When the Sword Found Its Heir

The battlefield shifted as more reinforcements flooded in. Jiang Chen wasted no time, capitalizing on the momentary confusion among the masked figures. His blade wove between their defenses like an unrelenting tide, forcing them further back.

The shorter masked figure snarled. "Tch. Too many."

"Then we cut them down here," the taller one interrupted, his voice like steel. "No retreat. This is our only chance to weaken Wudang and Mount Hua before reinforcements come!, else we lose our advantage."

Without hesitation, the masked fighter pressed forward, his movements now eerily precise. His strikes no longer targeted Jiang Chen's blade—they aimed for his wrists, elbows, and knees, each blow intended to maim or kill.

Jiang Chen twisted, barely deflecting the onslaught, each block sending tremors through his arms. His opponent's unnatural flexibility made every counter more difficult, forcing him onto the defensive.

"You should have fought like this from the start!" Jiang Chen shouted between parries.

A few paces away, Haoyu's battle raged with equal intensity. His blade swung like a great hammer, each blow resounding through the clearing, shaking the earth beneath their feet. The clash of steel against steel mirrored the growing tension of the battlefield, drawing Jiang Chen's attention for only a fleeting second before he was forced back into the fray.

"You're wide open!" Haoyu roared, his blade crashing down.

The shorter figure barely evaded, rolling to the side before flipping onto his feet. "Damn brute," he hissed, shifting his stance.

Just as Jiang Chen and Haoyu pushed their respective opponents to their limits, Qin Tianzhao surged in, his blade flashing like a silver streak. "Too slow," he muttered, his strike nearly taking the taller masked figure's arm.

The masked man barely twisted away in time. "Impressive," he admitted, his stance tightening. "But not enough."

He lunged forward, his speed doubling. The air crackled with intensity as the battle reached a fever pitch. Blades clashed, footwork blurred, and the battlefield became a deadly dance of skill and power.

Yujin and Shen Mei pressed their opponent harder, their synchronized strikes finally forcing the lone masked figure into a defensive stance. Shen Mei's sword flickered past his guard, cutting deep into his sleeve—red blossomed against the fabric.

Shen Mei sneered. "Not so untouchable now, are you?"

"Don't get arrogant!" The lone masked figure snarled, pressing forward with relentless aggression against Yujin and Shen Mei.

"Scatter Blossom!" The Mount Hua disciple with Qin Tianzhao shouted, vanishing in a blur of motion.

"That's more like it!" Haoyu smirked, stepping back to give the Mount Hua disciple full control.

With each strike, the Mount Hua disciple's blows rained down like a relentless storm, forcing the shorter masked figure to stagger under the sheer intensity of the assault.

"Give me some time!" Haoyu called out, raising his sword high as his qi surged, condensing for a final, decisive strike.

Meanwhile, the battle against the taller masked figure raged on. Jiang Chen and Qin Tianzhao worked in perfect rhythm—Jiang Chen engaging in a fierce frontal assault, while Qin Tianzhao struck from the flanks, exploiting every opening. Against their combined assault, even a demonic cult assassin found himself struggling to keep up.

The lone figure fighting Yujin and Shen Mei spat, his voice laced with desperation. "Damn it! We're losing! Last resort!"

His words were a signal, and his two comrades reacted instantly. Without hesitation, they regrouped, moving with eerie synchronicity as their qi flared. The air around them trembled, thick with an unnatural presence.

Jiang Chen felt it before he saw it—the sudden shift, the drop in temperature, the prickling sensation that crawled up his spine. Then came the words, spoken in unison like a cursed chant:

"Blood-Soaked Nirvana."

The battlefield twisted. A deafening, guttural wail tore through the clearing, neither fully human nor entirely beast. The air thickened, congealing into something sickly and oppressive.

Then, the real horror began.

Their veins bulged like writhing serpents beneath their skin, turning a deep, sickly black. Their flesh split open as dark crimson vapor hissed from their wounds, the blood boiling away into a thick, putrid mist. Their eyes rolled back, vanishing into sockets now brimming with a searing, crimson glow. Their fingers elongated, nails twisting into jagged claws. The ground beneath them blackened and crumbled, as if their very presence was consuming the life around them.

The scent of iron turned rancid, something between rotting meat and burning incense. Jiang Chen gagged as the cloying stench filled his lungs. His fingers trembled. His instincts screamed at him to run.

"They've lost it!" Qin Tianzhao bellowed. "Fall back!"

"What the fuck is that?!" Haoyu instinctively activated Flowing Water Steps, retreating without hesitation as a primal fear gripped him.

Yujin and Shen Mei stood frozen, exhaustion weighing on their bodies. They had barely held their ground against a single opponent—and that was before this monstrous transformation.

"ELDER!" Qin Tianzhao roared, abandoning all pretense of secrecy. His voice cut through the battlefield, calling out to Elder Jung-hi, who had been watching from the shadows all this time.

But no response came.

Only the trees answered, their leaves withering, bark cracking, and branches curling inward as the air itself seemed to decay. The very ground beneath the masked figures blackened, drained of life by the overwhelming tide of demonic energy now coursing through them.

Jiang Chen tightened his grip on his wooden sword. Up until now, they had somehow managed to fend off real blades with mere training weapons. The difference in weaponry had already put them at a severe disadvantage—but this was different.

