Chapter 27: The Sword Without Edge

A greatsword without a sharp edge, supreme skill that seems unrefined—this was a sword both long and wide.

As the blade drew further from its scabbard, Xiaoshan felt as if his mind were struck by some overwhelming force, leaving his thoughts momentarily blank. For an instant, he nearly released his grip on the ancestral sword.

At that critical moment, however, a thunderous shock reverberated through his mind. Miraculously, he managed to hold onto the sword that he had almost dropped.

The aura of slaughter emanating from the blade continued to assail Xiaoshan’s consciousness, making his hand tremble. After a time, his mind gradually returned to normal; the sword’s influence no longer as overwhelming as before, its effects now intermittent and far less disturbing.

Only then did he have the presence of mind to examine the sword before him.

Ordinary swords were generally sixty to seventy centimeters in length, but this one was nearly a meter long.

Ruoxi’s eyes widened in astonishment. She held her own Soul-Piercing Sword and compared it to the one in Xiaoshan’s hand. The difference was striking; side by side, the ancestral sword dwarfed hers by a significant margin.

“How heavy is that sword?” Ruoxi asked in amazement.

“Around forty or fifty kilograms, I think. I’m still getting used to it,” Xiaoshan replied, turning the sword in his hand as he examined it.

“Forty or fifty kilograms?” Ruoxi exclaimed, her eyes even wider in disbelief. That he could even hold such a heavy sword was astonishing.

“What’s the matter?” Xiaoshan inquired.

Opposite Xiaoshan, Hao Po wore an expression of utter incredulity. He simply could not believe that Xiaoshan had so easily lifted the ancestral blade.

“Didn’t you say that no one could wield this sword of slaughter now?” Haotian questioned Hao Po.

This sword had once been bestowed by an emperor of the Tang dynasty, felling countless foes on the battlefield. Its only defeat had come early in its days of war, which was why its edge was blunted and its aura so bloodthirsty.

Afterwards, the sword’s murderous aura became too potent, its requirements for a wielder too high. The family line, lacking worthy successors, could no longer produce anyone who could not only kill with it, but even draw it fully from its scabbard.

Because his father had seen the ferocity in him—just as the first head of the clan had possessed such intensity and talent—he had been allowed to attempt to master the sword.

It was a daunting challenge. Hao Po had let him try, thinking to make things difficult for him, and, in his arrogance, assumed Xiaoshan was the one in need.

He had never imagined that, after years of hesitation and failed attempts, he himself still lacked the courage to completely draw the blade, while Xiaoshan had succeeded on his very first try, and with seeming ease.

It followed the saying from prehistoric times: “With the first effort comes vigor; with the second, less; with the third, exhaustion.”

The first attempt requires the greatest courage; by the second, confidence wanes, and by the third, you subconsciously believe you cannot succeed.

The same is true in martial training. What matters is a heart that forges ahead, not one that flinches from every trial. One who never dares to attempt anything will never reach true heights.

For Xiaoshan, it was his first time. Pressured by others, gripped by fear, with no one to shield him, he found that burning the bridges behind him often yielded the best results.

He had but one chance—not two, nor countless.

“He is different,” Hao Po said quietly.

“Is he using that sword like a cleaver? Just hacking away at everything!” Haoyun remarked, watching Xiaoshan swing the sword about as if it were a massive blade.

“He’s getting used to it,” Hao Po explained. “It’s simply too heavy to control easily.”