Meng Chuan pored over one biography after another. Some were family chronicles, written to glorify the deeds of an ancestor. Others had been compiled by the common folk, retelling the lives of legendary figures whose names echoed across the land. The most famous demon-slayers had dozens of versions of their stories. Some sects even produced their own accounts, and in rare cases, the heroes themselves had written their own memoirs so that future generations would remember their achievements.
"These biographies… most are just stories," Meng Chuan murmured to himself. "Sometimes a single sentence might hold value for my cultivation. Sometimes an entire volume contains nothing useful at all."
He frowned, flipping another page. "And of course, some of these tales are more reliable than others. I'll need to sort them carefully."
As the descendant of a demon-slaying clan, raised with the rigorous education of Mirror Lake Dao Academy, his foundation was exceptionally solid. His blade arts had already reached mastery, and he was only a step away from the elusive Unity Realm. With such a foundation, he could discern which fragments of wisdom hidden in these biographies were worth keeping.
"If you practice the sword without heart, you are but a slave to the blade. If you practice with true heart, you become its master."
The line, spoken by the Northern Sword Emperor to a junior, caught Meng Chuan's attention. He considered it carefully.
"That disciple was a Void Realm powerhouse, already a swordsman at the Unity Realm. By ordinary standards, that is 'practicing with heart.' Yet even so, the Sword Emperor said such words… Clearly, in his eyes, even a Void Realm expert had not cultivated earnestly enough."
He turned another page. Every so often, a casual phrase, or the retelling of a single incident, would stir new insights. What seemed to ordinary readers like simple anecdotes were, to a discerning eye, glimpses into the true strength of the demon-slayers.
"One strike perfected is enough to conquer the world. Why bother with countless techniques, when all you need is a single move honed to the extreme?"
This line came from Wei Feng, known as the Demon Blade, three thousand years ago. Meng Chuan had collected fifteen different versions of his biography in East Ning Prefecture alone, all containing some variation of that same phrase.
He carefully recorded it down.
Family precepts passed down by famous clans were no less important. Those, after all, were the distilled wisdom that demon-slayers wished to leave their descendants. The more Meng Chuan noted, the more solemn he became.
"To aim for the highest is to achieve at least the middle. To settle for the middle is already failure. Learning from the greatest demon-slayers of history is never wrong. But biographies are fragmented glimpses—without a solid foundation, one could easily go astray."
His realization deepened as he noticed how many family doctrines emphasized the importance of foundational training. Nearly all commanded their disciples to study in the Dao Academies, where instruction was systematic and complete. The academies, after all, had been established in every great city of the Zhou Dynasty by Primeval Mountain itself, the oldest sect in the world. Their curriculum laid the foundation of all cultivation.
Of course, that foundation had its limits. Meng Chuan's blade arts were already on the verge of breaking into the Unity Realm. The Academy had taught him all it could in seven years; what he needed now was his own breakthrough.
"My foundation is sufficient," he thought, gripping his pen tightly. "What remains is that final step."
He looked over his notes. "So much of what I've written down has been enlightening. But I won't rush. I'll finish skimming all of these texts first, then organize and consolidate. A principle spoken by at least three demon-slayers—that is worth trusting."

