Chapter 611: One Sword Comes from the East, One Sword Immortal

On a distant mountain, far from Badao Palace.

The quiet mountain forest, usually a good hiding place for birds and beasts, was suddenly disturbed.

Rustle—

Forest birds were startled and flew, while animals scattered in panic. Branches rustled, leaves fell, and a massive, dark flock of birds soared away. Immediately after, a horrified cry echoed from deep within the forest.

“Ba Zun'an!”

Leaves fluttered back to the forest floor, landing on the white-robed, red-robed, and grey-robed figures—the latter not yet having earned their dual white and red robes—who were supposed to be as still as stakes. This caused hundreds of people across the entire area to tremble violently.

“The Eighth Sword Immortal?!”

Everyone lost their composure, their breathing quickening.

This unit, stationed on Wuming Mountain in the eastern corner of Badao Palace, was one of the four control zones for the “Sky Veil over the Nation.” This team, composed of white-robed, red-robed, and grey-robed Holy Divine Guards from the Holy Divine Palace, was exceptionally well-trained. Even in the direst circumstances, it would have been impossible for them to lose such composure, much less to simultaneously lose focus on the “Sky Veil over the Nation.”

But when the words of the masked man, confronting Sword Immortal Wuyue in Badao Palace, appeared on the central courtyard's light screen, not a single person could remain calm.

“He, he, he... what did he say? Ba Zun'an?!”

“Isn't that the Eighth Sword Immortal?”

“Shouldn't the Eighth Sword Immortal be dead?”

“Is this guy also one of those fanatics impersonating the Eighth Sword Immortal?”

“Are you kidding me?!”

“What?!”

The crowd stirred.

People exchanged bewildered glances, their faces filled with shock, their eyes wide with disbelief. Yet, the casual words that would normally be dismissed, coming from the Holy Slave's chief, contained an explosive amount of information!

Look at Senior Wuyue's ashen face... Doesn't that confirm something?

“No!”

“Impossible, how could the Eighth Sword Immortal still be alive?”

“Back then, when Ba Zun'an sought to break through to the Sword Immortal realm, Hua Changdeng's three swords utterly annihilated him. Shouldn't he have been obliterated, body and soul?”

“This, this, this... rebirth from ashes?”

“Could it be that he has a second life?!”

Within the Holy Divine Palace's ranks, there were also sword cultivators and ardent admirers of the Eighth Sword Immortal. Even if they didn't show it normally, at this moment, it was as if they had witnessed a miracle.

That man, he's back?

“Silence!”

A furious roar quelled the unrest across the entire area. Jiang Bianyan, the Branch Palace Master of the Holy Divine Palace in Dongtian King City, slammed his hand down, shattering the wooden table, and bellowed, “What kind of uproar is this? Have you no decorum!”

Everyone instantly fell silent. Even though the person before them was not the strongest individual present. But as a Branch Palace Master, and particularly the Branch Palace Master of Dongtian King City, the power he wielded was something no one present could defy. Furthermore, as the overall head of the “Sky Veil over the Nation” operation in Badao Palace's eastern corner, Jiang Bianyan held the power of life and death. At this critical juncture of the war, if anyone were to cause panic among the troops, they might very well be dragged out and executed on the spot.

“What are you shouting about?”

“Someone says 'Ba Zun'an,' and you all believe it?”

“Look at how this person looks... Could Ba Zun'an really be so shabby? Even if you haven't seen Ba Zun'an, you must have at least seen a portrait of him!”

“Each and every one of you...”

Jiang Bianyan furiously waved his hand, seemingly too angry to speak, his right eyelid twitching uncontrollably, his hand still trembling even after he finished waving.

“Palace Master Jiang!”

Suddenly, a white-robed figure holding a sword stood up from the crowd, looking extremely excited, their eyes burning with a fervor that seemed capable of igniting the entire mountain forest.

“The Eighth...”

Before he could finish, Jiang Bianyan abruptly turned, his finger almost piercing through the void to poke his forehead: “You damn well sit down!”

“Oh.”

