Qingwei did not dodge.
He did not even spare a glance downward.
She was the only thing in his eyes.
Jiang Ci lay in a pool of blood. A shocking, hollow wound gaped in her chest, its edges charred black—scars left by the burning of Bai Cen's elixir fire. Blood was still seeping out, but very little remained. It had not stopped; it was simply running dry. Her face was as pale as rice paper, her lips blue, and her eyes deeply sunken. If one did not look closely, they would think she was already dead.
Trembling, Qingwei walked toward her, his steps stumbling as if he were walking on cotton. In just a few short steps, he tripped and fell, his knee striking the jagged gravel. Blood seeped through, staining his Daoist robe red. Acting as if he felt no pain, he scrambled back up and continued forward.
He knelt beside Jiang Ci and reached out his hand.
His fingers hovered just beneath her nose.
He paused for a long time.
There was wind. It brushed past his fingertips, cold. He could not tell if it was the wind or her breath.
He waited a moment longer.
Then, he felt it. It was incredibly faint, like a strand of spider silk on the verge of snapping, trembling in the wind. But it was there. It was still there.
“She's still alive...”
His voice trembled, as if he were speaking to himself, or perhaps trying to convince himself of it.
“She's still alive...”
In a frantic rush, he fumbled for his storage bag and tugged at the drawstring. Because his hands were shaking so violently, it took him several tries to pull it open. He turned the bag upside down and dumped everything out.
Elixir bottles rolled out. One, two, five, ten—they piled onto the ground. Some rolled away, clinking against the gravel with crisp sounds. The jade bottles clattering against the stones echoed across the empty Heavenly Punishment Platform.
Life-Prolonging Pills. Rejuvenation Pills. Heart-Protecting Pills. Qi-Nourishing Pills. Foundation-Consolidating Pills. Hemostatic Pills.
He recognized the color, shape, and texture of every single bottle. They were the accumulation of decades, saved up pill by pill since his youth. Some of these elixirs had only two pills left; he had treasured them for over ten years, reluctant to use them, keeping them for when he truly faced a matter of life and death.
Now was that moment of life and death.
But not his own.
He popped open a bottle of Life-Prolonging Pills, poured out a pale gold pill, pinched open Jiang Ci's mouth, and pushed it inside. Then he popped open a bottle of Rejuvenation Pills, poured out two emerald-green ones, and pushed them in. Next, he opened a bottle of Heart-Protecting Pills, poured out a vermilion pill, and stuffed it in.
Bottle after bottle, pill after pill. He did not care anymore. Precious or not, saving them for later—there was no later. If she died, what use would keeping these elixirs be?
Yet as those elixirs slid down her throat, they were like stones sinking into the ocean. Her breath did not change, her pulse did not recover, and the color did not return to her face.
She had taken the Life-Prolonging Pill. She had taken the Rejuvenation Pill. She had taken the Heart-Protecting Pill.
Nothing worked.
“No... It's impossible...”
Qingwei's voice trembled. He pressed his hand against her chest, feeling only a hollow void beneath his palm. There was no heartbeat, no warmth, only a dead silence.
Her entire heart had been gouged out.
This was not an injury that could be repaired by elixirs.
His fingers began to shake. It was not a slight tremor, but a violent shudder racking his entire hand, like a dry branch in a freezing wind. Clenching his teeth, he dug out every single life-saving elixir from his storage bag and poured them down her throat, bottle by bottle. When some pills got stuck in her throat, he gently patted her neck to help her swallow.
But even as those elixirs slid down, there was no reaction. Her body was like a dry well; no matter what was thrown in, not a single echo could be heard.
“There must be a way... There must be a way...”
Qingwei searched like a madman. He dumped out everything in his storage bag—jade bottles, elixir boxes, talismans, medicinal herbs, spirit stones, formation plates—scattering them all over the ground in a massive pile.
He found a bottle, opened it—empty. He found another, opened it—also empty. His fingers shook so much he could barely hold them; several bottles slipped from his grasp, rolling away across the bluestone slabs.
“Dispersing her cultivation... Yes, dispersing her cultivation!”
As if grasping at a final lifeline, he suddenly pressed his hand against Jiang Ci's dantian.
The moment his divine sense swept inside, he froze.
A Nascent Soul.
