Chapter 17: 17 The Heartless Sword

The Abandoned Sword Tomb had more than one entrance, and Ming Fuhua’s landing point had just barely missed theirs. Only after searching for a long while did she finally locate Zhou Fuxue by following the faint sound of him pounding on the giant boulder.

The moment Zhou Fuxue saw her, there was no time to explain. Pointing at the boulder, he rasped, “Eldest Senior Brother is inside…”

Ming Fuhua’s face darkened like still water, her palms brimming with frost. A single strike shattered the boulder sealing the entrance; dust billowed and rubble rained down.

“Senior Brother!” Zhou Fuxue stumbled after her.

The countless Undead within the Abandoned Sword Tomb all shrank back to the far edges of the mountain walls, hollow eyes burning with longing as they stared at the fresh flesh and blood lying on the ground nearby—but wary of the Kuayu Sword suspended midair, radiating a terrifying pressure, not one dared advance half a step.

Ming Fuhua strode forward and swept a hand through the air, raising a massive Ice Wall on the spot to bar the Undead that wanted to seize the chance to pounce. Then she bent down to check on Mingzhu.

Mingzhu’s back was a mangled ruin of torn flesh; the blood had nearly dyed his Rizhao Robe red. His face was pale as paper, yet after losing so much blood he was still conscious. Seeing Ming Fuhua approach, he forced out a smile and said weakly, “You came far too slow. You missed the part where I displayed my godlike might. What a shame, really.”

The fact that he still had strength left to spout nonsense told Ming Fuhua he was definitely not dying. She let out a breath of relief, helped him up, and pushed one medicinal pill after another into his mouth, saying coldly, “Didn’t I tell you that no matter what happened, you were to wait where you were? What did you run off for?”

Mingzhu frowned. “I’m hurt this badly and you’re still scolding me. Can’t you comfort the patient a little? Ptui, ptui—what kind of medicine is this? It’s vile. I want water.”

Ming Fuhua said, “What water? Just swallow it.”

As she spoke, without so much as a glance, she flung a palm to the side. Spiritual power surged out and flash-froze several lunging Undead into ice sculptures, wisps of white frost curling upward.

Mingzhu was about to frown again, but the instant he saw the gloomy look on Ming Fuhua’s face—as if she’d happily freeze him too—he shut his mouth and obediently swallowed the foul medicine.

Vile as it tasted, the effect was immediate. The moment it hit his throat, it melted into a thread of spiritual energy that raced along his meridians and spread through his whole body. Quickly, the torn-open wounds on his back slowly stopped bleeding, and a touch of color returned to his deathly pale face.

Mingzhu rose as if nothing had happened, and only then noticed Zhou Fuxue standing off to the side, head lowered, silent. A smile curled his lips; he strolled over and hooked a finger beneath Zhou Fuxue’s chin, saying with a grin, “What’s the matter with my Little Thirteen? Did someone bully you?”

Zhou Fuxue was forced to raise his head, revealing reddened eyes. He ground his teeth, awkwardly turning his face away, hesitating. “You…”

He had barely gotten out one word when he realized his voice was trembling beyond his control—even the fingers hidden in his sleeves were shaking with lingering fear.

Mingzhu likely saw through both the fright and the guilt. With a soft laugh he leaned down slightly and loosely gathered Zhou Fuxue into his arms, patting his head. “There, there, it’s alright. Am I not perfectly fine? Your senior brother has always kept his word—if I say nothing will happen, then nothing will happen.”

Even though Mingzhu was covered in a thick, cloying stench of blood, Zhou Fuxue, fastidious about cleanliness his whole life, felt no disgust whatsoever. Instead, he reached out with trembling hands and wrapped his arms around Mingzhu’s waist.

Pressed against Mingzhu’s chest, listening to the slow heartbeat beneath that thin layer of flesh, he thought: He’s alive.

