CHAPTER 16

  Across the plaza before the Council Hall, the crowd began to disperse in small groups. At first there were still murmurs, scattered and uneven, but gradually they thinned and dissolved into the mountain wind until only fragments remained, not loud enough to command attention, yet clear enough to be heard.

  “Mortal Foundation… so that’s all it amounts to.”

  “He climbs the Ninefold Qi Refining Tower but never trains the sword.”

  “What’s the use of higher cultivation if the body cannot keep up? Sooner or later, he will break himself.”

  No one raised their voice.

  But neither did anyone attempt to conceal their thoughts.

  For the others, that year had never been a race.

  They took missions, accumulated contribution points, and exchanged them for what truly mattered: sword techniques, artifacts, resources for tempering the body. They practiced each form until their arms no longer felt the weight of steel. They refined their movement until a single step would not lag by half a breath. They strengthened bone and flesh until their bodies could endure the recoil of their own power.

  The Ninefold Tower was not a place to remain in day after day.

  It was only one part of the path, not the entirety of it.

  Because for them, the sect’s route had always been clearly laid out, stable and proven: five years of accumulation, a Mid-Grade Foundation Elixir, the Earthly path unfolding steadily before them.

  There was no need to rush.

  No need to take reckless risks.

  No need to gamble with one’s own foundation.

  Everything had its order.

  And today, the outcome had only reaffirmed that order.

  The sect was not wrong.

  The one who had chosen to step outside it was.

  In the plaza, now nearly empty, only one figure remained.

  Yang Feng was still on one knee.

  The blood on his sleeve had dried into a dark stain. Spiritual power within his body was still in disarray, and each breath carried a dull ache.

  No one came to help him.

  No one lingered to look.

  He did not bow his head any further.

  Nor did he try to rise.

  He simply could not.

  Footsteps sounded across the stone. They were neither hurried nor hesitant. They moved in a straight line toward him.

  Yang Feng looked up.

  He was not expecting sympathy.

  He only wanted to know who it was.

  “Ou Bakang.”

  His voice was slightly hoarse.

  “What do you want?”

  Ou Bakang stopped before him and looked down. There was no contempt in his eyes, and no pity. Only thought.

  After a long moment, he spoke.

  “You were not wrong.”

  Yang Feng’s brow tightened slightly.

  “It’s just that,” Ou Bakang continued, “you have skipped too many steps that a sword cultivator must pass through.”

  There was no lecture in his tone.

  Only fact.

  Yang Feng parted his lips, but Ou Bakang spoke again before he could answer.

  “I did not come to laugh at you.”

  “Nor to teach you.”

  His gaze shifted to the broken blade lying some distance away.

  “Your sword used to be very straight.”

  “But today, it could not withstand the force of its own master.”

  The wind moved across the plaza.

  Ou Bakang bent down and placed a hand on Yang Feng’s shoulder, steady and firm, and helped him to his feet.

  “If you do not wish to die, build your foundation first.”

  He paused briefly.

  “There is nothing wrong with moving quickly.”

  “But if you move quickly over hollow ground, collapse is only a matter of time.”

  His eyes swept once toward the Council Hall behind them.

  “Heavenly Sword Sect does not exist to nurture those who only climb towers.”

  “It exists to train those who can hold a sword on its behalf.”

  Yang Feng did not argue.

  Because he knew.

  The pain he felt now did not come from the other’s blade.

  It came from himself.

  Ou Bakang turned.

  “I’ll take you to the Healing Hall.”

  He did not ask for agreement or wait for consent; he simply began to walk.

  Behind them, the plaza was completely empty.

  The wind passed over the stone steps.

  Only a broken sword remained beneath the fading light of evening.

  Ou Bakang did not speak again as they walked.

  Behind them, the plaza had fallen completely silent. Only the wind moved across the stone steps, carrying with it the faint scent of unsettled dust. Their footsteps were neither hurried nor slow, as if neither of them wished to turn back toward the place where the clash had just occurred, and neither felt the need to confirm its outcome.

  Yang Feng walked in a haze between clarity and exhaustion. His body ached, his spiritual power remained in disarray, yet the words he had just heard were clearer than anything else.

  Heavenly Sword Sect does not exist to nurture those who only climb towers.

  The sentence had not been spoken loudly, yet it carried weight.

  He had never truly considered it before.