Translucent as glass, with its sword light restrained, it was like a frozen star, quietly floating in her dried-up dantian. This was the culmination of her twenty-six years of cultivation, the proof of her journey from a mere mortal to this day, and her pride as the Azure Cloud Sword Heir.
A Nascent Soul cultivator at not even twenty-six years of age.
Qingwei's hand froze over her dantian. He stood there as if struck by lightning, unable to move a muscle.
He still remembered when she first achieved Foundation Establishment. She was fifteen, her hair tied in a high ponytail, her eyes shining with brilliant light. When she accepted the Qinghan sword he had forged for her, the blade reflected her face—young, bright, like the very first ray of sunlight in early spring.
She had said, “Master, I will become the strongest sword cultivator in the Azure Cloud Sword Sect.”
He had replied, “Good. Master will be waiting.”
He had lived to see it.
When she reached the Golden Core realm, she was twenty-one. The entire Sword Sect had been thrown into an uproar; even Zixiao had spared her a second glance. Standing in the crowd, he had watched her receive the sect's congratulations on the Heavenly Punishment Platform, thinking to himself—this is the disciple I raised.
He had lived to see it. He had witnessed the moment she shattered her core to form her Nascent Soul.
He had waited twenty-six years, all for this once-in-a-century genius of the Azure Cloud Sword Sect.
And now, he had to destroy all of it with his own hands.
“The heavens are unjust—!”
His voice tore through the wind howling over the Heavenly Punishment Platform, carrying a sob, despair, and the deep-seated hatred of an old man facing his own utter powerlessness.
He could even envision her future path—Soul Transformation, Void Refinement, Body Integration, and perhaps even higher. The inheritance of the Azure Cloud Sword Art would have flourished in her hands, and the Azure Cloud Sword Sect would have stood at the peak once more because of her. What did the Zixiao Sword Sect matter? What did Bai Cen matter? Those who coveted her Sword Heart would not have been worthy to even carry her shoes.
He could see all of it.
And now, he had to destroy all of it with his own hands.
“Is the legacy of my Azure Cloud Sword Art truly destined to end in my hands?”
His voice grew quiet, as if he were talking to himself.
“Alas... What a tragedy...”
His tears fell, landing on Jiang Ci's face and sliding down her cheeks, making it look as though she were the one crying.
Zixiao stood not far away, his face grim. His eyes locked onto Qingwei's back before sweeping over the unconscious Jiang Ci lying on the ground.
As his anger cooled, another emotion surfaced.
Relief.
He was grim because the Sword Sect had lost a genius who could have reached the Body Integration or even Tribulation Transcendence realm in the future. Such a once-in-a-century genius had been ruined just like that; what sect would not grieve?
But he was relieved because—she was a disciple of the Azure Cloud Sword Sect.
The Zixiao Sword Sect and the Azure Cloud Sword Sect were ostensibly sister sects, but in reality, they had been locked in a covert rivalry for hundreds of years. Whichever sect had more geniuses would have a brighter future. With Jiang Ci ruined, the future of the Azure Cloud Sword Sect was cut short. The Zixiao Sword Sect could continue to firmly hold the upper hand.
He remained expressionless, but as he turned around, the corner of his mouth twitched—whether in a cold sneer or something else, it was hard to tell.
Qingwei did not notice.
He closed his eyes.
Not because he could not bear to watch, but because he did not dare to look.
Releasing his spiritual energy, his palm reached into her dantian and wrapped around that glass-clear Nascent Soul. The spiritual energy wound around it layer by layer like countless fine threads, tightening its grip.
The Nascent Soul struggled.
This was her life-bound core, condensed over twenty-six years of cultivation—the projection of her Sword Heart within her dantian. It possessed its own spirituality; it knew what was about to happen. It resisted, fought back, and desperately tried to maintain its existence.
He could feel its terror. That fear surged through the spiritual energy into his fingertips, course-correcting like an electric current through his entire body.
His tears fell even faster.
But he did not let go.
“I am sorry...”
His voice was incredibly soft, so quiet that even he could barely hear it.
“I am sorry...”
He clenched his teeth.
His spiritual energy suddenly constricted.
Crack—
The Nascent Soul shattered.
