Chapter 340: Ten Thousand Swords Form a Dragon
Burn.
Chen Changsheng said to himself, very calmly.
As these three words echoed in his heart, the plain bearing the starlight and snowflakes burst fiercely into flames. The fire was countless times more intense than before. In an instant, those snowflakes burned clean. At the same time, the surface of that clear lake surrounding the Spirit Terrace Mountain gave rise to eerie blue flames, an exceedingly beautiful sight.
The snowflakes melted into clear water, turned into mist and clouds, either re-condensing into water or spreading in the form of clouds. All of this was true essence, rampaging violently and fiercely through his body, forcibly breaking through his blocked meridians and dried-up riverbeds. Whether facing a forest of stone pillars or a bottomless abyss, it pressed forward relentlessly.
The violent true essence ignited his blood, searing his internal organs and meridians, bringing unimaginable pain. It made his face deathly pale, yet caused his eyes to grow brighter and brighter.
Chen Changsheng unhesitatingly pushed his cultivation to its peak, standing on the threshold between life and death. He was staking his very life, for only thus could he supply enough true essence to the short sword in his hand and awaken its soul.
In the sky before the mausoleum, the massive Golden-Winged Roc gazed down at him with indifference. Gales and white air currents mingled with the light at the edges of its wings, an extraordinarily magnificent sight. The divine fire in its eyes grew even more chilling, yet faintly held a hint of respect.
Chen Changsheng's body, bathed in dragon blood, possessed nearly perfect defensive capabilities. However, with the violent combustion of the snowy plain and then the lake itself beginning to burn, an unimaginable amount of true essence erupted within him. His body could no longer bear it and began to crack.
The first to crack were the corners of his eyes, then his eardrums. Several streams of blood flowed from his facial orifices. Next, the skin on his face split open, blood seeping out in streaks—a horrifying sight. Within those cracked bloodstains, flesh and bone could be seen, along with faint, star-like flames. Blood streamed down his face, flowed over his hands, soaked his clothes, wet the sword hilt, dripped onto the stone platform, and continued to burn.
An indescribable fragrance spread from his blood around the mausoleum. As the blood burned, the scent grew countless times richer and traveled farther, reaching the edge of the grassland.
The creatures most sensitive to this fragrance were, naturally, the demonic beasts. The black ocean around the mausoleum erupted again. The demonic beasts, suppressed by the Golden-Winged Roc's divine might and too afraid to raise their heads, could not resist the temptation of the blood's scent, which seemed to come from the deepest essence of life. They lifted their heads toward the mausoleum, panting urgently, making guttural sounds, drooling, their beastly eyes bloodshot, excited and greedy.
The Golden-Winged Roc also smelled this blood fragrance. In the shadow that darkened the sky, its eyes were like two flickering divine flames. At this moment, those two flames exploded with violent intensity. The indifferent, sacred aura finally took on an emotion.
That emotion was praise for life, longing, desire, and… greed.
This was the emotion Chen Changsheng feared most, the thing he had once dreaded above all else. But now he was not afraid, for life and death hung by a thread; his foot was already on the threshold. If he had to burn himself to awaken the soul of this sword, why should he care about those gazes?
The Golden-Winged Roc's shadow fell upon the mausoleum. It spread its wings, covering the grassland that stretched for thousands of miles in every direction. Both sky and earth turned dark. Within the mausoleum, all light was blocked out, pitch-black like a true night this grassland had never seen. The ten thousand swords trembled faintly, nearly unable to bear it; some began to fall like withered leaves.
An absolute, supreme pressure, mixed with the most primal and genuine greed, seemed to coalesce into something tangible, falling upon Chen Changsheng before the mausoleum's main gate.
Instantly, the blood flowing from his body congealed, the burning flames extinguished. His black hair, tightly bound behind him, came loose, and from the tips began to wither and yellow, gradually turning to ash, falling in a rustling shower.
Wake up.
He looked at the short sword in his hand and thought to himself.
Wake up.
He silently commanded his own heart.
