Chapter 1649: Recalling the Glorious Heavens' Flowing Splendor, Now I with Sword Flying as Flowers

The night swallowed the last lingering streak of sunset.

In the darkness, eyes opened, and the forest beasts, ready to begin their hunt, let out a series of fierce roars from afar.

The Storyteller, guarding nearby, watched his brother sitting cross-legged on the ground with intense worry, then angrily rebuked him:

"You're concealing your sword!"

"It's nothing, just a slight warm-up."

Having spoken, Baxun An closed his eyes, his aura completely concealed, becoming like any large rock in the forest.

"What exactly did Kuileihan tell you?!"

The Storyteller grew anxious. "No matter how important they are, they're not as important as you. After so many years of concealing your sword, how can you risk breaking your cultivation for them?"

His only reply was the silence of the forest and the imperceptible footsteps of the quietly approaching beasts.

"Is Xu Xiaoshou important, or are you?" The Storyteller stopped himself from kicking his brother over and disrupting his current state.

The latter remained unresponsive.

"Will you hurt yourself?"

His tone softened. He crouched down beside Baxun An. "If something happens to you, I won't be able to explain it to Sister Yue."

It was like talking to a brick wall.

The Storyteller's brow twitched repeatedly. He could no longer hold back, and thirty years of unspoken resentment poured out that night:

"Fine, fine, fine!"

"Only you are clever; we are just ordinary people, a burden!"

"None of you speak plainly. Even if you did, we wouldn't understand. Even if we understood, we couldn't do it. If we can't do it, we might as well not ask, right?"

"You're like this! Wenting is like this too! We Taixu are all useless; only you sword cultivators are high above the clouds... and they can't even be bothered to protect you anymore!"

He abruptly stood up, flung his robe, and was about to leap off the cliff, intending to leave Baxun An to starve to death in the forest.

No, starving to death would be too slow.

He would soon be torn apart by wild beasts.

"Sigh."

Baxun An let out a soft sigh, reluctantly broke his meditative state, opened his eyes, and said, "Come back."

The Storyteller scurried back, practically rolling, and lay beside his brother, propping up his chin with his hands, eyes sparkling. "Quick, tell me!"

"Sealing the sword isn't the same as concealing it, and the two aren't so absolute. Only sword cultivators who are obsessed believe a concealed sword must never be drawn... Didn't I draw a sword in the Eight Palaces?"

"Mhm, mhm."

"I won't get hurt."

"Mhm, mhm."

"What else?"

Seeing him stop after just two sentences, the Storyteller grew very agitated. "How can the Eight Palaces compare to the Remains of the God Slayers? You're about to cross the starry sky to another plane!"

Baxun An lightly shook his head, saying no more. He picked up a small stone and flicked it forcefully between his index and middle fingers.

The Storyteller's gaze quickly followed.

"Plink."

The stone traced a less-than-elegant arc, falling weakly about a zhang away, rolling a few times before stopping in front of a large rock.

"Understand?"

Baxun An, deeming his explanation perfect, immediately closed his eyes and re-entered meditation.

What was it, what was it, what was it...?

The Storyteller's eyes widened, and three wisps of smoke seemed to rise from his head. He racked his brain but couldn't fathom what his brother was trying to convey.

"What kind of mysterious act is this?!"

"Can't you just say what you mean directly?!"

He fiercely reached out, pried open Baxun An's eyelids, and almost gouged out those two helplessly darting eyeballs.

"Quenching," Baxun An uttered helplessly, finally stopping the Storyteller's violent actions.

"Quenching what?"

"Cao Yihan said that the final step in forging a sword isn't to wield the sword blank directly against an enemy; it requires a process of quenching and refining."

So, the Remains of Ranming is that final basin of quenching water, and you need to go there to complete the "refining"?

But water is everywhere, so why choose this particular basin at the Remains of Ranming?

Oh, I see, this one must have the best effect.

The Storyteller had a knack for filling in the blanks. After a moment of thought, he looked at the stone nearby and pointed out his final confusion: "What does this have to do with the stone?"

"Seal the sword until old, and in old age, I become a saint."

"I am here, but my intent will go to quench the sword, to complete this sword's final process, only then can I sheath it and be ready."

Ready for whom?

The Storyteller's expression tightened. He was extremely adept at grasping the life-and-death implications of his brother's words. "Are you going to fight Hua... him?"

Baxun An: "There will be a battle."

