The Return of the Sword Venerable

Deep within Shuyu Valley, inside the small bamboo pavilion.

Utilizing the ‘Water Moon Mirror Heaven’ technique cast by Jiang Jinyue, Mo Tingbei gazed at the disciples outside the valley.

Though apprehensive, they stood firm, and a faint, comforting curve softened his lips, now gradually regaining their color.

He spoke softly:

“Witnessing this sight was like seeing new shoots break through the soil, like hearing the clear cry of a young phoenix.

How could our Three-Unity Sword Sect not flourish?

The legacy forged by our predecessors through immense hardship… it has, after all, not fallen into decline under my watch.”

Jiang Jinyue stood silently by his side, a subtle ripple in her eyes at his words, though a deeper, silent tremor stirred within her heart.

The true foundation of the Three-Unity Sword Sect had long since been incinerated into ash, scattered as dust and smoke in the calamitous fires of a millennium past.

How could it have ever truly been placed in your hands?

What you inherited was merely a heavy, yet glorious name, a few yellowed genealogical records, and a handful of disciples still willing to believe in legends.

This current resurgence of the Three-Unity Sword Sect could be said to be the fruit of his solitary, painstaking efforts, his struggle against fate itself.

Why then, must he be so modest?

Mo Tingbei’s smile, however, deepened.

‘After Xiaoxiao, the sect still possesses unwavering pillars capable of shouldering great responsibility, and even a Golden Core sovereign like Junior Sister presiding over its peak—what is a mere thousand years of glory in comparison?!’

A profound warmth, like the rising sun, surged through his entire being.

Slowly, he closed his eyes.

The time had come.

This thought surfaced, carrying with it the quietude of resolution, and a deeper, irrevocable finality.

He formed no seals, nor did he chant any incantations.

For him, one who had already pushed his own Dao to an extreme pinnacle, true connection never lay in mere form.

His consciousness delved into his Purple Mansion (TL Note: Zifu, an energy center in the body, often associated with the mind or spirit, crucial for cultivation.).

This was an endless wasteland, utterly consumed by the turbid Qi of the mortal world, where the heavens and earth were dim, and Spiritual Energy had withered away.

Yet, high in the nine heavens, a faint speck of light hung suspended, like an eternal, solitary star.

Though dim as a candle flame flickering in the wind, it stubbornly pulsed with an unyielding persistence.

That was the final, most fundamental thread connecting him to the artifact deep within the Three-Unity Sword Sect’s Sword Tomb, tens of thousands of miles away—his Natal Spirit Sword, ‘Qingping’.

Before he resolved to embark on this path, one no one had ever successfully traversed, he had stripped away his lifelong cultivation, his divine abilities to slay myriad demons, his comprehension of the laws of heaven and earth… indeed, almost all powers that could possibly stir the mortal realm or disrupt his journey to enlightenment through the mundane world, sealing them entirely within ‘Qingping’.

That sword bore all the glory and weight of his past as the ‘Youngest Purple Mansion’ and the ‘Strongest Purple Mansion of His Era,’ anchoring the sect’s destiny and, in turn, bearing his responsibilities and solitude.

Now, this decaying body had reached its limit, internal and external crises erupting simultaneously, like a battered ship on the verge of sinking.

He needed power, power sufficient to quell the disaster before him.

Thus, within this desolate wasteland of his inner world, he raised his gaze, ‘looking’ towards that faint glimmer.

Then, with a resolve bordering on self-destruction, he personally extinguished it.

It was not a summons, nor an invocation.

It was… a severance!

Severing the last chains that bound it to Qingping, he reclaimed that power, which to his current self, was no different from a potent, lethal poison!

It was as if the universe’s first thunderous roar had sounded, yet it was utterly silent.

Tens of thousands of miles away, deep within the Three-Unity Sword Sect’s Sword Tomb, the ancient longsword Qingping, suspended above an endless sea of sword intent, suddenly emitted a mournful cry that tore through the sky.

Its blade vibrated violently, erupting with a dazzling radiance capable of illuminating the entire abyss!

The seal had broken!

It was not a gentle summons from its master, but rather, after the collapse of its shackles, power obeying its most primitive connection, like a breached stellar river, wildly pouring towards that singular, rapidly fading coordinate!

****

Before the water mirror in the valley, the figures of the disciples suddenly stirred, their murmurs rising like layered ripples.

Just then, a brilliant, profound light tore through the sky from the direction of the Heavenly Pivot Pavilion—the Qingping Sword, which had guarded the top floor of the scripture repository for eight years, now, without anyone to command it, departed the tower on its own.

It transformed into a streak of flowing light, trailing an ancient Daoist charm, and shot directly towards the depths of the secluded valley where Jiang Jinyue was in secluded cultivation!

