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The evening sun had slanted low along the mountainside.
On the training ground of One-Sword Peak, the light was no longer harsh. A pale golden glow settled over the gray stone floor, stretching shadows into long diagonal strokes across the steps. Wind descended from the summit, carrying the thin chill of late day, brushing past the hanging banners along the stone corridor. They rustled softly, steady as a slow breath.
In the center of the yard, a voice rang out again and again.
“Wrong.”
“Lower your shoulder.”
“Keep your hips aligned.”
“Again.”
Liao Jiran’s voice was not loud, but it was decisive. Each time she spoke, the wooden sword in Yang Feng’s hand halted mid-motion, then slowly returned to its starting position.
Four days had passed since he first stepped onto One-Sword Peak.
Not once had he complained.
Under tenfold gravity, he endured in silence.
Tens of thousands of straight slashes beneath Leng Wuqing’s cold gaze—he had completed them all without a word.
But today, when he heard her say “Again” once more, his wrist trembling faintly from fatigue, Yang Feng finally spoke.
“Sister Jiran…” He lowered the sword slightly. “Why must the posture be so exact?”
He was not afraid of hardship.
He simply did not understand.
The first five forms of the Heavenly Sword Art were introductory. In his mind, as long as the blade moved in the correct direction, the force was sufficient, and the rhythm stable, that should be enough. Why refine every minute detail?
Liao Jiran did not answer immediately.
She stepped closer and lightly pressed the tip of her wooden sword against his wrist, pushing it down.
“Your hand is off.”
She tapped his hip.
“Your alignment is skewed.”
Then she knocked gently against his rear foot.
“Your stance is loose.”
Yang Feng fell silent.
“Until now, you’ve only swung your sword by instinct,” she said.
Her tone carried no reproach—only observation.
“A vertical cut, and you pour force into your arm. A horizontal cut, and you turn with momentum. There is power, but it scatters. There is motion, but no system.”
The evening wind moved across the stone yard.
“Swordsmanship is not like that,” she continued. “Your posture must be correct. The arm must hold. The hips must lead. The stance must root.”
She demonstrated a single form.
Her front foot landed softly, yet stable. The shift of weight was subtle—almost imperceptible unless watched closely. Her upper body turned with the hips, the arm followed the torso, the sword followed the entire movement as one.
“Only when you are stable can you generate force,” she said.
“Only when force is correct can it become might. If the body is chaotic, power disperses. If the stance falters, the sword is hollow.”
Yang Feng tightened his grip.
“The Sword Dao does not begin with cutting harder,”
Liao Jiran said more slowly.
“It begins with disciplining yourself within form. When every movement is precise, every rhythm aligned, the mind finally has something to rest upon.”
She raised her sword tip and pointed lightly toward the edge of his wooden blade.
“You think you are merely practicing posture?”
Yang Feng instinctively looked down.
Under the fading light of evening, a thin layer of glow clung to the edge of the wooden sword. It was not brilliant. Not stable. Merely a faint haze hugging the blade.
He froze.
That… was not sunlight.
Liao Jiran narrowed her eyes. A faint curve touched her lips.
“You already have Sword Qi, and you still ask why posture must be exact.”
Yang Feng stood stunned.
He did not remember when it began. There had been no eruption. No phenomenon. Only repeated slashes. Focus so complete that no stray thought remained. Holding his axis beneath crushing pressure until numbness replaced sensation.
At some point, the sword in his hand had ceased to be merely wood.
Liao Jiran withdrew her blade.
“You’ve only touched the first threshold,” she said. “When the mind begins to turn toward the sword, the sword begins to answer.”
“But if the body is unstable, if the form is imprecise, that Sword Qi is only a seed just beginning to take root. A strong wind would be enough to tear it loose.”
The sunlight withdrew from the training ground.
Yang Feng stood still, watching the thin glow upon the wooden blade fade gradually with each breath.
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For the first time since stepping onto this peak, he understood,
What he was learning was not merely how to cut.
It was how to place himself upon a path.
And that path did not tolerate carelessness.
And so, each day of Yang Feng’s life on One-Sword Peak passed within a cycle that seemed, at first glance, simple.
