Chapter Twenty-Six: The Sword of Self

As that mouthful of black blood was expelled, Xiao Chen felt no weakness; instead, the oppressive knot that had been lingering in his chest dissipated, leaving him feeling remarkably light. He lifted his head, looking at Jiang Xiuyuan with a gaze that was entirely new and complex—this mysterious old man who had pulled him back from the brink of death in just a day and a night, and who had pierced through the heart of his inner demon with a single remark.

"Old sir... who... exactly are you?" he asked, his voice raspy. Such insight, such wisdom—this could never belong to an ordinary mortal.

Jiang Xiuyuan merely waved a hand, picked up the teapot again, and said serenely, "Who I am is not important. What matters is, have you figured it out?"

Xiao Chen fell silent.

Had he figured it out? He seemed to understand, yet at the same time, he understood nothing. He knew that the root of his agony lay in his "Heart Sword," yet this very blade had been the cornerstone of all his achievements over the past century, the reason he had become known as "Swift-Shadow" Xiao Chen. To renounce this sword was to renounce his own past. The contradiction and struggle within left him mired in deep confusion once more.

Seeing his bewilderment, Jiang Xiuyuan did not rush him. He turned to Jiang Yiyi and Jiang Xiaobai and said, "It seems we shall have to stay here for a few more days. Yiyi, go see if there is any food to be found nearby. Xiaobai, you stay here with this old man and watch the fire."

"You got it, Dad!" Jiang Yiyi chirped happily, skipping off into the mountain forest.

Jiang Xiaobai sat down silently beside Jiang Xiuyuan, continuing to trace patterns in the dirt with a small branch.

And so, for the next three days, this strange quartet—one old man, two youths, and a broken man—truly settled in upon the Cliff of Buried Swords.

During the day, Jiang Xiuyuan no longer told stories; he simply brewed tea, sat in stillness, and occasionally guided Jiang Yiyi in identifying rare medicinal herbs unique to this region. At night, the campfire would rise, its warm glow illuminating four distinct faces.

In this strange, tranquil atmosphere, Xiao Chen’s heart became calmer than it had ever been. There were no sighs from his sect elders, no complex gazes from his peers, and no clamor from the outside world. Here, he was simply a "young man" facing an "old sir."

On the evening of the third day, the sunset painted the sea of clouds in the sky a magnificent crimson. Xiao Chen finally took the initiative to speak, beginning to pour out his past to the mysterious old man.

He spoke of the sense of familiarity he felt when he first touched a sword hilt at age three, and the overwhelming joy when he built his foundation at seven and acquired his first flying sword. He described how he had immersed his entire being into the world of the sword, how eating, sleeping, and breathing all seemed to synchronize with the rhythm of the blade.

"My master, the Great Elder of the Heavenly Sword Sect, once told me that the pinnacle of the sword path lies in the 'unity of man and sword.'" A look of deep nostalgia and reverence appeared in Xiao Chen’s eyes. "He said that a sword should not merely be a tool in one's hand, but an extension of the cultivator's will and the Great Dao. One must pour one's emotions, will, honor, and even one's life into the sword. Let the sword possess your soul, and let you possess the sword’s sharpness."

His voice grew louder, laced with irrepressible excitement: "I did it! It took me ninety years, but I finally did it! My 'Swift-Shadow' was no longer a lifeless object; it was me, and I was it! My joy was its ringing; my rage was its killing intent; my pride was its cutting edge!"

"My sword is myself! When my sword leaves its sheath, it is 'I' who leaves the sheath! Wherever the blade points, nothing can withstand it! No matter how powerful the enemy, under my sword, they had only the path of defeat! Because they were facing not just a sword, but the entirety of me, Xiao Chen!"

His words were filled with unparalleled confidence and pride. Jiang Xiaobai’s eyes lit up as she listened; this sword path that pushed the "self" to the absolute limit was precisely the realm she aspired to. This was the mainstream sword path passed down by the Heavenly Sword Sect for ten thousand years—the Realm of the Self! Substituting the will of heaven with one's own heart, using one's own intent as the sword's intent; wherever I am, the sword follows!

However, after listening, Jiang Xiuyuan merely added a piece of wood to the fire and commented flatly, "And so, when your sword was destroyed, it was equivalent to 'you' being destroyed."

The words were like a basin of cold water, dousing all the passion Xiao Chen had just ignited.

Jiang Xiuyuan looked up, his gaze as sharp as a knife, piercing straight into Xiao Chen’s heart: "So, when your honor was tarnished, it was equivalent to 'you' being thoroughly negated. Your sword is too heavy; it carries too much of 'you.' It carries your pride, your reputation, your past, your everything. Such a sword is naturally invincible in times of success, because your 'self' is incredibly powerful."

"But once you encounter a setback," Jiang Xiuyuan’s voice turned cold, "this sword becomes your most fatal weakness. Because your 'self' does not allow for failure. Once you fail, the entire world of your 'self' collapses. That is the truth behind the saying: what is too rigid is easily broken."

"Success by the 'self,' failure by the 'self'..." Xiao Chen muttered to himself, his face turning increasingly pale. Jiang Xiuyuan’s words had hit the nail on the head, dissecting the glory and the flaws of his sword theory with ruthless clarity.

Just then, Jiang Xiaobai, who had been silent, suddenly stood up.

Holding that plain, unremarkable dead branch, she walked over to Xiao Chen.

"Hey." Her voice sounded like a mountain stream. "Even though you've lost your cultivation, your instinct for swordsmanship should still be there, right?"

Xiao Chen started, looking at her in confusion.

Jiang Xiaobai did not say more. With a flick of her wrist, the branch in her hand transformed into a straight black line, thrusting toward Xiao Chen’s throat.

This strike lacked any flowery technique, any emotional fluctuation, and did not even stir the air. It was the purest, most direct "thrust." It was simple to the extreme, and fast to the extreme!

Xiao Chen’s pupils constricted violently!

Although his body was currently empty of energy, the combat instincts formed over a hundred years of practicing the sword were etched into his bones. Facing this sudden strike, his body reacted faster than his mind, arching back in a "bridge" posture impossible for a normal mortal, narrowly evading the lethal blow.

The tip of the branch brushed past his Adam's apple, leaving a trace of icy chill.

Breaking into a cold sweat, he scrambled to his feet, looking at Jiang Xiaobai with shock and uncertainty. In the intent contained within that single strike from this girl, who looked no older than seventeen or eighteen, he felt a flicker of genuine terror!

Jiang Xiaobai withdrew the branch, her expression remaining as indifferent as before. She said flatly, "Your sword is too complicated."

Having said this, she turned and walked back to the campfire, sitting down as if nothing had happened.

Xiao Chen stood frozen, the strike replaying in his mind over and over.

Simple, pure, direct.

No honor, no pride, no emotion. That strike had only one purpose: to "hit the target."

He suddenly remembered what Jiang Xiuyuan had said earlier while pointing at Jiang Xiaobai whittling wood—"Look, that is also a sword."

Indeed, that was also a sword. A sword that carried no "self," a sword that served only as a "tool." Such a sword might not be as glorious or domineering as his "Sword of the Self," but it... it seemed it would not shatter simply because the "self" collapsed.

Jiang Xiaobai’s simple thrust was like a key, opening a door for him to a brand-new world.

He looked thoughtfully at Jiang Xiaobai, then at Jiang Xiuyuan, and for the first time, a sense of sincere reverence for this mysterious family of three took root in his heart.