Chapter 333: The Old Sword and the Youth (Part 2)
When that sword intent appeared, when that iron sword came to Chen Changsheng's side, the sea of beasts around the mausoleum had already reacted—some in fear, some in rage, restless and uneasy. They had been suppressed by Nanke, but now, as the soulwood in her hand blazed with brilliant light and the restraints suddenly vanished, the countless beasts in the grassland could no longer hold back. They charged madly toward the mausoleum. For a moment, the earth trembled, the heavens and earth grew dark and dim, and even the torrential rain seemed tainted with the stench of blood and filth.
Only that terrifying shadow remained silent. Though it slowly drifted toward the ground, it showed no intention of revealing its divine might. Perhaps it was precisely because of this roc's behavior that the few high-level beasts deep within the grassland—those possessing combat power at the peak of the Star Condensation realm—did not follow the beast tide toward the mausoleum. They were not resisting the soulwood's call, nor were they defying Nanke's will. Rather, they possessed greater intelligence and vaguely sensed that something far more severe was about to happen, and so they remained vigilant. Here, "severe" naturally referred to the Garden of Zhou.
Countless beasts surged toward the mausoleum like waves of black tide. The once-quiet Sunset Grassland had long since become chaotic beyond measure. The pools of water beneath the wild grass were torn to shreds by sharp beast claws, then crushed flat by scaly bellies. Soil churned endlessly, clear water turned utterly turbid—the spectacle was both magnificent and terrifying. As said before, even a sage standing here could not kill all these beasts surging endlessly toward the mausoleum; they could only flee. Standing in the rain, Chen Changsheng watched this scene and naturally wanted to retreat, but he had no path left.
Around him, over a dozen famous swords hung silently in the heavy rain. These swords had once witnessed the vicissitudes of human life, but now they themselves were weathered—some broken, some covered in rust. When they first appeared, their presence was astonishing, but in the end, they were no longer as formidable as in their prime. Most crucially, the peerless experts who once wielded these swords had long since passed away.
Relying on only these dozen-odd broken swords, he could not withstand the assault of the beast tide. To become an unyielding reef before the black ocean, he needed more swords.
Through the dense curtain of rain, Chen Changsheng's gaze swept across the grassland around the mausoleum, fixing on the terrifying beast tide. He sought more swords. Those swords should be in the Sword Pool. For some reason, they had not appeared like the Mountains and Seas Sword. They were still waiting for his summons—or persuasion. But where exactly was the Sword Pool?
"If you are here, please come out and meet me, because I need you."
This was his intent. It traveled along the slightly trembling handle of the yellow paper umbrella, through the umbrella's surface, and scattered into the boundless grassland.
He gazed at the distant grassland shrouded in misty rain, then at the nearby grassland groaning under wolf claws and serpent bellies. Silently, he spoke to the Sword Pool, wherever it might be: "I will take you away from this abandoned old garden. Perhaps you will fall into slumber, but at least... it will not be in this grassland that has no night and offers no rest."
The beast tide drew closer. Ahead, it was only a few li from the spirit path beneath the mausoleum. Standing at the edge of the stone platform, Chen Changsheng could even clearly see the blood-red maw of the lead Purple Lightning Leopard and the drool dripping from the corners of its mouth. He could almost smell the foul stench of that saliva.
Just then, he suddenly felt a tremor.
This tremor had nothing to do with the beast tide, nor with the torrential rain.
This tremor came from the depths of the grassy sea, from the depths of the earth. It was very faint, seeming weak, yet it was so real.
The Purple Lightning Leopard, like a true bolt of purple lightning, tore through the dense water grass and charged madly toward the mausoleum. Its blood-red eyes were filled with the violent and ferocious aura of bloodlust.
Suddenly, a flicker of alarm appeared in its eyes, and then they split open.
Next, the corners of its mouth also split open. The drool dripping down mixed with blood, turning a bloody red.
It sensed danger and accelerated frantically, trying to escape that tremor.
That tremor was indeed very weak. When it reached the ground, it felt very slow.
Yet the lightning-fast Purple Lightning Leopard could not shake off this tremor.
Amid the sound of rain, a faint tearing noise arose.
*Crunch!*
The Purple Lightning Leopard's body shattered into over a dozen bloody chunks, scattering as it ran, yet still maintaining its previous speed until it fell to the ground dozens of zhang away.
The scene was extremely eerie and horrifying.
In the paw prints left by the Purple Lightning Leopard, the wet soil churned and rolled, and a sword slowly emerged.
It was a broken sword, only half remaining. The hilt was deeply rusted, and the half-blade was covered in mud. It looked utterly miserable, no different from scrap metal.
