Chapter Twenty-Six: Blades and Swords Know No Mercy

Xiaoshan’s eyes shifted, and he replied slowly, “Anything is fine.”

Hao Po’s eyebrows drew together in a frown, his left hand clutching his sword even tighter. With a loud shout, he declared, “Catch the sword!”

Sword and scabbard together flew from Hao Po’s back with a resonant hum, spinning rapidly through the air. The scabbard struck the ground, sinking into the earth and standing upright before Xiaoshan.

“Is this a heavy sword?” Ruo Xi asked.

As the sword had flown, it never parted from its scabbard, as if sword and sheath were one. The blade was noticeably broad and longer than ordinary swords, its size a full circle larger than typical treasured blades—thus Ruo Xi’s question.

“You wanted a weapon, didn’t you? This is the Heavy Sword—when wielded, it carries the weight of Mount Tai, presenting the force of a thousand catties! Can you even lift it?” Hao Po said.

“My life now depends on this sword—whether it can protect me or not!” Xiaoshan answered. “Once I take up this sword, my life becomes my own to command!”

He wondered to himself whether he could even lift such a weight. Lifting his foot, he stepped before the sword, reached out his right hand, and tried to draw it forth.

Suddenly, his body pitched forward—the weight of the sword was far beyond what he’d anticipated. He glanced at the hilt, realizing that his attempt to lift it had nearly unbalanced him.

“I don’t believe I can’t even lift a sword!” he thought, steeling himself.

Channeling a unique energy within, he focused it into his right arm; veins bulged as his arm’s strength surged dramatically. In that instant, he felt a sudden, newfound power.

He strained, and the hilt began to tremble. A famed sword possesses its own spirit: if the strength of the wielder is insufficient, the sword will not recognize them, and will reveal only its physical sharpness, not its true edge.

“Good heavens, this is heavy!” Xiaoshan muttered to himself, gripping the hilt.

Ruo Xi watched as the trembling scabbard grew more and more violent, silently urging him to succeed.

The more the hilt quivered, the more Xiaoshan had the unsettling sense that the sword was about to wrench itself free from his grasp, beyond his control.

His lips pressed tight as he felt the sword beginning to move under his grip, slowly rising.

When it was a mere centimeter or two from the scabbard, a murderous aura seemed to burst forth from the blade, rushing straight into Xiaoshan’s mind.

In that instant, before Xiaoshan’s eyes, as the sword left the scabbard, he beheld an army of thousands—blood spilling across the sky, warriors clashing in a brutal battlefield.

He saw a man on horseback, wielding a long spear, weaving through the chaos. The spear thrust forward, and the soldier before him had no time to react.

A shriek—blood gushed as the spear was yanked from his chest, the enemy collapsing in an instant.

Slaying one foe did nothing to slow the rider’s charge; before long, the number of men fallen to his spear was beyond counting, killing as easily as reaching into a sack.

Blood was everywhere. Countless men fell. Horses screamed, cries of pain rang out ceaselessly—every moment brought new deaths. This was the battlefield.

No one knew how long the carnage lasted. The numbers dwindled; the sky darkened, painted red by so much blood, the sun lingering on the horizon.

The spearman finally halted—blocked by an opponent ahead.

Sword in hand, Xiaoshan saw that his own side’s numbers had dwindled to half those of their adversaries.

The enemy charged. His sword left its scabbard as he too launched forward.

He struck with the sword—yet, inexplicably, though his blade felled enemies instantly, no blood flowed.

Now he stood face-to-face with the spearman, the clash of armies raging behind. The two seemed to converse as if at home, yet their auras mounted ever higher.

Swords and spears collided, murderous intent thick in the air.

Xiaoshan faltered, struggling to withstand the pressure.

As the two battled, they edged closer and closer to Xiaoshan himself. His expression shifted—fear gripped him, as if he now stood alone on that blood-soaked field.

Blades and spears are blind—suddenly, the spear’s tip thrust toward Xiaoshan’s face. Instinctively, terrified, he drew his sword.

The vision vanished; before him remained only the sword.

It was fully drawn, its edge not sharp before his eyes. This was a blunt sword.