The Storyteller fell silent. It wasn't that he didn't have faith in his brother, but he still believed the time wasn't right.

Hua Changdeng was always one step ahead.

Hua Changdeng therefore maintained his lead step by step.

Hua Changdeng had already achieved Sword Saint Emperor status and secured the real power and resources of the five great Saint Emperor families. He could no longer be measured by the singular title of "Sword Saint Emperor"...

Whenever Hua Changdeng was mentioned, the Storyteller felt nothing but awe and powerlessness. Hua Changdeng was the perfect embodiment of innate talent, vast resources, and an unyielding will—if Baxun An hadn't been born into the Baxun family, but rather one of the five great Saint Emperor families.

Raoyaoyao, from the same era, was said to have started sword cultivation only three days after Hua Changdeng, yet spent thirty years trying to catch up.

As a result, the gap didn't shrink; one was in the heavens, the other on earth.

In contrast, Baxun An.

He had hidden his sword for thirty years, fallen behind for thirty years; by now, it seemed impossible to catch up.

To be honest, outsiders might still remember the glorious days of the "Eighth Sword Immortal."

The Storyteller had long forgotten his brother's spirited appearance from back then. In his mind, over the years, only the mundane details of daily life remained.

For instance, needing a cane to walk, requiring assistance to fly, catching colds easily in strong winds, and occasionally coughing up blood...

To put it bluntly.

A prolonged illness tests the patience of even the most filial children.

Friends who hadn't met in years would show some concern upon seeing his brother's current state.

But who would truly, because of a single vow made to heaven and earth so long ago, meticulously care for such a 'cripple' for over thirty years, managing his daily life, and even be willing to abandon a promising future for it...?

Even your own attendants have abandoned you.

Yet I, your own, remain by your side.

The Storyteller felt that if his brother ever came to his senses and called him "esteemed foster father," it would be well-deserved!

And this person, whose moments of glory had almost completely faded from memory, claimed that with just this final quenching step, he could once again shine brilliantly.

The Storyteller's first reaction wasn't joy. What he thought of, most people called "the final burst of energy before death."

"Do you know about a deathbed vision?"

"Have you been dreaming of old memories lately when you sleep?"

"When you see the moon, do you sometimes feel down and start imagining a beautiful future, with Sister Yue, with Wenting, with others, with everyone?" The Storyteller asked, seemingly offhandedly.

Baxun An, unaware of where the man's thoughts had wandered, pointed towards the stone.

The Storyteller's mind refocused. "Right, you still haven't explained: what do quenching and this stone have to do with each other?"

"From here to there."

"What does that mean?"

"It's that simple."

"Uh..." The Storyteller was momentarily speechless. He stared at the distance of a zhang away, then looked back at his brother, realizing he was unwilling to say more, simply giving evasive answers.

He was about to explode in anger, to shake this fellow awake and tell him to stop dreaming—how could getting from the Holy Divine Continent to the Remains of Ranming be that simple?

He hadn't moved yet.

But Baxun An had already closed his eyes.

This time, he no longer remained silent.

Facing the cool night wind and the bleak forest, he parted his lips, seemingly drawing upon all the strength left in his body, and chanted aloud:

"Half a life forlorn, the autumn cicada yearns for summer."

"Recalling past glories, the heavens poured forth splendor."

The mountain forest was deathly silent. His murmured chant drifted away with the night wind, yet it couldn't travel very far.

There was no sword hum.

No flowing light.

Only the rustling of tree branches remained, responding in harmony, dispelling any awkwardness that might have arisen had an outsider been present to hear such abrupt pronouncements.

The Storyteller pursed his trembling lips, his nose prickling slightly.

He heard his brother's longing for his glorious past and his yearning for the Way of the Sword.

But...

The moon belonging to ancient sword cultivators had already passed over to others; it no longer focused solely on him.

That person, who once could shake heaven and earth with a single word and command all techniques with a single sword, did not regain his former splendor just by chanting two lines now.

Let's go.

Let's go down the mountain.

Whatever happens to others, it's none of my business. Let's go home.

The Storyteller wiped the corner of his eyes, stood up, and was about to go pull his brother home, when unexpectedly, after a slight pause from Baxun An...

"Boom!"

The entire forest suddenly trembled.

An unknown force descended from the sky, stripping leaves from branches and flowers from their edges.

Forest beasts, drawn silently by the sound, either slammed violently to the ground or were crushed to death, suffering various fates.