There was no physical sound, but that sharp crack exploded within Qingwei's sea of consciousness, making his vision go dark and his ears ring.
The glass fragments scattered in all directions like smashed stars, floating, spinning, and slowly dimming within her dantian. Every single shard reflected her face—from her childhood, her adulthood, her laughing, her crying, her focused expression while practicing her sword, and her warmth when she called him Master.
He saw it all. He saw every single crack.
He did not dare to look any longer.
He guided those fragments toward her heart meridian. His spiritual energy acted like a pair of hands, kneading, pressing, and shaping the shards. Bit by bit, the shape of a heart began to emerge.
A heart of glass. It had no warmth, no beat. It was transparent and hollow, like an exquisite piece of handicraft rather than the organ of a living human.
He waited.
One breath. Two breaths. Three breaths.
And then, it pulsed once.
Just once.
And then another.
Jiang Ci's breath finally stabilized.
But her cultivation was plummeting at an alarming rate.
Golden Core. Foundation Establishment. Qi Condensation.
Her cultivation fell tier by tier, like a plummet off a cliff. With his hand pressed against her dantian, Qingwei felt those realms extinguish one by one, like candles being blown out, one after another, never to be lit again.
In the end, not even a trace of true qi remained.
Her dantian was empty. It was not the kind of emptiness where "spiritual energy has run dry"—it was the kind of emptiness as if "it had never existed in the first place." It was like a well that had been filled with dirt, trampled flat, and had grass planted over it.
All that remained was a physical body tempered over many years. Yet even the blood vitality within this body was declining.
Ninth stage of Body Tempering, eighth stage, seventh stage, sixth stage, fifth stage, fourth stage—
"Body Tempering" was the foundational realm of physical cultivation. The ninth stage was the highest, while the third stage was only slightly stronger than an ordinary mortal.
Qingwei frantically searched through the elixirs scattered on the ground. Hemostatic, life-prolonging, qi-nourishing, qi-recovering—anything would do, as long as it could stabilize her blood vitality. He popped open two bottles and poured their entire contents into her mouth. Then he popped open another two and poured them in as well.
The decline of her blood vitality finally stopped at the third stage of Body Tempering.
Slightly stronger than a mortal. But only slightly.
Qingwei collapsed onto the ground, his entire body trembling.
His hands were covered in blood—her blood. His Daoist robe was covered in blood—her blood. His face was also covered in blood—he did not know if it was hers or his own from biting through his lips.
“Bai Cen! I will reclaim this Sword Heart sooner or later!”
Zixiao's voice came from behind, his teeth gritted. Yet there was no hatred in his eyes, only the resentment of having his prize snatched away.
He glanced at Qingwei, then at Jiang Ci on the ground, his gaze filled with disgust.
A useless cripple. Spending so many spiritual medicines to save her was a complete waste.
Sensing that gaze, a wave of bitterness washed over Qingwei's heart. He lowered his head and looked at Jiang Ci's face. It was as pale as paper, her lips blue, her eyes deeply sunken. If one did not look closely, they would think she was already dead.
“Senior Brother...”
Qingwei's voice was very soft and trembling.
“Could we let her recuperate in the sect for a few days? Or... just let her stay in the sect. She cannot cause any trouble anyway.”
“Hmph!”
Zixiao flicked his sleeve, his face filled with rage and impatience.
“What do you want this cripple to do in the Sword Sect? My Sword Sect does not harbor useless cripples, let alone a sinner like her!”
Whenever he saw Jiang Ci's face, he felt as though he had lost a step to Bai Cen. That proud, aloof face, that attitude of never bowing her head—he had long found her an eyesore.
“If you cannot bring yourself to do it, then let me help you!”
Zixiao's voice turned cold.
“Doesn't she love meddling with the Ice Spirit Cult? Let her go to the Northern Border and meddle to her heart's content!”
He raised his hand, releasing his spiritual energy and condensing it into ropes that suspended Jiang Ci in midair. Her head hung low, her limbs dangling limply like a corpse hung from a hook. The chains were still wrapped around her wrists, the iron rings digging into her flesh, and the seeping blood had already dried into dark red scabs.
Zixiao turned to leave.
“Senior Brother!”
Qingwei's voice suddenly spiked. It was not a plea, but a shout that was almost out of control.
