Chapter 39: The Sword Manual of Eight Desolations Returning to Origin
“Where did you put it?”
The clay figurine wasn’t stored in the spatial pouch; all these little trinkets had been given to Xiao He. He had specially set aside a small area in the cave dwelling as a place for Xiao He to hoard her toys.
There was no other way—Xiao He was a demon, and her cultivation wasn't deep enough to open a spatial pouch yet.
It should be right there.
Returning to the cave, Song Yan walked to a corner.
“Yan Yan, what are you doing?” Xiao He was visibly displeased with Song Yan rummaging through her toys.
“That clay person I gave you a few days ago, where is it?”
“It’s here.”
“Are you taking it back?” Xiao He was furious, pressing her forehead against Song Yan’s, her serpent eyes menacing.
“Um… no, it seems there’s something inside… I’ll just take it out.”
“Fine.”
Song Yan took back the clay figurine and instinctively swept it with his spiritual sense.
“Huh?”
He discovered that his spiritual sense couldn’t penetrate the figurine.
“How odd…”
He fiddled with it for some time before noticing something unusual among the small objects on the back of the figurine.
The hairpin on the clay figurine could actually be removed—such exquisite craftsmanship. The sword slanted across the back, and even the wine gourd at the waist could be detached.
Song Yan gently manipulated them, and from a hidden seam on the back, he opened the figurine.
Inside, as expected, was a small strip of a book page. Song Yan took it out, only to find the material unusually special. It looked like a thin layer, but when carefully unfolded, it was actually the size of a regular calligraphy sheet.
By this time, Xiao He had transformed into human form, angrily reassembling the figurine. This kind of trinket, whose tiny accessories could be disassembled and put back together, was the most unique among her “collection”!
The more Xiao He thought about it, the angrier she became. In a fit of pique, she hugged Song Yan’s leg and took a bite, then stormed off in indignation.
Song Yan paid no mind to Xiao He’s antics, instead examining the calligraphy closely.
“Ancient characters again…”
The writing on the page was vigorous and forceful, the calligraphy undulating and unrestrained. Even a single glance was enough to feel the overwhelming momentum.
At the beginning of the page, six characters were written:
Sword Manual of the Eight Desolations’ Return to Origin.
At the end of the scroll was a semicircular seal, its imprint so faded by time as to be unrecognizable.
Song Yan spread it out on the stone table and carefully read through it.
“Hm? This doesn’t seem to be a calligraphy manual either…”
On the back of the sword manual was a brief, peculiarly-written invitation.
Reading closely, the sword manual mainly recorded the following:
The ancestor of the Xie family’s sword masters was named Xie Tianji. He possessed extraordinary martial talent, achieving mastery in swordsmanship at just nineteen. After turning twenty, his fame soared, and he became undefeated throughout the martial world of Chu.
Even the martial artists of the Central Domain had heard his name.
When the Central Domain hosted the World Martial Tournament, he was sent a sword challenge invitation, requesting his participation.
Xie Tianji journeyed from Chu to the Central Domain, where he once again claimed the highest honor among all mortal warriors: the title of “Number One Under Heaven.”
Yet he did not return to Chu directly, but instead embarked on a long journey.
“To be called Number One Under Heaven is but a fleeting fame that binds the body.
Across the four seas and eight desolations, heroes and hermits abound like stars in the sky…”
He once sparred with ascetic monks in the vast snowy mountains…
He fought to the death with recluses on distant seas…
He brewed wine and debated swordsmanship with an old man in a straw raincoat amid misty forested hills.
Throughout his journey, whether in friendly competitions or life-and-death duels, he was never defeated.
Until he met a young man.
That young man looked even younger than he had been when first setting out on his travels.
At last, he lost.
That young man was an “immortal.”
He sat and discussed the Dao with the immortal. The immortal said, “At the end of the path to immortality, the sword’s edge grows dull.”
There were no true sword cultivators left in the world.
The immortal admired his insight but lamented his talent.