This broken sword lay quietly in the mud and tangled grass.
The rain fell without cease. As the rain washed over it, the mud on the blade was cleaned away, but the rust could not be washed off. It remained gray and dull, without a trace of brightness or sharpness. Yet it had grown lighter. This broken sword trembled incessantly, struggling, trying to leave the ground... like a severely wounded soldier, leaning on a crutch, wanting to stand again and fight the enemy.
No one knew how long it took, but finally, this broken sword left the ground. It flew crookedly toward the mausoleum, as if it might fall back to the ground at any moment.
...
...
On the Sunset Grassland, the beasts second only to the Purple Lightning Leopard in speed were the Wind Wolves. These beasts, hybrids of snowfield wolf packs and the Phantom Wolves of the Western Continent, possessed incredible speed from birth. They were said to be the only beasts on the continent capable of successfully hunting Red Eagles—though that was mainly due to the Wind Wolves' collective combat ability and tenacious patience.
The bizarre death of the Purple Lightning Leopard ahead did not slow the Wind Wolf pack's speed in the slightest. As the most loyal and bloodthirsty guardians of the Zhou Mausoleum, the pack leader had received the soulwood's command to tear apart all invaders who dared enter the mausoleum. Most crucially, the pack consisted of hundreds of Wind Wolves. Even if some died beneath those broken swords, more would break through and attack the enemy.
The wolf pack possessed highly developed hunting intelligence. During the long wait earlier, the pack leader had quietly led its subordinates to squeeze out other beasts and take position on the White Grass Path. This path had the hardest, firmest ground and was closest to the mausoleum's main gate—perfect for launching a charge.
The white grass on the White Grass Path was all reduced to fragments. The wolf pack swept past like the wind. Because of their immense speed and numbers, they produced a piercing howl. But the next moment, that howl was replaced by another sound of wind breaking—more shrill, or rather, sharper.
It was the sound of sword intent cutting through the air.
The tuft of white hair on the Wind Wolf leader's head snapped off in the wind.
That tuft of white hair was the most distinctive feature distinguishing Wind Wolves from other wolf breeds. It was this tuft that granted the Wind Wolf its spirit, allowing it to possess the speed of the wind.
Now, that tuft was broken.
The Wind Wolf leader let out an angry, unwilling howl. But even that howl could not be fully voiced—it was cut short, as if severed by a sword.
Countless cracks appeared on the White Grass Path. These cracks ran parallel to the mausoleum, like countless straight lines, blocking the Wind Wolf pack's charge.
Any Wind Wolf that crossed these lines was cut apart by an invisible force.
Wolf claws stepping on the hard ground broke off.
Wolf shoulders, carrying flying white grass fluff, broke off.
Wolf tails broke off. Wolf waists broke off.
The pack of hundreds of Wind Wolves—in the instant those cracks appeared—all broke apart.
Like a large basket of stones dumped onto the ground, the White Grass Path echoed with a clattering sound.
Countless Wind Wolf corpses were sliced into pieces, tumbling endlessly on the path. Some rolled into the grassy marshes beside it; others were directly ground into powder by more sword intent.
On the road leading to the mausoleum, severed limbs and broken bodies were everywhere. Filthy blood sprayed in all directions. The White Grass Path became a blood path, the stench of blood piercingly strong.
As the bloody smell dispersed into the sky, the sword intent within those cracks rose against the rain, reaching the heavens.
Thousands of Gray Vultures flew in the distant sky, eerily silent. These beasts were powerful and insidious. Back then, even Xu Yourong had to burn her last drop of True Phoenix Blood to slay a group of them. Unlike other beasts that roared wildly, they flew quietly toward the mausoleum.
It seemed that between them and the mausoleum lay only empty sky, with nothing in their way—perfect for a sneak attack.
Yet that sword intent also reached the sky.
The cracks in the grassland seemed to tear the sky apart as well.
Countless mournful cries suddenly rang out. Countless broken feathers drifted down. Falling even faster to the grassland were the brilliantly colored drops of blood.
Thousands of Gray Vultures fell one after another. For a moment, they were even denser than the rain.
...
...
Countless beasts charging toward the mausoleum had their bodies split apart, becoming bloody, mangled chunks.
Countless cracks appeared on the grassland's surface. Wild grass was cut into fragments, soil ground into gravel. Countless strands of sword intent burst forth, soaring straight into the sky.
Even the dark clouds in the distant sky were shredded, becoming countless drifting wisps, floating aimlessly.
The torrential rain... just like that, stopped.
The setting sun on the edge of the grassland—that thing unlike a true sun—finally had the chance to cast its warm red light around the mausoleum.