What is the heart? It is the Nether Palace. Where is the Nether Palace? On Spirit Terrace Mountain. Chen Changsheng's Nether Palace gate had long been opened. On Spirit Terrace Mountain, there was not a single fallen leaf. It was surrounded by that lake, half-real and half-illusory; the mountain lay within the lake.
That lake, suspended in the sky, was clear, utterly transparent. Blue flames burned on its surface. At the lake's deepest point, the separated soul of the Black Dragon floated quietly. At Chen Changsheng's call, a faint tremor passed from the Nether Palace to the mountain path of Spirit Terrace Mountain, then into the lake. The lake began to ripple gently, softly washing over the Black Dragon's body like a tender caress, like a father waking his daughter each morning before he left home.
The Black Dragon slowly opened her eyes. A trace of bewilderment appeared in her vertical pupils as she looked at the ice particles in the water around her. It took a moment for her to remember what had happened before she fell asleep. Then she felt the vibration from the Nether Palace deep within the lake and heard Chen Changsheng's voice. In an instant, she understood what was happening outside, and even saw the Golden-Winged Roc in the sky.
A cold aura emanated from her eyes—pride and contempt. Though she was only a separated soul, she could not tolerate the Golden-Winged Roc's challenge. That pride and contempt turned into violent rage.
A clear, furious dragon roar sounded from the depths of the lake. It did not travel far, but it stirred the lake into constant churning. The surface burned even more violently. With a thunderous crash, the Black Dragon broke through the lake, left the Nether Palace, flew over the plain where the snow had already burned away, followed the river of true essence woven from mist and clear water, crossed the no-longer-dry riverbed, leaped over broken ravines and abysses, and, guided by Chen Changsheng's will, entered his arm, then left into a brand-new world.
The Black Dragon's separated soul entered the short sword. For her, this was a completely unfamiliar world, filled with golden light. What moved her most with an inexplicable familiarity was sensing two extremely familiar auras within this world. These auras were so powerful they made her uneasy, but she could not feel any resistance, for both auras belonged to elders.
No one knew, not even Chen Changsheng himself, how closely this short sword was connected to the dragon race.
In the old temple of Xining Town, Xuanyuan had given him this short sword. He had used it in many battles. Its sharpness had already shocked the world many times, but in truth, the sword's true power had never been unleashed.
Because his cultivation level was too ordinary, he could not cultivate a sword intent worthy of this sword. Also, for fifteen years since its forging, the sword had been in a state of unwillingness, refusing to awaken.
Until now. The dragon soul entered the short sword, met the sword intent of the Dragon's Roar Sword, and this sword finally awakened.
Truly awakened.
Chen Changsheng did not know what change had occurred in the short sword, but he knew it had awakened.
The soul of this sword had awakened.
He looked up at the Golden-Winged Roc above the mausoleum, his expression calm, his eyes bright, filled with battle intent. The ten thousand swords around the mausoleum, following his gaze, slowly adjusted their direction, pointing at the Roc, ready to march.
Go, he said to the short sword in his heart, unaware that the words had escaped his lips.
"Go!"
He hurled the short sword in his hand toward the sky!
The short sword transformed into a beam of golden light, leaving the stone platform before the mausoleum's main gate, flying swiftly toward the Golden-Winged Roc! The world trembled. Golden light radiated before the mausoleum. Ten thousand swords sang in unison, producing clear or hoarse sword sounds!
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh! Ten thousand swords shot into the air, following the short sword! Blazing with light!
The yellow paper umbrella in his left hand swayed gently, as if cheering or blessing.
The short sword drew a straight line across the dark sky.
Ten thousand swords followed closely behind it, forming a ribbon about ten miles long!
The ten thousand swords reached the high sky. The light spilling from the Golden-Winged Roc's wings fell upon them.
The ten thousand swords reflected that light, flickering continuously, like scales.
Ten thousand swords were ten thousand scales, linked together in the sky. At their forefront was the short sword.
The short sword radiated unimaginable pressure and light.
Vaguely, within that sacred light, a golden dragon head seemed to appear.
It was the head of a golden giant dragon, its whiskers dancing, tearing through the long sky.
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(The next chapter's update time is uncertain, but it will definitely come. I will do my best to be quick.)