He said plainly, “If you are willing to kneel and bow, you may become a registered disciple, learn the ways of immortality, and seek eternal life.”
But what of the sword path?
The way of the sword was gone, nowhere to be learned.
So Xie Tianji politely declined the immortal’s tutelage.
In his twilight years, he returned to Chu and found that the sword challenge invitation, which had accompanied him through more than thirty years of hardship, was completely unscathed.
He recorded his travels across the four seas and eight desolations in highly concise and refined words on the back of the invitation.
To his descendants, he never mentioned his experiences beyond Chu.
He left only admonitions, urging his bloodline never to forget the sword path.
If one sought immortality, one must also cultivate the sword.
…
Song Yan let out a long breath.
Refused the fate of immortality?!
Those few words brought him an unparalleled shock.
Who in the world does not die?
No matter how dazzling your talent, how vast your power, in the end, all return to dust.
Only the path to immortality holds a sliver of hope for everlasting life.
In the mortal martial world, for the sake of the illusory “immortal path” and “opportunity,” mountains of corpses and rivers of blood were commonplace.
But with such fortune right before him, this man… actually refused?
…
A thought flashed through his mind, and he summoned the Taiji Pearl. Now, it seemed somewhat different, faintly glowing with a white light.
“A calligraphy manual written by a mortal… why would the Taiji Pearl react?”
…
Song Yan could not understand.
For some reason…
He gave up on continuing his cultivation of spiritual power, silently retrieved some brush, ink, paper, and inkstone he had previously purchased at the Heart Cultivation Academy from his spatial pouch, and began to copy the text stroke by stroke.
…
From the perspective of Xie family descendants, Xie Tianji was rather stubborn.
Yet precisely this stubbornness allowed him, as a mortal master of martial arts, to spar with an immortal and discuss the Dao as equals.
A mortal’s life is insignificantly small in this vast and magnificent world.
Most people, in their entire lifetime, never glimpse even the tip of the world’s iceberg.
Xie Tianji, having exhausted his life, finally lifted a corner of the world’s veil.
But the world beyond was not as marvelous as he had imagined.
At the end of the path to immortality, the sword’s edge grows dull.
How unbearably dull.
So…
When he wrote down the most brilliant parts of his life, what was he truly feeling?
…
Defiance.
Song Yan saw only these two words in the sword manual.
How could the sword path ever decline?
How could the immortal way ever come to an end?
What he longed for was a world where a hundred schools of thought flourished on the road ahead, where the sword path was boundless and vibrant, where one could seek their own Dao freely and unrestrained.
Word by word, stroke by stroke—Song Yan didn’t know how many pages he copied.
He was as if possessed.
The ink on his brush had long dried, the rice paper already used up.
Yet he still traced the characters in the air with his dry brush.
Beneath the Sword Palace of the Dao, the seed of swordsmanship hummed softly, and his heart pounded in rhythm!
The sound of sword cries grew louder in his ears, and then, at a certain moment, all fell silent…
Before his eyes, visions as in a dream unfolded.
A young man stood alone, battling countless opponents, his sword dominating the martial world, seizing the title of “Number One Under Heaven.”
A youth warmed himself by a stove in a cold mountain, exchanging skills with an ascetic monk.
A young man crossed distant seas, fighting reclusive strangers to the death.
A middle-aged man, lost in misty forested hills, brewed wine and debated swordsmanship with an old man in a straw raincoat.
The man’s face grew older, the marks of time deepened, but the passion for the sword in his eyes never faded.
On the contrary, it burned ever brighter.
At last, he reached his twilight years.
Confronted by an immortal, he refused to kneel.
All that the immortal spoke of failed to quench the fire in his eyes.
…
The cries in his ears grew louder and louder.
“May all sword cultivators under heaven display boundless brilliance…”
“May all sword cultivators under heaven pursue true meaning without restraint.”
“May all sword cultivators under heaven never again have to kneel to seek the Dao!”
At this moment, beneath the Sword Palace of the Dao, the sword’s edge could no longer be contained!