The white-robed figure obediently sat down. But a few tree stumps away, another red-robed middle-aged man, dressed as a swordsman and carrying a spirit sword, stood up.

“Palace Master Jiang...”

“You damn well shut up!” Jiang Bianyan shifted his finger.

“Uh.”

The latter grudgingly pursed his lips and sat back down.

“Palace Master Jiang!”

“Palace Master Jiang!”

“Palace Master Jiang...”

However, the previous two men standing up seemed to trigger a chain reaction. One by one, white-robed, red-robed, and even grey-robed figures—anyone holding, wearing, or carrying a sword—could no longer sit still after hearing the name “Ba Zun'an.” All these people stood up, and the scene instantly became somewhat chaotic again.

“Are you rebelling?!”

Jiang Bianyan roared, his figure soaring into the sky: “I am a King Seat, so I can't suppress you all, can I?” He pulled out a token with a backhand motion and powerfully shot it into the ground.

Clang!

The massive stone on the ground shattered from the impact, and the piercing sound made everyone close their mouths, stifling countless words in their throats, choking them uncomfortably.

“Quiet, understand?”

Jiang Bianyan's face was flushed. He pressed his wildly twitching right eyelid, as if trying to flatten it. However, as soon as he let go, his eyelid began twitching uncontrollably again. He gave up, threatening: “If anyone dares to speak another word, I won't say much. Just get out of Wuming Mountain immediately.”

Jiang Bianyan flicked his sleeve, and his figure landed. After a pause, he bent down towards the shattered wooden table, fumbling for something.

“This guy is more excited than us...”

A white-robed sword cultivator couldn't help but murmur, “If it's not the Eighth Sword Immortal, why would he be so excited?”

“Who's talking!”

Jiang Bianyan turned his head, his face contorted and flushed red like a demon descending.

“Hush.”

Everyone collectively lowered their heads. The respect due to him still had to be given; after all, he was the Commander-in-Chief of the eastern corner of the Badao Palace war.

“Found it.”

Jiang Bianyan rustled his feet a few times, finally pulling out a glittering crystal ball from among the shattered wooden planks. He blew gently, clearing the wood shavings, then wiped it with his sleeve, and was about to inject spiritual energy. But then, as if remembering something, he suddenly stood up and turned around.

“Don't make a sound later, understand?”

The entire area was utterly silent, with hot gazes fixed on the central courtyard's light screen and Jiang Bianyan. Jiang Bianyan sighed, his voice softening:

“Don't panic.”

“Isn't it just a fake Ba Zun'an? I'll contact headquarters right now!”

Across the four corners of the distant mountains around Badao Palace.

Situations like these were playing out almost everywhere. Wherever spiritual cultivators gathered, there were bound to be sword cultivators. And wherever there were sword cultivators, there were bound to be ardent fanatics of the legendary Eighth Sword Immortal.

In the Central Region, perhaps the Eighth Sword Immortal's influence was merely moderate. At the very least, suppressed by the Holy Divine Palace's authority, and with the Eighth Sword Immortal having fallen years ago, any enthusiasm would have long since been extinguished by time.

However, in Sword God Heaven of the Eastern Region, it was entirely different. As a region where swords were revered, the name of the Eighth Sword Immortal was practically a faith. The legend of his roaming the world, then suddenly awakening, achieving innate abilities in three breaths, and becoming a Sword Immortal in three years, was nothing short of a miracle.

It could be asserted that once news of the Eighth Sword Immortal's resurrection spread, eight out of ten spiritual cultivators would go mad. And among a hundred swordsmen, only half would go mad. The other half would explode on the spot!

This was faith. An absolute, unreasoning faith in the peak sword cultivator who had dominated an entire era!

In the Central Region, on GuiZhe Sacred Mountain, lay the headquarters of the Holy Divine Palace.

This was a sacred mountain of perpetually falling snow, soaring into the clouds. All year round, it was covered by the fragrance of immortal osmanthus spiritual plants. Even the weeds and wildflowers growing here had been imbued with spiritual essence by the ceaseless sacred power, day and night. A random blade of grass found anywhere was at least Fifth Grade.