  In his eyes, the sect had been a place of resources, of the Ninefold Qi Refining Tower, of opportunities to break through. A steadier ladder compared to drifting outside. A place where the risks of advancement could be reduced.

  But today, for the first time, he realized that perhaps he had been looking at it as a tool.

  Heavenly Sword Sect was, at its core, a sect of the sword.

  Here, cultivation level was not what stood foremost.

  The sword was.

  If cultivation alone were all that mattered, he could have joined a rogue cultivator guild, or left the Heavenly Sword Mountains in search of somewhere quieter to accumulate strength.

  No one had forced a sword into his hand.

  He had chosen to step into this place.

  So what, in the end, had he come here for?

  Ou Bakang stopped before the gates of the Healing Hall.

  Yang Feng lifted his gaze to the wooden plaque carved with those three characters.

  For the first time since entering the sect, he felt that he was standing at a boundary.

  Not between victory and defeat.

  But between staying… and belonging.

  The Healing Hall stood beside the Council Hall, not far from the mountain path that led toward the Sect Master’s peak.

  The building was broad, its gray tiles layered with a thin film of medicinal dust gathered over the years. The wooden pillars had darkened with smoke and time, stained by furnace heat and the slow passage of seasons. Unlike the main hall with its cold solemnity, this place carried a different presence, something more grounded and direct.

  Even before they reached the entrance, the scent of medicine rolled outward.

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  It was thick, heavy, and familiar.

  The smell of dried blood mingled with freshly brewed decoctions. Crushed herbs hung in the air, blending with the warmth drifting from the smaller refining furnaces within.

  The great doors were always open.

  From inside came the steady rhythm of pestles grinding against stone, the faint ring of metal touching bronze trays, and now and then the low, restrained groan of someone being treated.

  It was not loud.

  But it was never quiet.

  The air here carried a clarity of purpose.

  This was where people came to be saved.

  And where they came to understand the cost of holding a sword.

  Ou Bakang guided Yang Feng inside and helped him down onto a waiting chair near the entrance. He did not speak much. Only after confirming that Yang Feng could remain seated on his own did he turn and walk straight toward the inspection table for medicinal materials in the main hall.

  The elder overseeing the Healing Hall was standing there.

  Beside him stood a slender figure in pale blue robes, one hand resting lightly upon a wooden tray filled with freshly harvested spiritual herbs.

  Su Xueni.

  She was exchanging medicinal plants cultivated atop One-Sword Peak for the Healing Hall. Each sprig of spirit herb had been sorted with care. Her expression was steady and focused, neither hurried nor distracted.

  Ou Bakang stopped a few steps away.

  He did not speak immediately.

  Not out of hesitation, but because he had no intention of interrupting the inspection of the herbs. Within the Healing Hall, order always came first.

  It was the elder who raised his head first.

  “Ou Bakang.”

  His tone was neither heavy nor light.

  “Injured again today?”

  Ou Bakang was long accustomed to this place. Over the past year in the Heavenly Sword Sect, he had accumulated more contribution points than any other outer disciple of his cohort, and the number of wounds he returned with was no fewer than anyone else’s. The disciples of the Healing Hall were thoroughly familiar with him by now.

  “Elder.” He cupped his hands lightly. “This disciple did not sustain any injuries today.”

  He inclined his head slightly toward the entrance.

  “But a fellow disciple has suffered internal injuries. I ask that you take a look.”

  “Hmm?”

  The elder’s brows drew together faintly.

  “Internal injuries? From what?”

  Ou Bakang answered in an even tone.

  “Rebound from spiritual force.”

  “The Foundation is not yet stable… yet all of it was driven into the body.”

  The air shifted, ever so slightly.

  Only then did Su Xueni turn her gaze toward the chair near the doorway.

  Yang Feng was still seated there.

  The blood upon his sleeve had dried. His breathing had not yet fully steadied.

  The elder set the tray of herbs aside.

  “Take me to him.”

  Ou Bakang turned and led the elder to Yang Feng.

  Su Xueni said nothing, yet she followed as well.

  The elder placed two fingers against Yang Feng’s wrist.

  One breath.

  Then another.

  Spiritual force, fine as thread, slipped into his meridians, probing along each channel.

  After a short while, the elder withdrew his hand.

  “The dantian is stable.”

  “But the meridians have not adapted. Microtears in the muscle. Mild skeletal shock.”

  He looked directly at Yang Feng.