Everywhere were beast corpses. Occasionally, some beasts, severely wounded but not yet dead, let out pitiful, piercing cries.
The beast tide surging toward the mausoleum halted for a moment, daring not advance further, undulating slowly.
This was a world of blood.
The black ocean of beasts had also become a gradually quietening red sea.
The mausoleum within the beast tide, soaked by the rain, had turned a very deep color. Now, it looked like a black reef in the middle of a red sea.
No matter how fierce the wind and waves, no matter how violent the rain, it had not been shaken in the slightest.
Compared to this blood-red world and the black mausoleum, the truly shocking scene lay in the grassland around the mausoleum.
A broken sword struggled up from the grass toward the sky, letting out a clear, ringing cry.
An old sword burst out of the water, accompanied by the sound of mud and water dripping.
An ancient sword broke through stone, with a hoarse grinding noise.
Dozens of swords.
Hundreds of swords.
Thousands of swords.
Some with difficulty, some hesitantly, some joyfully—they broke through the grassy marshes and reappeared between heaven and earth.
Countless swords appeared in the sky above the grassland around the mausoleum.
This grassland was filled with pools of water, more like a wetland, or a grassy marsh.
For hundreds of years, countless people had searched for the Sword Pool, but no one had ever found it—not even a single clue.
Because no one had ever imagined that the Sword Pool... was actually this vast.
The Sword Pool was not a mountain pool, nor a cold pond.
Those swords had always been in this grassland.
This boundless, infinitely vast grassland was the Sword Pool.
No, this was no pool—it was clearly a sea.
A Sword Sea.
...
...
The grassland fell silent.
Chen Changsheng stood at the edge of the stone platform, watching this scene before him, silent.
Earlier, he had vaguely guessed the truth about the Sword Pool, but when he witnessed with his own eyes the spectacle of ten thousand swords emerging into the world, he was still shaken to the core.
Nanke stood on the spirit path, watching this scene, expressionless. No one knew what she was thinking. Ning Qiu covered her mouth to stifle a gasp, while her companion Hua Cui sat down in the rainwater. The old man playing the zither had an unusually pale face; the ancient zither before him was covered in blood, and he dared not even glance behind him.
Teng Xiaoming and Liu Wan'er withdrew their gazes, exchanged a look, and saw the apology and resolve in each other's eyes.
No one spoke. No one moved.
Even the beast tide in the grassland slowly calmed.
Because those swords were flying toward the mausoleum.
Countless swords flew in the warm red light, as if they would blot out the sky.
As they drew nearer to the mausoleum, the rain-washed blades reflected light, like countless stars.
That scene was truly beautiful.
But those swords flew very slowly, not as proud and powerful as when they first emerged.
Countless swords flew to the surroundings of the mausoleum, slowly spreading out, like soldiers forming ranks.
The space between heaven and earth was filled with sword intent.
That sword intent had once been immensely powerful, but now it was weakened. Interwoven together, it was somewhat chaotic.
This sword intent contained no intellect, but it held emotions—all kinds of complex emotions.
Toward this mausoleum, the swords' emotions were coldness and battle intent.
Toward the youth standing within the mausoleum, the swords' emotions were that of meeting an old friend, of begging him to take them away.
That blade was merciless; time was even more merciless.
These swords had slept in the depths of the grassy sea for hundreds of years, long since broken and decayed.
In the very moment they left the grassland, these swords had already unleashed their greatest power.
Yes, these swords were now aged, covered in rust, on the verge of rotting away.
These swords now were warriors with severe wounds, old men leaning on canes.
They should have long ago left the battlefield and retired to the countryside. But unfortunately, this countryside was not good, nor was it their homeland—it was merely a cage.
For hundreds of years, they had thought of leaving this grassland at every moment, but in the end, only one companion succeeded, taking their hearts and wills with him.
Yet that companion never returned.
Until today, just as these swords were on the verge of despair, an old friend finally came back to meet them.
A youth brought that heart and will back to this grassland.
The swords were old, but the youth was in his prime.
Chen Changsheng's longing for freedom, his love for life, were so pure and steadfast.
Like a clear breeze, they awakened them.
He heard his call, believed in his will, and so their ambition was reborn.
Old swords still had lingering might; broken blades could still slay enemies.
Their ambition lay in a thousand li.
They wanted to go a thousand li away.
To return to their homeland.
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(I promised six thousand words, but today I have to break my word. This chapter is only four thousand. The reason is simple: this chapter drained me. All my spirit is in these four thousand words. If I continued writing, it would not be up to par. I'll make up the missing two thousand tomorrow. Tomorrow's update will be eight thousand words.)