GuiZhe Sacred Mountain had two legends. On the western side, on Luoshen Peak, stood a stele. It bore no words, but its base was surrounded by broken swords, emanating an aura of deathly stillness that sharply contrasted with the fragrant immortal osmanthus spiritual plants. That was the wreckage of the Sacred Path, the power of lingering resentment. Luoshen Peak was a major forbidden zone of GuiZhe Sacred Mountain. All spiritual cultivators across the world knew that this was where the previous generation's Holy Divine Palace Master had fallen.

In the past, Patriarch Yu Tu, the head of the Seven Sword Immortals, single-handedly stormed the Holy Divine Palace, beheading its Grand Palace Master with seven swords, directly ending the previous era. He then vanished from the world, his deeds becoming a widely celebrated tale. Dao Qiongcang was entrusted with the task in a time of crisis, taking over the existing structure, and only then was the Holy Divine Palace's rule consolidated again.

The reason Yu Tu stormed GuiZhe Sacred Mountain was entirely due to another legend of this sacred mountain.

To the east.

Screen-Candle Ground.

Another forbidden zone of GuiZhe Sacred Mountain.

A towering broken willow stood isolated within the forbidden zone. This place should have been lush green, with willows swaying gently. But ever since the legend of “A Sword Immortal Comes from the East with a Single Sword,” even the “Divine Worship Willow,” ranked first among the Nine Ancestral Trees and ahead of the Tree of the Firmament, was severed.

Severed so abruptly. Even decades later, it was still unable to sprout a single new green shoot.

Beneath the broken willow, on the sandy ground, stood an ancient table. The ancient table was small and dilapidated, covered in dust, as if no one had visited it for decades. Yet, on the table, a candle that had burned for ten thousand years still flickered. The dim candlelight directly transformed the surrounding infinite light into a gloomy space. Others lit lamps for illumination. But this eternally burning old lamp was meant to draw darkness.

On the dim and gloomy tabletop, besides the ancient lamp, lay a sword. The sword was spotless. Its blade was spiritual blue, pitted and uneven, as if it had endured countless slashes, hammerings, and iron repairs. The sword's body was connected to the netherworld; a single glance could pull one's soul into it. Within it, malevolent spirits seemed to struggle, their deathly intent dissipating, seemingly neither dead nor alive.

Ranked eighth on the Famous Sword List, its name was Ghost Hunt, the personal sword of Hua Changdeng, one of the Seven Sword Immortals!

In this desolate yet spacious Screen-Candle Ground, next to the broken willow and facing the ancient table, sat a middle-aged man with graying hair. Though middle-aged, his weathered face, however, would make any outsider assume he was a dying old man.

“Hua Changdeng?”

Outside the Screen-Candle Ground, a ripple of wind spread. The sound waves stirred up rustling gravel on the ground, but they silently ceased after approaching within a hundred zhang of the middle-aged man who was leaning against the willow with closed eyes, seemingly in deep meditation.

Screen, screen... No living beings enter, no wind approaches, and the old candle never extinguishes.

The eyelids of the man feigning sleep, called Hua Changdeng, twitched, and he slowly opened his eyes. In this gloomy place, his gaze seemed to emit a transcendent glow. The ancient table's flickering candle swayed on its own, without wind, sputtering and dripping a new bead of wax, barely keeping the flame from vanishing.

“Is GuiZhe Sacred Mountain going to be broken again? This time, who comes to seek me?”

Hua Changdeng leaned against the broken willow, his gaze containing, then concealing, the astonishing sword intent within his eyes. He propped himself with his hands on the ground, pushed his feet forward, and leaned against the broken willow behind him, managing to sit slightly straighter.

Tap, tap, tap.

The sound of footsteps grew closer. A white-robed man emerged from around the corner, holding a compass in his hand. It was etched with multiple trigrams, and the aura of the Heavenly Dao seemed to follow his guidance. Each step he took was as if he were measuring this world. With each step, the spirit spoon on the compass gently swayed, leaving a faint, delicate trace on the divination plate.

