Chapter 214: Two Hundred Twenty-Two: The Mythic Bloodline... The Sword-Bearer

Two Hundred Twenty-Two: The Mythic Bloodline... The Sword-Bearer

No way—even a gentleman should guard against craftsmen. Two Hundred Twenty-Two: The Mythic Bloodline... The Sword-Bearer. "Donglin Temple?"

Liu Liu Zian paused, his expression skeptical.

"This fraudulent temple that scams pilgrims—how could it possess such a rare sword art? Could that unreliable abbot of Donglin Temple be pretending to be a fool while hiding his true strength?"

The old swordsmith gazed into the distance, squinting.

"The Donglin Temple's mythic Qi-refining lineage did indeed break off—but…"

The old man paused, wagging a finger at Liu Liu Zian, a faint smirk on his lips.

"You don't allow that your ancestors once flourished? During the Southern and Northern Dynasties, this temple's status surpassed even today's Yùqīng Pavilion of the Jiang Nan Dao—one of the Three Pure Ones and the most worldly of them all."

Liu Liu Zian fell silent, repeatedly glancing toward Mount Mount Dagu, frowning slightly.

He wondered if he'd spoken too loudly to Master Venerable Shan Dao earlier—what if the old monk truly was a peerless master? The more he thought, the more likely it seemed. What if the master was lustful and greedy? Didn't every true cultivator have flaws?

Seeing Liu Liu Zian's troubled and fearful expression, the old swordsmith pierced through it at a glance and shook his head.

"Relax. Though Donglin Temple still has worshippers, it no longer has any orthodox Qi-refiners—it's become just an ordinary famous temple of Jiang Nan."

"The accumulated worldly incense energy of this Lotus Sect ancestral hall has gone unabsorbed, yet it's made countless passing cultivators envious."

"If you've angered someone, you needn't fear."

Liu Liu Zian exhaled softly, turned, and asked curiously: "Master, you've never left your home all these years—how do you know this?"

"Last time, I chatted a while with that delicate mute girl who passed through delivering messages. She spoke truthfully—such a sincere girl, pity she's mute."

Liu Liu Zian nodded, pressing further:

"How did you come by this rare sword art? This afternoon, I subtly probed Master Li and heard that the Wei Prince's gift to Wei Wei Shaoxuan was likely tied to the imperial court's 'Emperor Wen' sword."

Liu Liu Zian's expression grew thoughtful:

"You once said that each new ding-sword gives birth to a sword art. Such things are exceedingly rare. Wei Wei Shaoxuan doesn't guard us closely—he must be certain we can't find the sword art."

"Yet here you are, possessing everything we need—unexpected, almost… heaven's favor."

Liu Liu Zian looked at the old swordsmith's calm face, his own expression complex.

Had he not been crushed into a coward by Magistrate Ouyang Magistrate Ouyang Lianghan and choked with rage, making him suspect he was cursed by fate, he might have almost believed himself the destined child of heaven—everything falling into place, as if the moment he dozed off, someone handed him a pillow.

Then again, maybe this was simply the turning point after long suffering?

"My sect once had ties to Donglin Temple."

The old swordsmith spoke vaguely, unwilling to elaborate, then suddenly pulled from his robe a thin, ancient book with a gray-black cover and tossed it to Liu Liu Zian.

Liu Liu Zian caught it swiftly, as if receiving a treasure, opened its weathered pages, and saw nothing but Sanskrit script—like an unknown Buddhist sutra.

"This is the sword art of Donglin Temple… Thank you, Master!" Liu Liu Zian whispered, his eyes burning.

The old swordsmith watched coldly, raised his wine jug, drank deeply, his face flushed red with drink, and murmured a secret:

"The sword art is born with the ding-sword—thus, the first Sword-Bearer is crucial."

"Those with strong qi, who naturally resonate with a ding-sword's aura, upon reaching the lowest but most malleable Ninth Rank cultivation, can directly gain the sword's recognition without needing the sword art."