Just as the Storyteller was about to step forward, he dropped to his knees in front of his brother with a thud, his forehead and nose bleeding from knocking his head against the ground.

Caught completely off guard, he was stunned.

After struggling to lift his head under the immense pressure, a dizzying, lingering sword hum pierced his ears, as if pricked by needles!

"The song stirs within the sheath, and now I find harmony."

"Riding shadows under the moon, a single sword sends petals flying."

With a single thought, it rode the wind, carrying leaves from branches.

In the blink of an eye, the light and shadow crossed ravines and the boundless sky, becoming a black speck under the moonlight, then instantly vanished.

Baxun An seemed to lose his breath, his body went limp, and he collapsed to the ground, the back of his head bleeding from hitting the shattered rocks.

"Ah!"

The Storyteller shrieked. Realizing the force had vanished, he rushed forward to help him up:

"Brother, brother, what's wrong with you! How can you die?"

"Why bother? Why insist on keeping up appearances in front of others? They'll laugh at you, but I won't..."

He paused mid-sentence, extended a slender finger, and checked his brother's breath.

Still breathing?

The Storyteller's eyes lit up. Remembering "quenching with intent," he quickly turned to glance behind him.

Moonlight filled the mountain, the sword hum was gone, and the wind carried flowers.

Unnamed dark purple petals fluttered down, catching the light and mesmerizing observers.

"A single sword sends petals flying..."

The Storyteller finally heard an explanation, but, predictably, he couldn't understand it either.

He gazed blankly into the distance, murmuring in a lost voice:

"He... still went."

That night.

Those sleeping in the Southern Domain did not notice flowers blooming, their fragrance arriving from dreams.

Flowers, carried by the wind, originated from the Southern Domain, vanished into the Southern Abyss, and soon after, landed in the Eastern Domain, winding through wilds, mountains, and homes, their fragrance reaching the Sword Burial Mound.

"Buzz!"

The Sword Burial Mound, the Sword Cleansing Pool.

Qingju suddenly went wild, vibrating violently as if it were a starved dog of thirty years, having just caught the scent of a hot, freshly baked black pork bun.

"Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!"

"Clang! Clang! Clang!"

It struggled desperately.

Tears streamed from it relentlessly.

It tried to break through the Sword Cleansing Pool's seal, to overcome the resentment of the Sword Burial Mound's hundred thousand broken swords, to defy the rules of the place and reappear under the sun.

It failed.

Even though Qingju had once experienced the splendor of "heaven pouring forth brilliance."

Today, it was merely a rusty, moss-covered broken sword, abandoned for a very long time.

"Wuwuwu..."

It wept helplessly.

A grand dream, yet waking to emptiness.

It had dreamt this dream countless times over the past thirty years.

At the peak of Mount Tian, beside the Sword Agave.

"What the hell?!"

"Did I steal your family's heirloom or something? Why are you chasing me like this? Are you sick?"

Wenting was still frantically manipulating his consciousness to flee and retreat.

Suddenly, his physical body's pupils constricted. His consciousness snapped back, and he tilted his head in disbelief.

It wasn't an illusion!

In the void at the peak of Mount Tian, which no one but himself had been able to reach for over thirty years, a faint, ethereal, and transcendent figure had truly appeared.

He appeared to be just over twenty years old, with the build of a pine and the bones of a crane, sword-like eyebrows and star-like eyes. With his hands behind his back, he exuded an aura that swallowed the universe, his eight-foot tall frame reaching the heavens, and his white robe made him seem like a banished immortal.

This person...

This person!!

Wenting's face turned pale, his expression changing repeatedly.

Even after rubbing his eyes, he still couldn't accept the appearance of this figure before him.

He suddenly acted as if struck by an illness, bowing his waist, swaying his upper body from side to side twice, then straightening up. His head bobbed up, down, left, and right like a woodpecker, and finally, he clutched his chest, pushing air into his lungs, and his voice soared to stop the clouds:

"Ahhh, my wife!"

He was so overwhelmed that he started singing nonsense, unable to control the shock in his heart.

"Silence."

The white-robed figure's face darkened.

Wenting was like a floodgate that had suddenly burst open, pouring out a torrent that couldn't be stopped:

"Are you Baxun An?"

"How are you so young?"

"Who taught you the art of preserving youth? Alright, alright, so you've been secretly practicing this behind my back, have you...?"

"Weren't you crippled? Where are your fingers? Let me see!"