The instant that thought surfaced, his blood—frozen nearly stiff—seemed to start flowing again in a flash. Warmth spread through his body, as if he had come back to life.

Having comforted his badly frightened Little Junior Brother, Mingzhu patted his head and released him, then turned to pick up the long halberd broken in two on the ground, and ran to the mountain wall to select several spirit-rich discarded artifacts, gathering an armful.

As he picked and chose, the Kuayu Sword drifted along beside him in midair. The surrounding Undead scrambled backward, desperate to keep their distance—never mind tearing at that fresh flesh and blood, they didn’t dare come within five steps of him.

Once Mingzhu had chosen enough, he ran back to Ming Fuhua. “Right, let’s head home. Old Nine is a Crippled Spirit Vein with no spiritual power to protect himself—if he runs into danger, that won’t do at all.”

Ming Fuhua wasn’t worried. She turned back the way they had come. “Younu is with him. Nothing will happen.”

Mingzhu’s expression instantly turned odd. Carrying his armful of discarded artifacts, his arms soon ached; seeing this, Zhou Fuxue silently took several of the heavier iron pieces to carry for him, trailing at his heels.

Mingzhu said, “Thanks, Little Thirteen—wait, Younu? I’ve been meaning to ask. How old is that girl, exactly? Has she even reached Core Formation? Why would Master let her come along to Hundred Swords Mountain?”

In the time it took to trade a few words, the three had returned to where they’d fallen. Ming Fuhua scooped up Lu Qingkong’s wooden boat and the long kite shrunk palm-sized along with the whip, tucked them into her sleeve, and said flatly, “Younu may be young, but in a real fight, I’m afraid even your Fifth Junior Brother Shang Yanfeng would be no match for her.”

Mingzhu let out a “Ho!”, jostling loose a few pieces from his armful. He had to crouch and gather them again, saying as he did, “My Fifth Brother is a Sword Spirit Vein seen once in a century, born to wield the sword. When it comes to fighting, I’ve never seen anyone beat him. Hey, Fuhua, grab that one for me, I can’t reach it.”

Ming Fuhua stepped forward, trod on a short dagger without even looking, hooked it with her toe and flicked it up. Cold light flashed; she caught the dagger in a backhand grip and handed it to Mingzhu.

Ming Fuhua said, “At the next Sect Grand Competition, you can have Shang Yanfeng and Younu face off and see who comes out ahead.”

Mingzhu had blind faith in his “Fifth Brother.” “Deal. Want to bet? On what? Hey—how about this: if my junior brother wins, you help me escape Rizhao. Hey, Fuhua? Fuhua! Is it a deal or not?”

“Kuayu.” Ming Fuhua ignored him entirely, too impatient to banter. She cast a cold glance at the Kuayu Sword that had been circling Mingzhu the whole time, then pressed a hand on Zhou Fuxue. “He’s in your hands.”

With that, she gripped Zhou Fuxue and rose in sword flight, vanishing into the sky in an instant.

Mingzhu: “…”

Mingzhu stared blankly at that dashing figure sweeping upward, and the discarded artifacts he’d just gathered clattered to the ground once more.

Ming Fuhua knew that with the Kuayu Sword, Mingzhu could fly on a sword too, so she left without the slightest hesitation. Moments later, she arrived at the entrance of Hundred Swords Mountain.

Zhou Fuxue stood at the edge of the abyss, peering down anxiously. “Isn’t Senior Brother afraid of heights? What if he can’t get up?”

Ming Fuhua said, “Don’t mind him. Come with me.”

Though Ming Fuhua and Mingzhu were born of the same womb, their looks and bearing were nothing alike. Her face was like frost; the way she coldly regarded people carried an awe-inspiring pressure that needed no anger—the exact opposite of Mingzhu’s gentle spring-rain warmth.

Zhou Fuxue could stay composed before his Eldest Senior Brother, but the moment he faced Ming Fuhua, he instinctively sensed that pressure, and any words of refusal died in his throat.