"Because such people are inherently attuned to the path of their corresponding ding-sword—as if born knowing it, self-taught—and later, they may even create their own sword art."

"Thus, most sword arts circulating in the world were created by the first Sword-Bearers of each ding-sword, passed down to posterity—offering a sliver of chance to those without innate qi to become Sword-Bearers."

"All dings originate from myth, sharing the same source; thus, ding-swords naturally resonate with one another. Even before a new ding-sword births its own sword art, one may use another ding-sword's sword art to gain recognition and ascend to the Mythic Bloodline—another path entirely."

Liu Liu Zian's joy was unmistakable; he nodded vigorously, tucked the Sanskrit sword art into his robe, and bowed deeply to the old swordsmith.

"Master, your rebirth-giving grace—I shall never forget."

The old swordsmith tilted his head, drinking alone. Liu Liu Zian assumed the old man wouldn't respond to such flowery words—but suddenly, the man set down his wine jug and spoke out of nowhere:

"That stab you delivered behind his back was excellent. Even if you didn't personally end him, the torment Liu Liu Ziwen suffered—ha! Truly a death he couldn't bear. I love watching that."

Liu Liu Zian froze, startled by the sudden mention.

He fell silent, lowered his gaze to the ground, and said:

"What else do you love to watch? Let me know—I'll try to help."

"What else do I love to watch?"

Murky wine trickled from his lips onto his white beard, soaking it. He set down the wine jar, muttered something, and smiled without speaking.

Liu Liu Zian paid it no mind, glanced at the silent sword-forging chamber, then looked up at the old man's half-smile.

Seizing the moment, he asked softly:

"Master, you haven't told me its true name yet…"

"Why the rush?"

The old swordsmith turned and asked: "Can't you wait? On the fifteenth, I'll tell you."

Liu Liu Zian nodded reluctantly.

The old swordsmith turned away, walked to the edge of the grassy slope, as if dismissing him, driving him off.

Liu Liu Zian stood still, reluctant to leave. After hesitation, he asked:

"Master, do you know the whereabouts of any other sword arts?"

The old swordsmith sneered. "Find them yourself."

Liu Liu Zian smiled awkwardly, frowning in confusion:

"You once said the bottleneck of the Sword-Bearer Mythic Bloodline must be broken by a sword art, and sword arts arise with ding-swords, which are forged from dings. I've always wondered: how many dings, originating from myth, exist?"

The old swordsmith countered: "How many ranks do Qi-refiners have?"

Liu Liu Zian instantly stiffened, then slowly nodded, and asked again, earnestly:

"Are there still dings uncast into ding-swords? That would mean some sword arts remain undiscovered… Then, Master, which one did you forge?"

The old swordsmith shook his head, sighed:

"That's why it's called the Mythic Bloodline—the end is a dead end."

"Yet its killing power is unmatched!"

Liu Liu Zian murmured to himself, turned as if to leave, then suddenly blurted out a number:

"Seven?"

The old swordsmith's voice turned cold:

"So what if it's seven? What if it's eight? Even if it's a dead end, can you truly reach the end of the Sword-Bearer Mythic Bloodline? You haven't even claimed a sword yet, and you're already worrying about the future."

Liu Liu Zian's face stiffened. He nodded, saying nothing more.

Both men turned their heads in unison, gazing down from the mid-mountain grassy slope. On the opposite bank, the ten thousand lights of Longcheng County had mostly gone dark; only a few faint glimmers remained, like distant stars, drowsy and dim.

"It's late. I'll take my leave, Master. Rest well."

Liu Liu Zian bowed and took his leave.

But the old swordsmith glanced sideways at Liu Liu Zian and unexpectedly asked:

"Tomorrow is the fifteenth. Liu Liu Zian, I sense no spiritual energy on you yet—can you even ascend to Ninth Rank in time?"

