.

However, this brilliance lasted only for an instant before dimming rapidly, replaced by an even deeper agony. For everything he had just said was built upon one foundation: that he possessed a sword and possessed cultivation. And now, he had nothing. It was precisely because the sword was his "everything" that he felt such utter despair when that "everything" was lost.

Jiang Xiuyuan listened quietly to his answer, then slowly shook his head.

"Everything you said is correct, yet none of it is entirely true."

He did not elaborate, but instead extended a withered finger, pointing toward Jiang Xiaobai, who was nearby, whittling a piece of wood with a dead branch, looking bored.

"Look, that, too, is a sword."

Under Jiang Xiaobai's nimble control, the branch in her hand acted with precision—lightly whittling, heavily chopping, skillfully carving—until soon, a common piece of wood was transformed into a lifelike little bird. In her hand, that branch was not for slaughter, nor was it for protection; it was merely a tool, a tool to realize the thoughts in her mind.

Xiao Chen followed the direction of his finger, his brow furrowed, seemingly grasping something, yet feeling even more lost.

Jiang Xiuyuan then pointed to the other side, where Jiang Yiyi was carefully skewering roasted mushrooms with a sharpened bamboo stick, preparing to hand it to him.

"Look, that, too, is a sword."

The bamboo stick in Jiang Yiyi's hand was sharp and straight; its purpose was to pierce through food, to share, and to convey warmth and deliciousness. It carried within it joy and care.

Xiao Chen's gaze shifted to Jiang Yiyi, and his breath hitched for a moment.

Finally, Jiang Xiuyuan's finger slowly raised and pointed directly at Xiao Chen's own heart.

His voice became incomparably solemn, each word striking like a heavy hammer against Xiao Chen's spirit.

"And your greatest enemy, the obstacle you cannot overcome, is also a sword."

"A sword forged from your hundred years of glory, your pride as the best in the world, and your obsession with the past... All of these together have cast this blade. This sword is thrust into your heart. It is invisible, intangible, yet sharper than any divine weapon."

"Your life-bound flying sword, 'Jinghong,' was merely destroyed by a demonic treasure. But you, as a person, have been completely destroyed by the sword within your own heart."

"Hum——!"

Jiang Xiuyuan's words rang out like the tolling of a great evening drum and morning bell, echoing deep within Xiao Chen's consciousness!

He felt as though he had been struck by lightning, his entire body trembling violently, his face turning deathly pale. Subconsciously, he looked down at his chest, as if he could truly see an invisible sword woven from glory and obsession, thrusting deep into his heart and continuously releasing a lethal poison called "despair."

Yes... was it really the Blood Slaughter Elder who destroyed him? Was it that Blood-Transforming Divine Blade?

No... it was not.

The one who destroyed him was himself! It was his pride that could not accept failure, his obsession that wallowed in past glory! It was he who had equated the "sword" with "himself," such that when the sword broke, he had decided that "he" had died as well.

This sword in his heart was the true culprit that had nailed him to the Sword Burial Cliff!

"Pfft——!"

A mouthful of stagnant black blood, long accumulated in his chest, was violently coughed up by Xiao Chen, splashing onto the ground before him. His body swayed, nearly collapsing, but in those eyes that had been hollow, for the first time, a light called "clarity" took hold.

He stood frozen on the spot, like a statue struck by lightning, unable to speak for a long, long time.