Before dawn had fully broken, he would descend from his cave abode to carry water for the spirit herbs. Morning dew clung to the leaves; spiritual qi still lingered in the cold air. Bucket after bucket was borne between the underground spring and the medicinal garden, his steps landing upon the same familiar slabs of stone.
When the watering was done, the work did not end.
At times he split firewood behind the peak, each swing of the axe falling in steady rhythm beneath tenfold gravity. At other times he tended the small flower garden—trimming leaves, pulling weeds, clearing corners few ever noticed.
Occasionally, he followed Liao Jiran and Su Xueni down the mountainside to hunt small beasts, bringing them back as the noon meal for the entire peak.
The afternoons were reserved for the sword.
The first five forms of the Heavenly Sword Art were repeated until his muscles memorized their cadence. Posture, footwork, transfer of force—every minor detail was corrected without mercy.
When night fell, he returned to the kitchen.
Firelight crackled within the stone kitchen, and the scent of food drifted through the thin mountain mist.
One-Sword Peak was not crowded, yet dinner was always prepared in full.
At times, Liao Jiran would sit beside him, eating while tossing a teasing remark or two his way.
Su Xueni did not speak much, but every so often she would point out a minor flaw in his footwork or adjust the direction of his force, her tone calm and measured, as though she were lecturing in the Transmission Hall.
As for Leng Wuqing, she sat in her usual place near the stone window, eating in silence. She had never offered a single comment, yet she had never once failed to notice even the slightest change in his sword.
Life flowed on like this.
And within that repetition, his body gradually adapted. His steps grew steadier. The sword in his hand grew less wild.
One-Sword Peak was quiet, as though set apart from the rest of the world.
At the same time,
Far to the northwest of the Eastern Domain, thousands of miles from Heavenly Sword Sect, Fenglong City burned bright beneath the night.
It was one of the largest cities in the entire region, among the most prosperous economic centers. By day, its streets were crowded with traffic. Merchants, mortals, and cultivators of every level coexisted within the same space. Goods from across the lands converged here: spirit herbs, spirit tools, low-grade artifacts, secret intelligence. Everything had its price.
At the heart of Fenglong City stood the Wan Tong Consortium.
Its main headquarters occupied the central district, a towering structure whose lanterns remained lit through the night. Streams of people entered and exited without pause. Ledgers and information flowed continuously, like the bloodstream of a colossal body.
The current head of the Wan Tong Consortium, and the reigning patriarch of the Su clan, was Su Qinglin.
The night had grown deep.
Yet in the spacious study at the highest floor, lamplight still burned.
Su Qinglin sat behind a desk of dark sandalwood. Before him lay stacked ledgers, jade slips of recorded intelligence, and reports from branch pavilions throughout the Eastern Domain. He turned each page unhurriedly. His gaze did not rush, yet missed no detail.
On the table, a pot of tea had long since cooled.
He lifted the cup, took a measured sip, set it down again, and continued reviewing the transaction records of the past month. Spirit stone revenue, medicinal circulation, fluctuations in artifact pricing. Everything was meticulously documented.
Outside the window, the lights of Fenglong City stretched outward like a river of illumination.
Within the quiet chamber, only the soft sound of turning pages remained, accompanied by the faint scent of tea lingering in the air.
A middle-aged man entered the study, his steps steady. He bowed respectfully.
“Patriarch. You summoned me?”
Su Qinglin coughed softly, twice. The sound was low, yet faintly uneven.
“Cough… cough…”
He set down his teacup and withdrew a sealed letter from within his sleeve. A thin imprint of spiritual force lingered upon its seal.
“Take this letter to the Heavenly Sword Sect at once.”
“It must be discreet.”
“No one must know.”
The man received the letter. His eyes flickered unconsciously toward the patriarch’s complexion.
“This subordinate obeys. But your condition—”
Su Qinglin pressed a hand lightly against his chest. His face paled for a fleeting moment.
“I am fine.”
“Just ensure the letter reaches its destination.”
He looked at the man before him. For the first time, a rare trace of trust surfaced in his gaze.
“I trust no one else but you.”