“It’s the Qingping Sword… Grand Elder Mo’s (TL Note: ‘Taishang’ or ‘Grand Elder’ is a title for a highly respected, usually retired or semi-retired, senior member of a sect, often possessing immense power.) magic treasure has awakened!” a young disciple blurted out, their voice trembling.

Wherever the divine sword passed, an invisible pressure swept aside layers of clouds, yet as it neared the disciples’ heads, it transformed into a gentle ripple, seemingly both comforting and warning.

“The direction it’s heading… it truly is towards Grand Elder Jiang’s location!”

The commotion grew louder, and several people in the crowd could no longer restrain themselves, taking half a step forward.

At this very moment, a figure in green suddenly stood up, steadily stepping onto a raised bluestone—it was none other than the head of the night-duty disciples, the youth surnamed Han.

Unlike his previous image of indolence and slyness, this round-faced youth was now remarkably composed.

The square-faced strongman behind him, however, had an expression of understanding in his eyes.

The greater the crisis, the calmer and more collected his good brother became.

The youth surnamed Han issued no shouts; he simply stood steadfastly on the stone, his green robes fluttering in the mountain wind.

His gaze was as still as an ancient well, yet an aura of profound tranquility emanated from him.

Concurrently, several night-duty disciples accompanying him gradually released their cultivation auras.

Gradually, the rising cacophony of voices around them was quietly suppressed.

“Fellow disciples,” his voice was clear and resonant, not loud, yet every word reached their ears, imbued with the solemnity of morning bells and evening drums.

“Do you still recall the very first sentence Grand Elder Mo spoke each time he expounded upon the sect rules?”

A few hushed gasps rippled through the crowd.

Many disciples involuntarily halted their steps, exchanging glances, their eyes reflecting the same glint—a memory deeply etched into the soul-veins of every Three-Unity Sword Sect disciple.

“The Grand Elder said,” the youth surnamed Han’s tone suddenly sharpened, clear as a sword’s chime, yet as steady as a bedrock, “‘It is not that one does not move, but that one dares not move lightly; it is not that one has no thoughts, but that one does not allow errant thoughts to sway one’s Dao heart.'”

His gaze swept across the young, restless faces, his voice deepening, like a senior’s earnest advice, yet also like a peer’s shared encouragement:

“‘A Three-Unity disciple’s heart may hold thunder, yet their demeanor remains as calm as a cold pond.’

Today, the divine sword moves of its own accord—this is a major event for the sect, and a time of trial.

To be startled but not chaotic, to observe but not agitated, that is the proper conduct for our generation.”

As his words fell, the entire clearing became utterly silent, with only the mountain wind passing through the valley, rustling their robes.

The previously agitated crowd gradually calmed.

Numerous disciples exchanged nods, silently retreating to their original positions, straightening their attire, and adjusting their postures.

Though no one spoke, an aura of solemn gravity pervaded the air, dozens of individuals standing as one, quietly gazing towards the deep valley where the profound light had vanished.

****

Inside the bamboo pavilion.

Mo Tingbei suddenly tensed his body, letting out a stifled groan, suppressed to its absolute limit.

Visibly, a vast, ocean-like pale golden radiance, ignoring the distances of space, suddenly erupted from every pore of his body!

The light was not warm; rather, it carried an ancient, unchanging coldness and majesty, inherent to metal, stone, and the very laws of existence!

His withered white hair grew wildly, instantly spilling across the bed, its tips imbued with a molten gold-like sheen.

Beneath his visibly shriveled skin, golden lava seemed to course, forcefully filling his atrophied meridians and propping up his gaunt bones.

The bone-deep aura of death was brutally dispelled and suppressed by this violently surging, immense power.

A terrifying pressure, capable of making one’s soul tremble, exploded outwards, centered on him!

Crack! Crack!

The layered ice crystal barriers Jiang Jinyue had erected on the four walls of the bamboo pavilion groaned under the strain, instantly riddled with cracks.

Mo Tingbei slowly raised his hand.

What flowed from his fingertips was no longer the aura of death, but a pale golden sword intent, condensed to a tangible form, capable of slicing through space.

He clenched his fist slightly, savoring this power, both familiar and alien, potent enough to shake the heavens and earth.

Then, he opened his eyes.

His gaze was devoid of turbidity or weariness; instead, there was only a bottomless, golden sea of stars, reflecting the birth and death of cosmic laws.

It was serene, yet utterly devoid of life.

With a clear, resonant sword chime, the Qingping Sword passed through the window frame, returning to its master’s hand.

The strongest Purple Mansion of his era, Mo Tingbei, the ‘Sword Venerable of World Cleansing and Calamity Quelling,’ had returned.