“He’ll be fine,” Ming Fuhua repeated, walking into Hundred Swords Mountain without a backward glance.

Zhou Fuxue stood there thinking for a moment. Ming Fuhua didn’t seem like someone who would leave Mingzhu to die; such certainty must mean she knew he had a way to manage.

Having reasoned that out, Zhou Fuxue hesitated no longer and hurried after her.

Hundred Swords Mountain and the Abandoned Sword Tomb seemed to stand in perfect opposition—everything Zhou Fuxue had witnessed in the tomb was inverted here. Following Ming Fuhua along the broad mountain walls for a full circuit, they finally stopped beside a long sword inlaid with purple spirit crystals.

Ming Fuhua said flatly, “Rizhao has never cared much about spirit veins. Those without can cultivate diligently and still amass spiritual power enough to point their sword at the southern sky; those with, however outstanding, will inevitably stray from the path if their Dao heart is not unified. So even though you are Spirit-Veinless, there’s no need to belittle yourself.”

She extended a slender hand and tapped the exquisite hilt. “This sword is called the Heartless Sword. A few years ago, Daoist Master Guining procured it specially for Spirit-Veinless disciples. It was meant to be your Eldest Senior Brother’s sword, but when he came to Hundred Swords Mountain back then, he stumbled into making Kuayu acknowledge him as master, which is why it has gone unclaimed ever since.”

Zhou Fuxue was startled. “Eldest Senior Brother is Spirit-Veinless?”

Ming Fuhua said no more, tilting her head. “Whether you want it or not—the choice is yours.”

Zhou Fuxue gazed at the Heartless Sword blazing with purple light. After a long silence, he finally closed his hand around the icy hilt. With a sudden surge of strength, the keen blade split a crack into the mountain wall. As it left its sheath, the blade, shaken by the surrounding sword qi, hummed instinctively toward the giant sword at the center—before meekly falling quiet moments later.

Ming Fuhua said, “Let’s go. We’ll get a proper scabbard from your Fifth Senior Brother before letting it acknowledge you as master.”

Zhou Fuxue gave an “Mm.” Just as the two were about to turn back, a voice suddenly rang out nearby: “Eldest Senior Sister!”

Ming Fuhua turned, and a small figure came barreling at her; she instinctively reached out and caught it full in her arms.

Younu clung to Ming Fuhua’s waist, smearing snot and tears all over her clothes, wailing through her tears, “Eldest Senior Sister! Eldest Senior Sister, you’re finally back! Younu knew nothing would happen to you!”

Lu Qingkong nodded to Ming Fuhua from the side. He held a small dagger in his hand—pulled from who knew what forgotten corner; one careless touch left the palm coated in rust.

“Where’s Eldest Senior Brother?”

Ming Fuhua pinched Younu by the nape and peeled her off. “Outside.”

Mingzhu, abandoned by everyone, trembled as he clung to the Kuayu Sword, swaying and drifting all the way up to Hundred Swords Mountain. The instant he touched ground, he dumped his load of discarded artifacts, clutched his chest, and staggered aside to vomit himself half to death, unable to rise for a long while.

The Kuayu Sword circled him a few times, its hilt gently nudging his back.

Mingzhu’s face was green; his stomach knotted with cramps. He batted the Kuayu Sword away and bent double, retching all over again.

Just as he was vomiting himself within an inch of his life, the other four finally strolled leisurely out of Hundred Swords Mountain. Seeing that he had indeed made it up, Zhou Fuxue’s face lit with joy and he raced over at once: “Senior Brother? Are you alright?”

Mingzhu’s voice was a dying breath. “I-I’m fine… I can still hold on a little longer… hurk…”

He hadn’t eaten much that morning to begin with, and now he’d brought it all back up—but his stomach still churned violently. With nothing left to vomit, he resorted to retching blood.

Zhou Fuxue: “Eldest Senior Brother!”