Engraving, recording. With every step, he grew.

The old candle flickered, illuminating the contours of the newcomer's face. This was an extremely dignified-looking man. His forehead seemed to hold the vast universe, full and radiant, and his eyes were like a contained galaxy, deep and subtly insightful. His nose was high and straight, his features sharp and distinct. As he glanced around, it was as if a saint had lowered his gaze, full of pity for the world.

“Dao Qiongcang?” Hua Changdeng, leaning against the broken willow like a man in his twilight years, his voice finally held a hint of surprise, “What brings you here?”

Tap.

Dao Qiongcang stopped precisely a hundred zhang away from the man before him. His gaze first swept over the famous sword Ghost Hunt, then he measured the remaining length of the candle, and smiled: “Still can't stand?”

“Why should I stand?” Hua Changdeng closed his eyes again, feeling that even an extra glance at the man before him was a waste of time.

“How can a semi-saint's body be compared to the withered sorrow of an old tree?” Dao Qiongcang shook his head.

“Swords can sever the Dao! A Dao Saint, compared to a Sword Saint, can only stop and leave a message; there is no dignity in a physical welcome.” Hua Changdeng's voice dropped, as if he were about to fall asleep.

“But the Dao overlooks heaven and earth; yet a sword cannot break heaven.”

“Hmph, ignorant.”

“Even if one breaks heaven, there is heaven beyond heaven.”

“Heh, foolish.”

“A lingering sword cultivator, merely accompanied by an old lamp, leaning on a broken willow—desiring to stand but lacking the strength, desiring to awaken but without the vitality—how bitter?” Dao Qiongcang's eyes held a smile: “Bitter! How bitter...”

Hua Changdeng seemed to have fallen asleep. His breathing became even, almost bordering on a snore.

“A lingering Dao cultivator!”

Dao Qiongcang suddenly roared, making the candlelight flicker and almost extinguish. Hua Changdeng's body jolted, and he sharply opened his eyes.

“Are you sick?!”

Only then did Dao Qiongcang smile and stroke his beard, raising the compass in his hand, and spoke softly: “A lingering Dao cultivator, above, controls three thousand rules of heavenly destiny; below, inherits the peaceful voices of myriad worlds. One person affects the world, incense and reverence are offered, the python and sparrow adorn the body, noble words become golden dragons—how fortunate?”

He nodded, his eyes full of enchantment.

“How fortunate, how fortunate indeed...”

“Sick! What are you doing here? Just to play with words for a few sentences, and scare me again?” Hua Changdeng turned over and moved to the other side of the tree.

“Don't you think it's beautiful? I've recently become fascinated with poetry and text; these words contain profound mysteries of the Great Dao, and they suit me very well.”

Dao Qiongcang took a step forward, then suddenly stopped mid-air: “Shall I, come in to chat?”

“No.”

Hua Changdeng waved his hand dismissively, “Where did you learn such broken things? Is it from your Dao Ancestor again? If you truly find living boring, just smash that broken compass on your head, and the Dao Ancestor can preach to you for a lifetime.”

“No, no, no...”

Dao Qiongcang waved his hand, stopping a hundred zhang away, ultimately not stepping in. Hua Changdeng said he couldn't enter, so he didn't.

“These words, they weren't taught to me by the Dao Ancestor.”

“Heh, then which damn thing flattered you so much that you've changed your whole demeanor?”

“You know...”

Dao Qiongcang watched him with a smile, his voice pausing before he recited aloud: “A sword immortal comes from the east with a single sword, drunkenly drinks from the Yellow Springs and walks the azure sky. He is no mere mortal guest in the mundane world, yet how can GuiZhe be so devout?”

The candlelight abruptly extinguished. The sound of wind arose. Hua Changdeng's ghost-like, disheveled figure suddenly appeared before him, Ghost Hunt held horizontally between Dao Qiongcang's exposed, upturned neck, his eyes filled with madness. His low voice was filled with killing intent from all directions.

“Do you, wish to die?”