  “How long since you entered Foundation?”

  “Not long,” Yang Feng replied, his voice still hoarse.

  “You have not tempered your body?”

  “…No.”

  “Mortal Foundation?”

  Yang Feng did not evade.

  “Yes.”

  The elder fell silent for a moment.

  “Foundation condenses spiritual power and strengthens its flow. But your body… is still the body of Qi Refinement.”

  He paused, then frowned faintly.

  “No.”

  That threadlike spiritual force entered Yang Feng’s meridians once more.

  The elder’s gaze darkened slightly.

  “Not even that.”

  Ou Bakang lifted his head a fraction.

  The elder spoke slowly.

  “A Qi Refinement disciple, even at a low stage, has a body worn and tempered by spiritual power over time. The meridians thicken. The muscles grow accustomed to bearing force. The bones, at least in part, are reinforced.”

  His eyes settled on Yang Feng again.

  “But you… from early Qi Refinement until now, have not tempered your body even once.”

  “Spiritual power passed through you. It never remained.”

  His voice did not rise.

  Yet each word carried weight.

  “Your body is only that of someone born with spirit veins.”

  “It has never been forged.”

  No one spoke.

  The elder concluded,

  “You carry the strength of Foundation.”

  “But your base is close to that of an ordinary man.”

  “You pressed the strength of Foundation upon ground that was never reinforced.”

  He spoke without haste.

  “That you did not die is already fortunate.”

  Only then did Su Xueni speak.

  Her voice was neither raised nor reproachful.

  “How long have you been in the sect?”

  “One year.”

  “One year… and you have never undergone Beast Blood Tempering?”

  Yang Feng did not answer.

  She studied him for another moment.

  “You climbed the Ninefold Qi Refining Tower for an entire year.”

  “But you never learned how to let your body keep pace with your sword.”

  The air grew still.

  No one rebuked him.

  No one mocked him.

  It was simply the truth, laid out before him.

  And for the first time, Yang Feng had nothing to refute.

  Yang Feng was taken into a room in the rear courtyard.

  It was far quieter than the front hall. The scent of medicine softened here, leaving only a faint trace of herbs in the air. Late afternoon light filtered through a narrow window, laying a pale band of gold across the wall.

  He was helped onto a wooden bed. The moment his back touched the thin mattress, the weight of his body settled heavily upon him.

  The elder had already instructed someone to bring medicine. The torn muscle was treated and bound for the time being. His spiritual power gradually steadied, though the pain remained.

  Ou Bakang stood beside the bed for a while.

  He looked at Yang Feng.

  There was no reproach in his expression. No comfort either.

  He spoke only once.

  “Think about what I said.”

  Then he turned and left, without promises, without encouragement, and without so much as a glance over his shoulder.

  The door closed softly behind him.

  Only two people remained in the room.

  Su Xueni stood beside the bed.

  She did not speak at once.

  Her gaze fell upon the bandaged arm, then settled on Yang Feng’s still-pale face.

  “Yang Feng.”

  Her voice was quiet.

  “Do you remember what I taught in the Transmission Hall last year?”

  Yang Feng did not answer.

  He remembered.

  He remembered clearly.

  He had simply never taken it to heart.

  He stared at the ceiling, his eyes unfocused.

  After a long moment, he spoke.

  “Senior Sister… I did not want to die before five years had even passed.”

  His voice did not tremble.

  It was only tired.

  “I only wanted to survive.”

  “That is why… I cultivated quickly. Broke through quickly.”

  He drew in a slow breath before continuing.

  “And instead of spending time on body tempering or sword training… I thought I could help ordinary people.”

  “Drive back beasts. Repair formations. Protect villages.”

  “That is still a good thing.”

  He looked at her.

  “Isn’t it?”

  Su Xueni did not answer at once. She only looked at him for a long moment. There was no coldness in her gaze, yet the softness that had once been there was gone.

  “You say you want to live.”

  “Then let me ask you.”

  “If, during that escort mission, a Foundation-level beast had appeared—what would you have done?”

  Yang Feng stilled.

  She continued.

  “You wish to protect ordinary people.”

  “But if you cannot stand before such a thing, what will you use to protect them?”

  Silence settled between them.

  “You say you help others.”

  “But you have never learned how to become someone who can bear responsibility.”

  Her tone remained even.

  “Yang Feng.”

  “Have you ever considered why a sect is established?”