"Ah! Ten fingers! You're not Baxun An... Bah! What fiend is this, playing games, you show-off old priest, reveal your true form... Yi yi!"

Wenting touched the Sword Agave, flicked his flowing sleeve, and conjured a streak of light from behind him, ready to strike mid-air.

"No time for your nonsense."

Baxun An remained motionless, turning his gaze to the distant sky:

"I just sensed the fluctuations of the Sword Contemplation Canon. I could have gone directly, but that boy suddenly lost contact..."

"Help me cross the starry sky; just activate the sword. Once we're a bit closer, I can find him myself."

Wenting crossed his arms, remaining silent.

Wenting looked left and right, not uttering a word.

Wenting suddenly burst into uproarious laughter, "Hahahaha," the sound ceaseless. Then he abruptly spread his legs apart and stretched his arms out horizontally, forming the character "大" (big/great).

"You!"

His arms quickly swept upwards, forming two semicircles that finally converged at a point above his head:

"Please!"

He brought his feet back together, then split his arms diagonally downwards, flinging his long flowing sleeves wide:

"Me!"

His sleeves wrapped around his wrists, hands on hips, and chin lifted:

"Ah!"

After hearing this four-part utterance, Baxun An's mouth twitched slightly, his eyelids fluttered wildly, and he turned to leave.

But he really couldn't bear it anymore. He turned back and said:

"I've told you before, people shouldn't stay at home too long, let alone in the same place for thirty years; it makes them sick."

Wenting laughed maniacally. "Am I sick? Am I sick?"

"Baxun An, did a donkey kick your head? You're asking for help, but you first insult me by calling me sick? Hahahaha, who's really sick?"

"Hm? Tell me! Who's sick?" His expression turned serious.

Baxun An: "I am sick."

Having said that, he turned and walked away.

"Stop!"

Wenting spread his legs apart, flicked his sleeves, and somehow produced a piece of paper and a pen.

"Write!"

"Write that you invited me!"

"Sign it Baxun An..."

"No! Don't write your awful name; write 'Moon Palace Servant'!"

"Hurry! No one else can help you with this. That show-off old priest is already chasing me. If we delay any longer, they'll surely die!"

Baxun An took a deep breath, used his finger as a pen and his intent as ink, and quickly imprinted his mark on the paper.

Wenting took the paper and blew on it.

With a whoosh, the sword intent on it was blown away.

The silver characters turned black. He carefully hid the note.

"Sword Intent?" Wenting asked, pointing at the semi-transparent Baxun An.

Baxun An shook his head.

"Sword Image?"

He shook his head again.

"Heavenly Deciphering Sword Image?"

Still, he shook his head.

"Are you going to tell me or not?!" Wenting threatened, looking as if he was about to renege on their deal if he didn't get an answer.

"Sword self."

With those two simple words, Wenting's pupils dilated as if he had seen the Great Dao stripped of all embellishment, revealing its true, unadorned self.

Before his eyes, Mount Tian began to transform...

The white snow vanished, and the four seasons returned;

The lush greenery was gone, the mountain became bare;

The sand and rocks were no more, replaced by rising tides;

The tides vanished, and...

"Wake up!"

Baxun An flicked a finger from a distance. Wenting stumbled back two steps, as if waking from a dream.

"No time for you to comprehend the Dao now. Send me over."

Damn it...

You really are despicable...

Sword self, what is "sword self"...

Wenting lowered his eyebrows, his eyes fierce and bloodshot. His throat rumbled like a vicious beast's, and he nearly ground his back teeth to dust before suppressing his jealousy.

"Not going to take a look at it?" He lowered his head, glancing in the direction of the Sword Cleansing Pool.

"No need."

Oh, "no need."

Saying two more words would kill you, wouldn't it?!

His heart twisted, but after what he considered a light and casual flick of his sleeve, Wenting turned around, though the corners of his mouth and eyes twitched uncontrollably twice.

He quickly composed his expression, lightly patted the Sword Agave, and said blandly, "Sword Agave, send him on his way."

"Ying..."

The Sword Agave let out a sword hum it hadn't made in thirty years, an incredibly joyful sound that betrayed its usual aloof demeanor.

A beam of sword light shot out, carrying Baxun An's "sword self," and swept into the starry sky.

Wenting stood frozen in the wind and snow.

"Aah—"

After an unknown period, an uncontrolled scream echoed from the peak of Mount Tian:

"Sword Agave!"

"Tell me!"

"Why did you make such a disgusting sound?! Why?!"