Chapter 2 –
The wasteland of swords stretched endlessly, a graveyard without sky or horizon. Every step crunched against broken steel, every breath carried the tang of blood long dried.
Nyxen adjusted his black robes, crimson eyes never leaving the woman before him. She was an image that didn't belong here—radiant as moonlight, untarnished by the filth of the demonic qi that soaked the battlefield. Her long white hair swayed with the silent wind, a sword resting at her hip that pulsed faintly with sword intent.
She had no need to speak; her very presence was a declaration—pure, unyielding, resolute.
Nyxen broke the silence first, his voice smooth, mocking, laced with a cold amusement.
"So, snow maiden, do you have a name? Or should I simply call you decoration in this graveyard?"
Her eyes flickered to him, clear as frost, sharp as a blade. "Liuying."
Nyxen smirked. "A name as delicate as the person it belongs to. Tell me, Liuying—do you believe your purity will protect you here?"
Her gaze didn't falter. "Purity does not protect. Strength does. Purity keeps one's blade unsullied, even when the world drowns in filth."
Nyxen laughed, the sound low and unsettling. "Strength without filth? You speak like a child who's never tasted survival. In the real world, purity rots before it blossoms."
He stepped closer, the crimson hue of his eyes flaring as his demonic qi coiled like a serpent behind him. "Shall I prove it to you?"
Liuying's hand brushed against her sword hilt. She didn't draw it—yet. Her composure was unshaken, her voice calm.
"If you mean to test me, I suggest you wait. The Sword Dao World will do it for you."
They began walking—side by side, though neither admitted it was companionship.
The Sword Dao World was vast, filled with hidden trials and ancient remnants of cultivators who had once sought the heart of the sword. Broken swords jutted from the earth like gravestones. Some whispered, their intent so strong it formed echoes of long-dead masters.
The oppressive air weighed heavier the deeper they went. Other disciples from various sects could be seen in the distance—some wandering, others fighting among themselves. But here, in this stretch of broken steel, it was just Nyxen and Liuying.
He studied her with quiet fascination. She walked without hesitation, each step precise, as if she were following invisible lines carved into the earth. Her aura was strange—not loud or forceful, but steady, like the flow of a river that could cut through mountains if given time.
"You're a sword cultivator," Nyxen observed aloud.
She glanced at him briefly. "Yes. And you?"
"A survivor," he replied without hesitation.
Liuying's brows drew faintly together, a flicker of something between curiosity and disdain. "Survival without purpose is emptiness."
"And purity without cunning is suicide," Nyxen countered, his grin widening.
Their words clashed as much as their paths, yet neither turned away.
Hours passed.
The first true trial awaited them at the edge of a canyon filled with floating blades. Thousands of swords hovered midair, tips pointed downward like an executioner's gallows. Each radiated intent sharp enough to flay the soul.
Disciples scattered around the canyon floor, some attempting to cross, others already bleeding or broken. The swords struck without warning, as though alive, reacting to killing intent and weakness alike.
Nyxen's lips curved into a cruel smile. "Well, Liuying, shall we dance with the dead?"
She didn't respond with words. Instead, she stepped forward. Her sword slid from its sheath with a soft shing, the sound ringing clear like a bell in a storm. The air shifted—her Sword Intent unfurled, steady and precise, forming a protective arc around her.
The floating swords above stirred, their tips angling toward her.
Then they struck.
Dozens of blades rained down like a storm.
Liuying's sword moved like flowing water—one stroke, then another, weaving a pattern of light that deflected, redirected, dissolved. Her movements were pure, without hesitation, without excess.
Nyxen watched, eyes gleaming with intrigue.
"So clean… like a river that refuses to stain."
But he didn't wait long. When the swords turned toward him, their intent pressed like mountains.
Instead of resisting, he let his demonic qi surge. The air around him twisted, shadows writhing like serpents. He didn't block the swords—he devoured their intent, his qi corroding their sharpness into nothing.
When the first blade struck, it melted into black smoke before it could pierce his flesh.
Liuying's eyes flickered toward him, a flash of disapproval—yet also surprise.
"You corrupt even the sword," she said coldly.
"I survive," Nyxen corrected, his grin feral. "And I do it beautifully."
Together, though by different paths, they crossed the canyon. Behind them lay shattered blades, scatter