Sword Tomb 4

Su Qing paused, then asked, “…What’s the confession wall?”

“It’s like a bulletin board,” Tang Jiu explained. “Sword Sect students post about lost items, help requests, or friendships. It’s called the confession wall because many post love confessions, pouring their hearts out to crushes. I was shocked too—didn’t expect the Lingpass to have such a use. Truly the Sword Sect.”

Su Qing’s silence stretched. “That’s… amazing? Who created it?”

She was certain now: the Sword Sect’s familiar layout, infrastructure, and curriculum screamed a transmigrator’s influence. Someone before her had shaped the sect.

Maybe the founder, Free Immortal, or a later sect master, or a powerful elder. Perhaps someone’s suggestion was adopted by those in charge.

Tang Jiu couldn’t say. “Senior said the wall’s centuries old. No one knows who started it—probably students organizing themselves.”

He shifted excitedly. “You haven’t followed the wall yet, right? Subscribe, and you’ll get updates instantly. Oh, we haven’t exchanged Lingpass IDs…”

Su Qing was numb to Tang Jiu’s modern lingo by now.

“How do I subscribe?”

“Can I see your disciple token?”

No harm in that.

She handed it over. Tang Jiu tapped it, chuckling. “No wonder—your Lingpass isn’t activated. There’s a Lingpass station behind the cafeteria. The cheapest plan’s sixty spirit seeds a month.”

Money snapped Su Qing out of her daze. “Sixty seeds? That’s steep! Anything cheaper?”

“There is.” Tang Jiu grinned honestly. “Use my discount—it drops to forty seeds a month. Just mention my name at the station.”

Su Qing eyed him: this earnest-looking guy was a slick salesman, quoting high then low. How could a broke girl like her resist?

And just days into the term, Tang Jiu already had a side gig? Impressive.

“Aren’t you from Tianque City’s Tang Clan?” she asked, puzzled.

“My clan sister hooked me up,” Tang Jiu said, scratching his head with shy sincerity. “The Tang Clan’s large and known in Tianque, but we’re not some grand house—just hanging on, barely. With many kids and high expenses, they can’t bankroll me alone. Sword cultivation’s tough; resources often matter more than effort. We scrape by however we can.”

Yet Su Qing chose sword and body cultivation precisely because she was broke.

“No need for ‘Miss Su,’ it’s too formal. Just Su Qing,” she said earnestly. “If there’s a job opening, hook me up. I’m strapped and not picky.”

Tang Yueling, carried by the Red Rust Sword, circled the sky. The sword was pitted and ugly, its touch revolting—like rust clumps fused together, a nightmare for trypophobes.

She never imagined being forcibly claimed by a sword, let alone an ugly one.

Worse, it was dragging her toward the battlefield below.

“What are you doing!” she fumed. “Stop!”

The sword halted abruptly, nearly throwing her off from inertia. She clung to its body, disheveled. “What’s your problem?”

The Red Rust Sword stayed silent, its hilt glowing red-hot.

Was it urging her to grip it?

Tang Yueling raised a brow. No way.

Unfazed, the sword flipped 180 degrees midair, tossing her off.

Stunned, she forgot her storage pouch brimmed with artifacts, talismans, and arrays—or that her life-saving artifact would keep her unharmed from a hundred-meter fall.

In that moment, she blanked.

Falling, survival instinct drove her to grab blindly.

And she grabbed—

The Red Rust Sword’s hilt.

Furious, she shouted, “How dare you trick me!”

Her hand fit the hilt perfectly. From tip to tail, the reddish-brown blade trembled with joy, pulsing with eager excitement.

Red light flared, her heart racing in sync.

Gripping the sword, her battle lust and wildness surged, amplified. Her veins tightened, eardrums thrummed, vision narrowed, blood boiling, every nerve quivering with thrill.

The sword’s red glow leapt, as if urging something.

Yes.

Tang Yueling’s gaze hardened. She’d avenge Daozi’s earlier strike.

Never had spiritual energy flowed so freely through her, leaping lightly from her smallest veins, gathering, surging to her hand.

Sword techniques she’d learned surfaced from memory. Though diligent, she’d never focused on swordsmanship. Yet now, each move felt practiced a thousand times.

She would swing—

Swing!

The Red Rust Sword felt weightless, an extension of her body. With a casual swing, a massive red shadow tore through the clouds, striking downward.

She’d never imagined wielding such power!

The red sword shadow charged Daozi, cleaving the rock beneath him, leaving a deep gash. Had he not dodged, he’d have been split in two.

Even so, the shockwave forced out his golden defensive array.

It also pushed back Tianning and her Xuejin Sword. She retreated, weaving a sword array to block flying debris.

Su Qing couldn’t help but marvel, “What a fierce sword.”

The tide had turned.

But the strike drained Tang Yueling, her spiritual energy sapped, face ashen, limbs trembling.

Finally remembering to recharge, she frantically pulled top-grade spirit stones from her pouch.

The stones, drained dry, crumbled through her fingers. After consuming dozens, her pallor slowly regained color.

Her blood still boiled, resonating with the sword.

She stared at the trembling Red Rust Sword, torn between anger, resentment, and exhilaration. That strike proved its perfect fit with her.

But its domineering, reckless nature, so aligned with hers, infuriated her!

Seeing Tang Yueling wobble like a red kite, Su Qing worried.

She asked Tang Jiu to fly closer to check on her.

By the time they reached her, Tang Yueling had stabilized, though disheveled. No injuries—good. Her face was grim, lost in thought.

In such moments, praise couldn’t hurt.

“Your swing was incredible,” Su Qing said sincerely.

Before she finished, Tang Yueling cut her off, showing her palm: a small red mark.

Su Qing’s eyes lit up. “A sword contract? A sword contract!”

Tang Jiu congratulated, “Taming the 198th-ranked Red Rust Sword—impressive, Miss Tang.”

Tamed?

More like coerced.

“What about the Xuejin Sword?”

Tang Jiu scratched his nose. “Rankings matter less than compatibility…”

Tang Yueling was depressed, humiliated. The ugly sword’s temperament, though fierce, matched her perfectly, and wielding it felt thrilling. But in that moment of alignment, her palm burned, and the contract formed.

She’d only thought it briefly, yet the sly sword seized the chance—a forced deal. It was ugly, temperamental, and mismatched with her. She couldn’t even show it off!

“This is your fault,” she snapped at it. “I’ll melt you down and reforge you. What’re you glaring at? You don’t fit me—I can’t take you out in public.”

The sword’s tattered tassel bristled. Having won her, it dropped its charm, rudely smacking her.

Tang Yueling exploded, “I mean it—you’re done!”