The Scripture of Rebirth and the Qingping Sword’s Reckoning

“What are you?!”

The roar, laced with disbelief and fury, erupted from the fiendish beast Yazi. His crimson eyes, vast and terrifying, locked onto the minuscule figure hovering in the air, a presence that instinctively made him tremble.

This monstrous beast, after all, was a powerful entity that had approached the very precipice of a profound boundary. He could vaguely sense the true meaning of the realm that lay beyond that elusive threshold.

It was no exaggeration to say that even the True Dragons of ancient times, who stood at the apex of all immortals, still lacked a fraction of the domineering might possessed by an existence beyond that boundary.

Yet, Yazi could distinctly perceive and confirm that this ‘insect,’ whose form was smaller than a single one of his scales, had certainly not yet reached that formidable boundary.

Despite this, the diminutive figure radiated a power terrifyingly close to that realm beyond the threshold—a power potent enough to threaten his very life!

This revelation filled him with an overwhelming sense of unease.

Mo Tingbei offered no reply.

He didn’t even glance at the roaring beast, instead slowly closing his eyes.

The scripture he began to chant grew clearer, a low, solemn melody imbued with boundless compassion and remembrance: the ‘Scripture of Rebirth.’

“Supreme Edict, transcend these solitary souls; all specters and demons, receive grace across the four births…”

His voice, though not loud, pierced clearly through the howling, yin wind. Each word carried the weight of a thousand jin, settling upon this land saturated with blood and hatred.

This scripture held no offensive power; it elicited no ripples of spiritual energy. It was simply the purest form of memorial and farewell.

It was a memorial to Yazi, the True Dragon’s son, who, ten thousand years ago, had resolutely sealed the demons and guarded the Nine Nether with his own body, only to have his glory and name eventually devoured by demonic energy.

It was a memorial to the shattered Dao foundations of the Seventh Sect Master, the broken pride of the Thirteenth Sword Child lost in the netherworld, and the towering stone monument that the Twenty-Fifth Mountain Guardian Elder had become.

It was a memorial to countless Three-Unity Sword Sect ancestors who had bravely charged forward, shedding their blood here, their very names fading into obscurity.

Most importantly, it was a memorial to his master, who had pulled him from a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood, granted him new life, yet ultimately left behind not even a shred of clothing, only a single heartfelt instruction.

As the scripture was recited, no powerful fluctuations of spiritual energy emanated from Mo Tingbei. Instead, an ineffable sorrow and solemnity permeated the air around him.

The sound seemed to transcend time and space, resonating with all the heroic spirits who had dissipated on this land while suppressing the monstrous beast.

Ripples faintly appeared in the air, then quietly vanished, as if the lingering, unyielding wills had found their final solace.

Initially, the monstrous Yazi seethed with rage. How dared this insignificant insect disregard him!

But gradually, the chanting seemed to bypass his current corrupted form, directly affecting the deepest part of his bloodline—the trace of spiritual essence belonging to the true Yazi, suppressed by demonic energy for ten thousand years.

He felt an unprecedented agitation, not the fear of his power being suppressed, but a profound… panic and agony, as if forcibly awakened from a long nightmare and compelled to confront his own deplorable state!

He roared wildly, gathering monstrous demonic might, transforming it into a destructive breath attack that surged towards Mo Tingbei!

Yet, Mo Tingbei didn’t even bother to lift his eyelids.

He made no movement, offered no defense.

As the terrifying breath approached within three zhang of his body, it slammed into an invisible, intangible, yet utterly insurmountable barrier, erupting into a violent explosion!

The scattered demonic energy failed to intrude even a sliver, dissipating into thin air precisely three inches and three fen before Mo Tingbei.

Mo Tingbei remained with his eyes closed, chanting the scripture, until the very last lines:

“By edict, save these multitudes, swiftly ascend to new life; by edict, save these multitudes, swiftly ascend to new life!”

The scripture ceased, and all sounds fell silent.

Only the boundless, compassionate intent of the memorial filled the heavens and earth.

He slowly opened his eyes. No longer was there compassion within their depths, only resolute determination and killing intent.

All memorials were complete, all farewells concluded.

Now, it was time for reckoning.

He joined his fingers like a sword and lightly drew them across the air before him.

Zheng—!

A clear, resonant sword cry, like a dragon’s roar echoing through the Nine Heavens, abruptly tore through the profound silence!

A clear light shot forth from between his brows, transforming into an ancient, simple longsword in mid-air.

The sword measured three feet three inches, its body as clear as autumn waters, with what appeared to be flowing mist and distant mountain-and-river reflections visible on its surface.

Engraved on the sword guard were two ancient characters: “Qingping.”