Day after day, Meng Chuan gathered, compared, and compiled. With the Academy's iron laws of cultivation set by Primeval Mountain as his compass, he combined them with the lessons from these biographies. His understanding deepened.
At last, as dusk fell, he smiled at the pages before him.
"These five days have been more valuable than five years of practice," he whispered, excitement trembling in his chest.
The Nine Principles of Cultivation, as he now summarized them, were as follows:
1. Foundation above all. Like the roots of a house, a solid base is indispensable. The Dao Academies provide the best training.
2. Repetition is king. Idle theorizing is nothing compared to practicing ten thousand times. Many demon-slayers insisted: draw your blade ten thousand times a day, strike with Bloodshadow Thrust ten thousand times a day. Twelve demon-slayers had said as much.
3. One strike perfected. A single move cultivated to the utmost is better than ten lesser killing techniques.
4. Endure or enjoy? Training is harsh, but gritting your teeth through pain makes you only a craftsman. To become a master, you must revel in it, immerse yourself, savor every nuance.
5. Progress each day, change each month, and in time you will achieve.
6. …
7. …
8. …
9. …
All nine were principles repeated by multiple demon-slayers, and to Meng Chuan's eyes, they rang undeniably true.
"I've spent hours each day practicing, driving myself to exhaustion. I thought that was 'using my heart.' But it wasn't. To truly use my heart, I must enjoy the blade, be obsessed with it, lose myself in it. Only then can I step beyond craftsmanship into mastery."
Until now, his only respite had been his painting. Each afternoon he would sketch for an hour, a childhood passion that soothed his spirit and washed away the fatigue of cultivation. That hobby had allowed him to endure year after year. But now he saw the flaw in his mindset.
"I thought myself diligent," he admitted. "But in truth, I was only a craftsman."
He could restrain himself no longer. Tossing aside his pen, he strode into the courtyard and began practicing the supreme blade art, Falling Leaf Blade.
This time, everything was different.
Even with the very first stance, Drawing Slash, he let the world fall away until nothing remained but the blade in his hand. The soundless whisper as it left the sheath, the way the edge cut the wind—familiar movements transformed under his new state of mind.
As a child, he had chosen the fast blade because he loved it. But years of repetition had dulled that passion. Now, rediscovering it, he felt the joy awaken once more.
The blade sang in silence, its arc as graceful as a brushstroke on canvas. He sought to make that stroke more beautiful, sharper, swifter. True mastery carried its own aesthetic, and Meng Chuan's blade was approaching that realm.
He repeated the strike fifty times before at last he felt satisfied.
"Yes," he breathed, exhilarated. "This is how I must train!"
He moved into the second stance, Crescent Slash.

The next day, deep beneath the Yun family estate, a purple flame roared within a vast underground hall. A black-haired elder sat cross-legged at its center, the fire coiling around him harmlessly.
"Father, you summoned me?" Yun Fuan entered respectfully, not daring to approach too closely. Even from afar, the heat distorted the air.
"Fuan," the elder said evenly, opening his eyes. "News has reached me—Lady Meng, the matriarch of the Meng family, was gravely injured holding the line at Anhai Pass. She won't live much longer. She should return to East Ning within days."
Yun Fuan's eyes widened. "Father… you mean that Lady Meng? The Immortal Aunt of the Meng family?"
The elder nodded. "The very same."
"But… could there be a mistake? Wasn't she famed for her perception? Within ten miles, nothing escaped her notice. She never needed to fight on the front lines. How could she suddenly be so gravely wounded?"
"There is no mistake," the elder said coldly. "King Anhai himself summoned renowned physicians for her, but her injuries are beyond healing. At Anhai Pass, this is no secret. If she withdraws and conserves her strength, she may last seven or eight years at most. If she continues to fight, she will die even sooner."
"Seven or eight years at most…" Yun Fuan whispered. "Without her, the Meng family will collapse."
"Indeed. East Ning's five great demon-slaying clans will soon be reduced to four," the elder said. "A clan rises with its demon-slayer. Without one, it becomes ordinary."
His gaze hardened. "The Meng family no longer deserves the privileges they hold in East Ning. As for that engagement between your sister, Qingping, and their boy, Meng Chuan—you will go to their estate, demand the marriage contract, and tear it apart on the spot. A declining Meng family is not worthy of alliance with ours."
"Yes, Father," Yun Fuan bowed.
"But until the old woman breathes her last, do not make things too ugly," the elder added, closing his eyes once more. Yun Fuan withdrew silently.

"What? Dissolve the engagement?" Yun Qingping stared at her father in shock. He had always refused before—why change now?
"I'm only informing you," Yun Fuan said with a smile. "Today I will go to the Meng estate and end this engagement for you."
"Will the Mengs willingly hand over the contract?" she asked.
"They will," he said confidently. "They already know about their matriarch's injuries. The great clans all know their place—resistance would only disgrace them further."
Qingping bit her lip. "Father, I do want the engagement ended, but I don't want to ruin relations between our families. Couldn't we invite Uncle Meng to discuss—"
"No need for such trouble," Yun Fuan said lightly. "Leave it to me. Just stay home and wait for good news."