Resurrection

On the day these events unfolded, Lin Langyao was presiding over some grand immortal council within his Chaotian Pavilion.

Lin Langyao’s capricious nature meant new ideas sprang forth every few days, and he invariably demanded everyone’s cooperation.

A single whim of his could incite the entire cultivation world into a flurry of activity, with no one daring to refuse.

To defy him was to harbor dissatisfaction, and in such cases, Lin Langyao would personally call upon the offender, sword in hand, to ‘discuss the Dao’ with them at length.

The first to notice the newcomer was a disciple from an immortal sect, seated at the furthest end near the exit.

Their master, feigning illness, had been unable to attend the conference, leaving the disciple no choice but to brave the ‘tiger’s den’ in their stead.

Feeling utterly ill at ease, they suddenly caught sight of a figure stepping in from beyond the doorway.

The newcomer was a wanderer clad in a simple green robe, unremarkable in appearance, even bearing traces of a long journey.

What first drew one’s gaze was the sword clutched in his hand.

Roughly three feet long, slender and straight, it was encased in an unadorned scabbard, yet it possessed an uncanny allure that held the eye captive.

As a sword cultivator himself, the disciple found his ears ringing and his heart pounding like a drum as he stared at the blade, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead.

It took immense willpower for him to tear his gaze away from the sword, only to lift his head and meet a pair of dark, tranquil eyes.

“Fellow Daoist,” the green-robed wanderer inquired, “may I ask, was this place not a cave dwelling a century ago? And where might its former master, Lin Langyao, be?”

Lin Langyao, meanwhile, was seated regally upon the elevated dais at the far end, eloquently expounding upon his three five-year plans for revitalizing the cultivation world to the assembled sect leaders and masters.

Being particularly sensitive about his own name, he suddenly heard it called out and abruptly turned towards the source of the voice.

The immortal sect disciple’s face paled considerably, and as the green-robed wanderer spoke, they frantically gestured for him to stop.

However, the wanderer failed to grasp their meaning, instead regarding them with a puzzled expression.

Lin Langyao had already noticed the two.

The moment his voice ceased, the previously drowsy immortal grandees seated below instantly snapped to attention, casting anxious glances at one another.

They all wondered who had managed to displease this ‘ancestor’ now.

Feeling the oppressive gaze from the highest seat sweep over them, the immortal sect disciple’s fingers trembled.

They lowered their head and huddled into a quiet ball, like a quail.

A deathly silence descended upon the entire hall, broken only by the green-robed wanderer, who remained utterly oblivious to the unfolding drama.

Suddenly, Lin Langyao’s voice cut through the stillness.

“Hey, you there, kid…”

At first, the green-robed wanderer didn’t realize Lin Langyao was addressing him.

Once he comprehended, he slowly shifted his feet and turned around.

Lin Langyao narrowed his eyes, observing the green-robed figure, whose form was indistinct against the light.

Though he couldn’t clearly see him, his heart inexplicably skipped a beat.

His physique was tall and straight, and merely by standing there, he exuded an aura of overwhelming pressure, like a towering jade mountain, making it difficult to breathe.

That long sword, that hand gripping the sword—everything about him seemed to have stepped right out of his memories.

It was as if Lin Langyao’s deepest-seated nightmare had surged forth, shattering the boundaries of day and night to manifest before him.

However, the man’s unkempt and casual attire made it difficult for Lin Langyao to immediately connect him with the ‘white-robed immortal’ from his recollections.

His eyelid twitched, and an inexplicable surge of irritation welled within him.

He slammed his hand on the table, drew his sword, and rose, feigning a grand display of authority as he bellowed, “Impudent wretch! Who dared you trespass upon this sacred ground of immortal council—”

Suddenly, a flash of sword light erupted.

The entire assembly gasped in astonishment.

Lin Langyao truly lived up to his reputation as the foremost master of the cultivation world; his sudden, powerful strike was so swift that no one could react in time.

The immortal grandees only perceived a flash of white light before Lin Langyao had already closed in, pressing his attack directly upon the green-robed wanderer.

“Calm down, Immortal Venerable Lin!” the crowd cried out in a flurry of urgent shouts.

In truth, Lin Langyao had no intention of truly harming the green-robed man; he merely sought to intimidate him, to teach him that the renowned Immortal Venerable Lin’s Chaotian Pavilion was not so easily trespassed upon.

Yet, to Lin Langyao’s astonishment, his lightning-fast, thunderous strike was instantly parried by the other party.

“Oh?” Lin Langyao uttered, surprised.

He retreated, then struck again, and with a clang of metal, his attack was once more audaciously met.

Lin Langyao incredulously lifted his gaze, meeting the green-robed man’s eyes at close range.

They were eyes of profound darkness and tranquility, like the deep waters of the Sword Transformation Pond, or the boundless night atop Qintian Peak.

For an entire jiazi (TL Note: A traditional Chinese cycle of 60 years), sixty years, and over twenty-one thousand nine hundred days and nights, Lin Langyao had lived under the oppressive gaze of those very eyes.

In that instant, old memories surged forth.

His nightmare had, indeed, truly descended.

Lin Langyao’s pupils constricted abruptly.

The green-robed wanderer, showing no further mercy, swept his sword with force, sending the cultivation world’s foremost master flying.

A deafening silence enveloped the surroundings; everyone seemed to be in a dream, unable to believe what they had just witnessed.

That was Lin Langyao, wasn’t it?

The man who had been swept away by a single sword stroke, landing on the ground and rolling a considerable distance until he crashed against the steps—that was the cultivation world’s foremost master, the chaotic devil king who caused countless cultivators from immortal sects endless headaches and sleepless nights.

That was Lin Langyao, wasn’t it?

However, what transpired next caused the assembled immortal grandees to pale even further in utter dismay.

The green-robed wanderer, whose attire was plain and even somewhat inconspicuous, then withdrew his sword from its scabbard.

Instantly, the sword cultivators present felt a turbulent tremor within their spiritual seas.

The sheathed swords at their sides buzzed and struggled, attempting to break free.

No one had ever encountered such a phenomenon, and they hastily moved to press down on their own blades.

Those with shallower cultivation, like the immortal sect disciple by the door, had already turned deathly pale and were clutching their swords, pressing them firmly to the ground with their bodies, the only way to prevent their blades from leaping out.

Amidst the chaos, an elderly sect master, with hair and beard as white as snow and profound experience, suddenly had his expression shift.

“This, this is… this can’t be… After that person, it should be impossible for anyone to possess such a formidable sword aura…”

A fellow Daoist nearby, struggling to hold down their own sword, asked, “What do you mean? Who are you referring to?”

“A century ago, Sword Venerable Wen…” the old sect master murmured, “that late master… Lin Langyao’s…”

“…Master.”

As the green-robed man drew his long sword, the pavilion was bathed in a brilliant flash of light, and the pressure on everyone present intensified once more.

Lin Langyao awkwardly scrambled to turn over on the ground, facing the man who now advanced towards him with sword in hand.

It was as if he were witnessing a specter from his nightmares stepping into broad daylight.

His eyes widened, and a profound, bone-deep terror, long embedded within him, utterly engulfed him.

The late Sword Venerable Wen Chaoxuan’s face was ashen, and his patience finally snapped.

He lashed out with his sword towards Lin Langyao, exclaiming, “You wretched creature!—”

Instinctively, Lin Langyao immediately cowered, covering his head, and scurried away, shouting, “Mercy, Master!—”