“Patriarch…”
The man bowed deeply, then turned and stepped out.
The moment he opened the study door and stepped through—
A soft sound.
Swift.
No surge of spiritual force.
No tearing wind.
Only a blade that had already pierced through his chest.
The tip emerged from his back. Blood dripped onto the stone floor in dark red beads.
“You…!”
A choked sound caught in his throat.
He seemed as though he wished to say something.
But his eyes no longer had time to comprehend what had happened.
His body collapsed.
The letter slipped from his grasp.
Su Qinglin rose abruptly.
“Who is it?”
“You came for me?”
The study door slowly opened wider.
Two figures stepped inside.
The one in front was a young woman with dark red hair cut neatly to her chin. A few strands fell naturally across her brow. She wore a pale blue robe tied with a red sash. Her frame was small, yet her steps made no sound.
Her eyes curved gently. A faint smile rested at the corner of her lips like a passing breeze.
It was impossible to tell whether that smile carried goodwill or mockery.
Behind her walked another young woman with long blue hair flowing freely down her back. She wore fitted dark brown martial attire that outlined the lean muscle of someone who trained the sword year-round.
Her gaze was calm, unmoved.
She did not even glance at the corpse on the floor.
The sword in her hand still dripped blood.
The young woman with dark red hair tilted her head slightly. Her smile deepened.
“Patriarch Su… you have truly been careless.”
“You did not even realize the one beside you was a mole?”
Su Qinglin looked at the body of his subordinate.
The panic in his eyes had already faded.
Only silence remained.
“So it is Miss Li Xiaodao.”
“Then if I am not mistaken, the one behind you must be the second disciple of One-Sword Peak, Liu Lingling.”
Liu Lingling did not respond.
She merely withdrew her blade.
Li Xiaodao stepped forward, picked up the letter from the fallen hand, and brushed away the blood at its edge.
“The Wan Tong Consortium is the largest commercial network in the Eastern Domain.”
“But it seems you underestimated the intelligence network of the Heavenly Sword Sect.”
Su Qinglin’s brows furrowed as he spoke,
“Do you have proof? He is, after all, the subordinate I trust above all others.”
She turned the letter lightly between her fingers.
“You want proof?”
“His private quarters contain many interesting things.”
Su Qinglin fell silent for a moment.
Then his gaze settled on the letter.
“So… it will reach Peak Master Leng?”
“Of course.” Li Xiaodao smiled. “Your letter will be seen by my master.”
A silence stretched across several breaths.
Su Qinglin coughed again.
“Cough…”
His voice lowered.
“My daughter… has she been well lately?”
Li Xiaodao looked at him for a long time.
Her smile was no longer sharp.
“Every time we meet, you ask only that.”
“My Senior Sister lives very well.”
“Very well.”
For a brief instant, Su Qinglin’s eyes softened.
Then he coughed again.
Only then did Liu Lingling speak. Her voice was low and concise.
“The intelligence report was accurate.”
“Patriarch Su, you have been poisoned with Spirit-Scattering Lifespan Devouring Powder from the Western Domain, the Nine Nether Devouring Demonic Sect.”
The room fell silent.
The air tightened.
Li Xiaodao looked at him. There was no trace of humor in her eyes now.
“This poison disperses spiritual power within the body bit by bit.”
“It erodes lifespan.”
“The one afflicted will not die immediately.”
“But will grow weaker, until there is no longer enough spiritual power to sustain the dantian.”
“And when that happens…”
She did not finish.
Su Qinglin let out a soft laugh.
“So it was not merely illness.”
“It seems I was poisoned long ago, only that it manifested recently.”
“Perhaps… the subordinate at my side. Or perhaps…” He coughed again.
He leaned back in his chair.
The lamplight cast his shadow long and thin upon the wall.
“It appears… the board has begun to move.”
Li Xiaodao replied quietly.
“No.”
“The board was laid out long ago.”
“Tonight is merely when someone decided to make the first move.”
Outside the window, the night wind blew stronger.
Fenglong City remained illuminated as it did every night.
But somewhere within the darkness, invisible threads had begun to tighten.
And from this night onward, the chessboard of the Eastern Domain was officially set in motion.