  He did not answer.

  She stepped closer.

  “Heavenly Sword Sect was not founded to teach people how to avoid death.”

  “It was founded to create those who can stand at the frontline.”

  “Those who can hold a sword on behalf of others.”

  “Those who can block what ordinary people cannot.”

  She met his gaze directly.

  “You say you want to live.”

  “But you entered a sword sect.”

  “You have never seriously studied sword techniques.”

  “You have never undergone Beast Blood Tempering.”

  “You have never stepped into the Transmission Hall with the mindset of a sword cultivator.”

  “So why did you come here?”

  Her voice lowered, not louder, but heavier.

  “To borrow the Ninefold Qi Refining Tower?”

  “To borrow the sect’s resources?”

  “To borrow the name of a disciple?”

  “And once your cultivation is sufficient… to leave?”

  The question was not raised, yet each word settled upon him like a weight against his chest.

  Yang Feng clenched his hand.

  For the first time, he found that he could no longer answer with the excuse of survival.

  Because survival alone… did not answer that question.

  He had stepped into this sect of his own will.

  No one had forced him.

  No one had pushed him.

  No one had placed a sword in his hand.

  And yet he had chosen to live as though he were merely sheltering beneath its roof.

  “I do not blame you for choosing the Mortal path,” Su Xueni said more slowly.

  “The path one walks is one’s own decision.”

  “But if you remain in the Heavenly Sword Sect…”

  “You must understand where you stand.”

  “You cannot seek the benefits of the system…”

  “while refusing to shoulder your part within it.”

  The room fell quiet.

  Only the wind moved faintly beyond the lattice window.

  Yang Feng closed his eyes.

  The past year returned to him, not as achievements, but as scattered shadows.

  The days he spent silently climbing the Ninefold Qi Refining Tower.

  Step after step.

  Level after level.

  As though remaining there long enough would allow everything to resolve itself.

  The missions he avoided, not from laziness but from fear.

  The confrontations he chose to avoid, not because he failed to see them, but because he did not dare to step forward.

  He had thought himself practical.

  He had thought himself prudent.

  He had believed that the path with the least risk must be the correct one.

  But now, looking back, he saw it clearly. All of it had been retreat, wrapped carefully in reason, and he had never once asked himself whether that path fit the place where he stood.

  He opened his eyes.

  “Senior Sister…”

  His voice was rougher than before.

  “If I only wished to live…”

  “Then perhaps… I should not remain here.”

  Su Xueni looked at him, but did not answer at once.

  After a moment, she spoke.

  “Then where will you go?”

  There was no dismissal in the question.

  Only confirmation.

  Yang Feng looked up toward the beam overhead, where the evening light had begun to fade.

  After a long while, he finally spoke.

  “I do not wish to leave.”

  His voice was not loud, but it was steady.

  “I do not wish to become a rogue cultivator.”

  “Nor do I wish to be someone who only climbs towers.”

  He drew in a slow breath.

  “I want… to try again.”

  Su Xueni studied him for a moment longer.

  The edge in her gaze softened.

  “Then begin from the foundation.”

  “When you are able to rise from this bed tomorrow…”

  “Come to One-Sword Peak.”

  “Not to learn how to adjust to a realm.”

  “But to learn how to hold a sword.”

  She turned to leave.

  Before stepping out of the room, she paused.

  “Yang Feng.”

  “There is nothing wrong with wanting to survive.”

  “But what you choose to live for… is what decides who you are.”

  The door closed, leaving behind only the bitter scent of medicine and the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat.

  There were no more footsteps, no more voices, only a stillness that settled over him like a heavy mist.

  For the first time since entering the sect, Yang Feng did not think about realms or his dantian, nor about shortcuts or the levels of the tower he had climbed.

  He lay there, staring at the old wooden ceiling, and in that quiet space the only thing that rose in his mind was the sword—not its techniques, not its power, but the meaning of holding it.

  He found himself thinking about where he wished to stand while bearing a sword: not behind others, not at the edge, not retreating into shadow, but upright, even if only once, in the place where a sword cultivator ought to stand.

  The thought was not fierce, nor did it flare. It simply sank, quiet and deliberate, like a stone descending into the depths of a lake and sending out a ripple that did not fade.

  And in that silent room, Yang Feng understood that this was the first time he truly wished to walk the path of the sword—not to survive, but to be worthy of the sword in his hand.

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