The moment this sword appeared, the dense demonic energy in the surroundings recoiled and dissipated as if ice and snow had met the sun!

A majestic, righteous sword intent, capable of purifying all evil, soared into the sky.

Mo Tingbei’s brows furrowed. His eyes no longer held compassion, only the burning fires of hatred, enough to incinerate the heavens and boil the seas, and the resolute will to cleanse the world of all calamities!

“Qingping…”

Mo Tingbei softly called the name of his beloved sword, his fingertip caressing the blade. His gaze was as pure and firm as when he first forged it years ago. “Today, accompany me to resolve this karma, and restore… peace to the world!”

Before his words even faded, the Qingping Sword let out a joyous yet utterly chilling hum!

Mo Tingbei gripped the hilt. He performed no intricate sword forms, merely, with a simple, direct motion, brought the sword down upon the monstrous Yazi below. The beast, sensing an immense, instinctive threat from Qingping Sword’s appearance, had let out a roar of terror.

This single strike condensed all his remaining cultivation, his years of hatred and pain, and the sacrifices and hopes of generations of his sect!

Never before had there been such a sword strike in the world—one compassionate enough to soothe karma, yet furious enough to incinerate vengeance.

The sword light was not vast; instead, it was extremely restrained, appearing only as a subtle thread of azure, instantly slicing through the sky.

However, wherever this azure thread passed, space silently ripped open, forming a fine, black fissure!

Time seemed to halt, and all creation fell silent!

The monstrous Yazi felt a true threat of death, one stemming from its very life instinct!

He roared frantically, mobilizing all his demonic energy to resist. His iron scales bristled, and chains of malevolent energy wildly thrashed, surging before him!

At the same time, his colossal dragon body rapidly shrank, darting backward like lightning.

But it was futile.

The azure, thread-like sword light disregarded all defenses, ignored spatial distance, and descended directly, precisely cleaving into the very core of his existence!

There was no escaping it.

It was as if the ‘effect’ of being struck had been predetermined, only then giving rise to the ‘cause’ of the sword’s strike.

Chiii—!

A soft sound, like a hot knife slicing into cold oil.

The monstrous Yazi’s colossal body abruptly froze, his roars abruptly silenced.

A fine azure line emerged from the center of his dragon head, extending straight down, sweeping past his neck, cutting across his chest, and ultimately piercing through his frantically beating, twisted dragon heart!

The next moment, endless, pristine sword light erupted from that azure line!

There were no earth-shattering explosions, no deafening roars.

Only purification.

Only annihilation.

The beast’s body, like ice and snow pierced by sunlight, began to rapidly transform into the purest motes of spiritual energy from the sword mark. Along with the foul demonic energy and venomous malevolent qi, it was utterly purified and erased by the Qingping Sword Intent.

His crimson dragon eyes rapidly dimmed, the madness and venom receding like a tide.

In the final instant before his complete dissipation, a trace of ancient, weary, yet incredibly clear golden luster struggled to surface deep within his eyes.

A faint sigh, filled with relief and approval, as if from ten thousand ages past, resonated directly within Mo Tingbei’s heart-lake:

“Well struck. Qingping, indeed a fine sword.”

As the voice faded, the monstrous beast’s colossal body completely vanished, transforming into countless shimmering motes of light. Like rain flowing in reverse, they drifted upward into the sky, eventually returning to the heavens and earth, leaving no trace.

Only a single golden speck, distinctly different from the other light motes, gracefully landed on his brow, then dissipated.

Ten thousand years of evil karma, at this moment, finally vanished like smoke.

Mo Tingbei stood silently in the void, the Qingping Sword in his hand emitting a faint mournful hum before flying back into his body.

His face was ashen, white as paper.

Yet, his cultivation aura did not wane; instead, it grew even more fervent.

He could clearly feel that the embers of his life force, which could originally have sustained him for another month, had suddenly dwindled after unleashing that ultimate sword strike, leaving him with only a mere five days.

His path to Dao attainment was severed, pushing him to the peak of sublimation—the closer he approached death, the stronger he became.

He had, after all, overestimated himself and underestimated this monstrous beast.

He had expected to last another ten days to half a month, but now only five days remained.

‘Perhaps I’ll make a fool of myself in front of my junior sister,’ he thought.

Mo Tingbei gazed quietly at the spot where the beast had vanished, his eyes devoid of sorrow or joy, holding only the emptiness and tranquility that followed the settling of dust.

A breeze brushed his shoulders.

It was not just a single gust of wind.

It felt as if many hands simultaneously patted his shoulders.

Silent.

Yet, an echo resonated in the empty valley.

It was like a farewell.

And also like a wish for safe passage.

But this breeze, in the end, drifted off into the distance.