Liu Liu Zian smiled but said nothing.

The old swordsmith set down his wine jar, intrigued: "Which Dao-meridian's Spirit-awakening Qi-refining technique?"

Liu Liu Zian touched the sword art in his robe and smiled apologetically:

"On the fifteenth, I'll give you a surprise."

He bowed and walked away.

The old swordsmith watched Liu Liu Zian's retreating figure, his cloudy eyes thoughtful.

…

Liu Liu Zian left the mid-mountain grassy slope and descended the mountain path.

Along the trail, he turned his head slightly, glancing toward the Dragon-Head Altar where some ritual had once been held.

"Ruined in reputation… repaid tenfold…"

The weak whisper of the sickly youth was scattered by the mountain wind.

He turned back, his face calm again, preparing to return to the Liu Family manor and rework his plan—when suddenly, a familiar figure appeared in his sight.

"Third brother? What are you doing here?"

Liu Liu Zian studied him curiously.

Liu Liu Zilin still wore his white mourning robes, unchanged, but the injuries inflicted by the young county magistrate had fully healed—he now looked more spirited than ever.

Liu Liu Zilin stepped forward, scratched his head, and choked up: "Second brother, I…"

"Did you go to pay respects to your eldest brother again?"

Liu Liu Zian turned, pointing toward a dark spot on the mountain.

Liu Liu Zilin's eyes reddened again. He lowered his head, wept briefly, then forced himself to look up at Liu Liu Zian, who watched silently.

"Second brother, eldest brother was always kindest to me. Whenever I erred, he never scolded me—he only taught me… Why did he die at the hands of that vile man? These days, sitting by his grave, I've realized so much. I was truly childish and foolish before…"

Liu Liu Zian sighed, wrapped an arm around his third brother's shoulder, and patted his back solemnly:

"A true man doesn't cry. If there's blood revenge, we take it—no more weeping and wailing. Understood?"

"Yes, Second Brother!"

Liu Liu Zilin clenched his fists, veins bulging on his forehead, glaring fiercely toward Longcheng County's Lu Ming Street.

In front of Liu Liu Zian, his face twisted with hatred, he slammed his chest:

"If I don't avenge this, I'll never call myself a man! I'll let you dance one more day—I, Liu Liu Zilin, will repay every drop of blood with blood!"

Liu Liu Zian glanced silently toward the dark tomb of Liu Liu Ziwen and nodded slightly, praising:

"That's the Liu family's true son!"

Then Liu Liu Zian led Liu Liu Zilin back to Liu Liu Ziwen's grave and paid their respects.

The two brothers descended the mountain together; on the way, Liu Liu Zilin said solemnly:

"Second brother, as long as it's about revenge, I'll follow your lead!"

Liu Zi'an nodded, glanced at his third brother, who indeed seemed steadier now, then asked suddenly:

"How's the surveillance going? Did you keep eyes on them?"

Liu Liu Zilin nodded firmly, his face twisted into a fierce grimace, eyes bloodshot:

"Don't worry, Second Brother—I've got Liu Fu watching them. They won't get away. Nothing unusual on their end yet. Go handle your big plan. Everyone's waiting for the fifteenth, to join you and finally turn the tables! Revenge for revenge, grudges settled!"

"Good."

Liu Zi'an smiled.

Liu Liu Zilin smiled too.

……

"Achoo—Achoo—! Cough, cough, cough."

Magistrate Ouyang Rong sneezed twice, immediately pulled his thin open-front robe tighter, and rubbed his slightly congested nose with two fingers.

With no one around to care for him, his diet and routine had grown careless these past days—he'd caught a chill.

He had to admit, his former life as a feudal lord with maids warming his bed had spoiled him.

The man's thoughts drifted aimlessly, unbidden.

This was a second-floor room in a courtyard on the southeast side of Donglin Temple, filled with the scent of sandalwood.