Before, sheer numbers had been their only saving grace. Now, as the masked figures underwent their terrifying transformation, Jiang Chen wasn't sure survival was even possible anymore.

"MASTER!" Jiang Chen cried out, desperation creeping into his voice.

"This has gone on long enough!" Juan Lei's voice boomed within him.

In an instant, Jiang Chen's qi surged wildly, spiraling out of control—a clear sign that Juan Lei was preparing to take over. But just as quickly as it had flared up, his qi abruptly stabilized, snapping back into balance.

Juan Lei fell silent, momentarily stunned.

"What the—?"

Before he could process what had happened, the ancient scroll reappeared before Jiang Chen's eyes. It was the same one that had manifested during his sparring match, but this time, the once-blurred sections were now fully legible.

"The legacy of a legend now flows through you."

[Mission: Legacy of Juan Lei]

"May the light of Wudang grace your next move."

Objective: ??? – Purge the Demonic Threat

Reward: ??? – The Sword of Wudang

"This is preposterous! I'm not going to fail another disciple!" Juan Lei's voice rang with rare desperation—a tone Jiang Chen had never heard from him before.

But before Juan Lei could lose himself in emotion, the scroll manifested once more.

"Will you step into the blade's trial?"

➤ [Yes]

➤ [No]

Jiang Chen hesitated. He had never heard Juan Lei waver before—not even in battle, not even in death when he fought against Cheonma. Was he… afraid? A pit formed in his stomach.

For the first time, he considered the possibility—what if I fail? What if he wasn't worthy of Juan Lei's legacy? What if he ended up like the others—lost, broken, forgotten?

But then his eyes met his companions—Yujin, even Haoyu and Qin—and he realized: No. This isn't just about me anymore.

The ground shattered beneath the masked figures as their monstrous forms surged with uncontrollable power. There was no time for doubt. Jiang Chen clenched his jaw and shouted.

"YES!" Jiang Chen's voice rang through the battlefield, cutting through the thick tension like a blade.

His allies flinched, uncertain of what he had just agreed to—but there was no time for explanations. They only knew that the monstrous figures before them would not wait.

Then, it happened.

The wooden sword in Jiang Chen's hands trembled violently before crumbling into dust, its remnants swirling in the wind like scattered embers. And from that dust, something new emerged—a pristine blade, shimmering with an ethereal radiance.

The sword gleamed, its presence alone pushing back the suffocating demonic energy—as if heaven itself had descended

"Impossible... my sword," Juan Lei breathed, disbelief threading through his voice. "Even in my prime, I never dared to dream of holding it again."

The finest blade of Wudang—whole once more.

"I expected only a fragment of it to manifest, not its true form." Juan Lei let out a low, astonished laugh, but his eyes burned with renewed confidence. He knew this sword—its potential, its legacy, its unmatched lethality.

Around Jiang Chen, the others stared, wide-eyed, as if witnessing a relic from legend made real. Among them, Qin Tianzhao's gaze was the sharpest, his expression unreadable.

"So this is what the Elder was after…" he murmured, his voice hoarse, not from fear—but from the sheer weight of the sword's presence.

The three masked figures faltered for a brief moment, but their bodies pressed forward, driven by the all-consuming corruption of the demonic technique. Their minds were lost—hollow vessels of raw, unrelenting power. With each step, their strength swelled, now rivaling that of core disciples in sheer force alone.

Jiang Chen took a deep breath, steadying his stance.

"Then let's see whose sword sings last." Jiang Chen declared, his grip tightening around the hilt as the sword steadied his nerves.

With a single step forward, a surge of power coursed through him—his cultivation soaring from the late stages of Qi Refinement to the early stages of Core Formation.

The first masked figure lunged, his blade gleaming crimson under the sun. But Jiang Chen was faster. His sword flowed like water, guiding his every movement. As steel neared his flesh, he twisted—parrying with effortless precision. The enemy's weapon spun through the air, and in the same breath, Jiang Chen's blade cleaved through the mask, splitting both it and the skull beneath.

He had expected resistance. Hesitation. Something. But there was none. The sword moved as if it had a will of its own, an extension of his very soul. For the first time, he realized—this was not just a weapon. It was something more.

No hesitation. No thought—only instinct.

Jiang Chen moved like the wind, his Wudang robes swirling in harmony with his sword, a dance of grace and death entwined.

Not even a second later, Jiang Chen stood before the remaining two masked figures. They instinctively staggered back, but it was too late—he was faster. His blade carved through the air like flowing water, cleaving their arms as if they were nothing more than paper.

"Flowing Eternity."

Juan Lei and Jiang Chen spoke as one.

Juan Lei's voice was soft, soothing—like a mother's whisper. Yet within it lay something deeper, something long buried within his soul.

With that declaration, the sword that once belonged to Juan Lei—now wielded by Jiang Chen—awakened. Radiant qi surged through its blade, its glow stretching across the battlefield like the first light of dawn. In that moment, the world itself seemed to fade away, leaving only Jiang Chen within the eternal flow.

He moved.

Not with brute strength, nor reckless aggression, but with the certainty of a river meeting the sea. His blade fell in a single, fluid arc—serene, inevitable.

Not to destroy,

but to lead all things to their destined end—

["The Dao guides all to its fated conclusion."]

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