“Why... why must it be the Northern Border! Even the Southern Border would be better! The Northern Border... the Northern Border is a semi-fallen territory!”
His voice was shaking.
“Hmm?”
Zixiao stopped in his tracks and turned around.
His brow furrowed, his gaze as cold as a blade.
“A fallen territory? What has fallen? There are so many people there; have they all died?”
His voice was not loud, but every word pierced Qingwei's chest like a needle.
“Or are you saying—you think my words do not carry weight?”
Qingwei's lips parted slightly.
Qingwei wanted to say so many things. He wanted to speak of the truth of the Northern Border, to say that Jiang Ci was already a cripple, to say that she would die if she went there. He wanted to say that she was his disciple, whom he had raised since childhood, someone who was like a daughter to him.
But he said nothing.
He looked into Zixiao's eyes. In those eyes, there was no room for discussion, no compromise, only the cold indifference of "I have already decided."
His fingers clenched his sleeves, his knuckles turning white.
“...I understand.”
Zixiao let out a cold snort and turned to leave. The ropes of spiritual energy dragged Jiang Ci along, pulling her off the Heavenly Punishment Platform like a sack of cargo.
Her feet dragged along the ground, leaving two long streaks of blood.
Qingwei stood where he was, staring at those two bloodstains, watching them extend bit by bit until they disappeared at the end of the steps of the Heavenly Punishment Platform.
He stood there for a very long time.
The wind was howling, blowing his hair across his face.
He slowly squatted down, looking at the empty elixir bottles scattered on the ground. Empty. Every single one of them was empty. He had poured out everything—the ones she had taken, the ones she had not, the life-saving ones, the useless ones. Nothing was left.
He reached out and picked up an empty bottle. It was the Life-Prolonging Pill he had treasured for years, which had only contained two pills. He had given them all to her. It had been useless.
He picked up another. Rejuvenation Pills. Also useless.
He picked up yet another. Qi-Nourishing Pills. Still useless.
He gathered the empty bottles one by one, gripping them tightly in his hand.
“Why...”
His voice was very soft, as if he were speaking to himself.
“Why... did it turn out like this?”
Because of a single word from his Senior Brother. Because of avoiding suspicion. Because of administering the punishment. Because he had not stood up on the platform of judgment. Because he had been silent for too long.
The disciple he had raised since childhood, the disciple who was like his own daughter, had her cultivation destroyed and was thrown to the Northern Border like a piece of tattered cloth. The future of the Azure Cloud Sword Sect, its very legacy, was now ruined.
“When... did things become like this?”
He murmured to himself, his gaze vacant.
Was it their master's warning before his Tribulation Transcendence—“You brothers must support each other”? Or did it begin the day the Azure Cloud Sword Sect slowly grew to stand on equal footing with the Zixiao Sword Sect? Or was it even earlier? Even earlier, he had already known what kind of person Zixiao was, yet he had said nothing and done nothing.
He lowered his head, looking at the empty bottles gripped in his hand. The bottles were stained with blood that had already dried into dark brown fingerprints.
He suddenly recalled many years ago.
When Jiang Ci was still young and had just achieved Foundation Establishment, he had personally forged a sword for her, naming it Qinghan. Accepting the sword, her eyes had shone brightly as she said, “Master, I will become the strongest sword cultivator in the Azure Cloud Sword Sect.”
He had replied, “Good. Master will be waiting.”
He had lived to see it. She had formed her Nascent Soul before she was even twenty-six.
And then, he had personally shattered that Nascent Soul.
“I...”
His voice caught in his throat.
He wanted to say, “I am sorry.” He wanted to say, “Master was useless.” He wanted to say so many things, but on the Heavenly Punishment Platform, there was only the wind, and no one to listen.
He slowly stood up, his knees stiff and aching.
The empty bottles were still clutched in his hand.
He did not throw them away. He placed them back into his storage bag one by one, very slowly, as if performing a deeply important task.
Then he turned around and walked down the steps of the Heavenly Punishment Platform, step by step.
The wind continued to blow. The bloodstains on the ground had already dried, covered by wind and sand, growing fainter and fainter.
But within his heart, something remained behind. It was very small, very light, hidden in a very deep place.
He did not know what it was.
He only felt that he could no longer remain silent like this.
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