Before the slightly hard bed, darkness reigned.

Magistrate Ouyang Rong suddenly rose, gently pushing open the carved window a crack.

"Squeak—squeak—"

The summer insects' chirping grew louder beside his ears.

"Third watch. Xiu Fa and Xiu Du must be asleep by now. Time to go, Magistrate Ouyang Magistrate Ouyang Lianghan. If you wait past the fifteenth, Little Master's sister might come back."

"Stop dawdling. Didn't you climb out of Meilu Garden yesterday with plenty of speed? Why are your feet dragging now, the closer you get to the underground palace?"

In the dark, Magistrate Ouyang Rong muttered to himself, then turned sharply, grabbed his pre-packed bundle, slipped downstairs quietly, and pushed open the gate of Sanhui Courtyard.

Yesterday, he had quietly entered the temple, and after enduring Master Venerable Shan Dao's endless sermons to everyone, he returned to Sanhui Courtyard—the same place where he had once lain sick in bed.

It was fitting: begin where you began, end where you ended.

Magistrate Ouyang Rong locked the courtyard gate, gently placed the key on the ground before it, turned, and walked away without looking back.

The bright moon hung high; the night was silent. Inside Donglin Temple's Beitian Tian Jiyang Courtyard, all was dark and still.

Magistrate Ouyang Rong circled around the monks patrolling with lanterns, slipped smoothly into the rear courtyard of the relief center, climbed over the stone railing, and arrived before a dark, dry well.

Same old method: he hung from a rope and slowly slid down into the underground palace.

A soft "thump" echoed slowly through the enclosed chamber.

His toe had touched the edge of the lotus pedestal below.

He'd landed successfully. Magistrate Ouyang Rong rubbed his reddened palms and looked around.

Murals of the Buddha's past lives on all sides, the central lotus pedestal, moonlight falling through the well opening.

"Everything's just as it was…" he murmured, melancholy.

In the Pure Land Underground Palace, not far from the central lotus pedestal, a dark figure suddenly stood and moved toward Magistrate Ouyang Rong.

Magistrate Ouyang Rong showed no surprise, silently turned his head.

"Master Master Xiuzhen" emerged slowly from the darkness, one step away from the moonlight falling through the well.

The mad monk, awakened, had thought his fellow monks had come to deliver food—but seeing Magistrate Ouyang Rong standing in the moonlight, his gaunt face froze for a moment, his outstretched hand halting halfway.

Seeing this, Magistrate Ouyang Rong immediately bowed his head, fumbling in his robes and bundle. After a moment, a look of apology surfaced in his eyes, and he whispered:

"Sorry—I forgot to bring you something to eat… Come to think of it, I searched for the mute girl and the old Daoist today. They might've been discharged—I couldn't find them. So now, it's just us here. We're old friends."

Master Xiuzhen looked up at the well opening, then at Magistrate Ouyang Rong. His expression shifted to astonishment, then he raised one finger to heaven and one to earth, speaking with solemn gravity:

"Amitabha, layperson, this is the Lotus Pure Land. Above lies the Avici Hell! Come over here—don't stand there. You're too close to Avici Hell!"

Magistrate Ouyang Rong's hand, reaching into his robe, froze. After a pause, he slowly raised his head to look at Master Master Xiuzhen.

His eyes were calm, yet shadowed with weariness.

He forced a smile, nodded:

"Master is right. I should've listened long ago. I was foolish back then—climbing up that night, misunderstanding you."

Master Xiuzhen bowed gratefully:

"Amitabha. The ocean of suffering has no shore; turning back is salvation. You have good roots, layperson."

With that, the gaunt monk, long hidden in the Pure Land, happily pulled something from his robes—something tasty, meant to share with one who also had good roots.

Magistrate Ouyang Rong smiled faintly, didn't look at him again, and slowly turned his gaze toward the central lotus pedestal in the underground palace…