After exchanging countless probing strikes, both sides finally unsheathed their true weapons.
Qin Wushuang's hand grasped the hilt of a long sword that shimmered with a cold, refined aura. Its sharp edge seemed to split the heavens themselves, and even before it was swung, the crowd felt their skin prickle as if cut by unseen blades.
Across from him, Qin Ling Tian drew his saber. It radiated a wild, domineering pressure, like a crashing tidal wave or an unstoppable mountain slide. Unlike the sword's elegance, the saber embodied raw force and momentum.
Wushuang's voice rang out, calm and cutting:
"Ling Tian, the sword is the emperor of weapons. The sword exists for one reason alone—to kill. It is sharpest under heaven, the blade that rules all paths."
Ling Tian's grip tightened on his saber. His eyes glowed with defiance.
"Wushuang, the path of the saber is not ruled by killing intent. It is ruled by domination. The saber bears momentum, and as long as I still breathe, my saber will never break!"
His voice shook the battlefield, and even the clouds above seemed to tremble.
For many years, that saber had accompanied him—through wars, trials, and endless bloodshed. It had long gained sentience and become a divine weapon. It was no longer steel, but a companion bound by soul and destiny.
The two brothers had walked the most extreme paths of their weapons. One pursued the sword's single-kill supremacy; the other, the saber's unstoppable momentum. They gathered their aura, compressing it until the world itself seemed to bend under the weight of their clash. Even Tai Jian in his prime had never reached such comprehension.
And then—at last—they moved.
Their strikes shattered the heavens. The sword flashed like lightning to split the world in one cut; the saber fell like thunder, carrying the force to overturn rivers and seas.
The crowd held their breath. This exchange would decide supremacy.
But in that decisive instant, Qin Ling Tian suddenly withdrew his aura. His saber's momentum collapsed, scattering like smoke. His own hand trembled as he deliberately shattered his killing intent.
Caught off guard, Qin Wushuang could not fully restrain his sword. The tip pierced Ling Tian's side, sliding past flesh but avoiding the heart. Blood sprayed, yet Ling Tian's lips curved into a smile.
Wushuang staggered back, sword trembling in his hand, his eyes filled with fury.
"You… you played me again," he spat, resentment burning in his gaze.
Ling Tian sank to one knee, pale yet smiling faintly, as if pleased with his loss.
At that moment, an aged voice broke the silence.
"After so many years, instead of competing to win… you are still competing to lose."
The battlefield stilled. An old man in white robes stepped forward, two swords crossed on his back. His aura was refined, scholarly, yet so vast it made heaven and earth bow. His presence carried neither killing intent nor divine power—yet it crushed the hearts of all present.
The crowd stared in shock. No one recognized him, yet the way he addressed the brothers with casual reproach made their blood run cold.
"Have you been away from the mountains so long," the old man asked mildly, "that you have forgotten your own master?"
The brothers' eyes widened. Then, as one, they bowed deeply.
"Master."
The spectators gasped, horrified. To think the two greatest geniuses of their era were merely disciples under this man. Who could possibly fathom his true identity?
"Look at this mess," the old man said, his tone sharp as a whip. "How many times have I warned you to abandon this foolish 'game' of yours?"
Neither Ling Tian nor Wushuang dared speak. Heads bowed, they accepted his reprimand like errant children.
"It is time," the old man declared, "for both of you to return to the mountains."
With one sentence, he ended the legendary battle of supremacy.
The brothers exchanged bitter glances, understanding his meaning. With their departure, the sect would choose the next emperor to rule in their stead. Everything they had struggled for, all the blood and sacrifice—they had fought only to deliver the world into the hands of their sect.
They wanted to resist, but before they could, their master's voice cut through their thoughts:
"Your wives are waiting for you."
The underlying threat was clear. If they refused, their loved ones would suffer.
Resigned, the two boarded the great sword he summoned beneath his feet.
As they rose into the skies, Wushuang's voice trembled. "Master… may I see my son one last time?"
The old man glanced at him. "I will allow it."
They flew for a time until they reached an invisible energy field. The old man's brows furrowed as his sword-light clashed against it. Even he could not break it fully—only pry open a narrow gap.
Through it, they entered.
Within lay a secluded mansion, pristine and orderly. The faint aura of obsession and grief seeped from its walls.
Inside, Tai Jian sat, his body battered, his clothes soaked with dried blood. For three days he had poured his life force into Tie Hongchen's body, refusing food or rest. She lay as if in peaceful slumber, her wounds healed but her spirit gone.
Wushuang's heart clenched. His son's obsession was no longer a path—it was a coffin.
"What are you doing here?" Tai Jian's voice was cold, without turning.
"Won't you welcome us inside?" Wushuang asked softly.
A letter flew from Tai Jian's hand. It was written in blood—his own.
Wushuang caught it, and his face turned pale as he read. His son had written a severance letter, declaring the bloodline cut. His own blood dripped upon the words, still wet, proof it had been written recently.
For the first time, Wushuang understood. His son was truly gone—he no longer wished to be a Qin.
"Not that I do not welcome guests," Tai Jian said flatly, "but some guests are not worthy of stepping into this house. From this day forward, I no longer bear the surname Qin."
"What do you mean?" Ling Tian demanded harshly. "Do you intend to disgrace your ancestors?"
Tai Jian did not answer. He continued to caress Tie Hongchen's face tenderly, as though she might awaken at any moment. To him, she was the only world left.
His father and uncle saw only silence. No anger. No sorrow. No joy. Just emptiness.
The mortal realm no longer mattered to him. His heart was dead, and in that death was an enclosure no one could breach.
"Have you decided, then?" Qin Wushuang asked softly.
But no reply came.
Tai Jian rose, carrying Tie Hongchen, and turned his back on them all.
And with that, the doors of the mansion closed, severing blood, family, and fate itself.