True inheritance rarely begins with grandeur.
More often, it starts with the simplest of exchanges—
I teach you what I know. You heal what I've lost.
Fair on the surface. Unspoken devotion underneath.
Three days passed beneath Sword-Hoard Cliff—
as swift and unforgiving as a blade drawn across stone.
Jiang Muchen sat cross-legged atop a slab of blackened rock, unmoving.
His blue robes had long since been shredded by invisible sword pressure, sliced into dozens of thin tears. His hair hung loose against his brow, damp with sweat—but his spine remained perfectly straight, rigid as tempered steel.
Three feet before him, the Jade-Flute of Verdant Resonance hovered in midair, rotating slowly. A soft emerald glow pulsed along its surface, forming a narrow sanctuary that held back the most violent currents of sword intent.
What truly startled onlookers, however, was not the artifact—
but his breathing.
One long inhale.
Three short exhales.
Two sharp pauses. One slow release.
The rhythm echoed faintly with the ceaseless howl of ten thousand swords embedded in the cliff face. And buried even deeper within that rhythm was something else—
a nearly imperceptible shh… shh… shh…
like a bamboo broom brushing against stone.
At the edge of the cliff, Qingluan stood with her sword cradled in her arms. The longer she watched, the more disbelief gathered in her eyes.
On the first day, Jiang Muchen had needed the flute's full protection just to remain seated.
On the second, he'd withdrawn most of its shielding, relying instead on subtle tonal modulation to harmonize with the sword pressure.
By dawn of the third day, he'd crossed into something unthinkable.
He was no longer merely enduring the sword intent.
He was drawing it in.
With every inhale, faint threads of pale-gold sword light flowed into his body like streams returning to the sea. With every exhale, gray-black impurities were expelled—residual spiritual filth forced out by the refinement.
He was using sword intent to temper both body and soul.
"What kind of cultivation method is that…?" Qingluan murmured.
A soft footstep sounded behind her.
Lu Mingyuan had appeared at the cliff's edge, dressed in white, his gaze sharp and unblinking as it fixed on Jiang Muchen.
"It's not a method," he said quietly. "It's a state of mind."
She turned. "A state of mind?"
He nodded. "He's imitating Elder Chen's sweeping rhythm. Watch his breathing—each rise is like lifting the broom, each fall like drawing it back. The pauses align with heaven and earth. That rhythm itself is the highest form of guidance."
Qingluan froze.
No wonder that faint sweeping sound felt so familiar.
Elder Chen had swept the sect's stone paths for sixty years—long enough to turn a mundane chore into a living Dao. And Jiang Muchen… had grasped its essence after watching for barely half a day?
"Senior Brother," she asked quietly, "can he really make it?"
"The Sword-Heart Clarity Pool opens the day after tomorrow. Forcing adaptation like this—won't it damage his foundation?"
Lu Mingyuan didn't answer immediately.
Finally, he said, "Yes. It will."
Then, after a pause:
"But without daring this risk, he wouldn't even qualify to enter the pool."
As if in response, Jiang Muchen suddenly moved.
His eyes snapped open. A flicker of golden sword light flashed across his pupils—then vanished.
As he rose to his feet, a rapid series of sharp cracks echoed from his body, like invisible restraints shattering one by one.
Qi Refinement, Fourth Layer.
A breakthrough achieved naturally, forged under relentless sword pressure.
Jiang Muchen exhaled slowly, feeling the surge of spiritual power within him. The dull resistance caused by his damaged soul had eased yet again. More importantly, his tolerance for sword intent had multiplied.
"Congratulations," Lu Mingyuan said, descending to stand three steps away.
"Thank you for guarding me, Senior Brother." Jiang Muchen bowed, then retrieved a plain cloth pouch from his robes.
"These past three days, you've stood watch at the cliff every morning. I noticed Sword-Ash Dust on your collar—residue formed from sword malice mixing with cliff sediment. Prolonged exposure corrodes the meridians."
He held out the pouch.
"I refined some Purifying Incense this morning. Main ingredient is Frostglow Grass from the Ice-Illusion Realm, blended with seven calming herbs. Burn a stick in your room—it'll dispel the residue."
Lu Mingyuan accepted it, lifting the corner to inhale. The fragrance was crisp, penetrating.
He studied Jiang Muchen for a long moment.
"You notice things like this… even while cultivating?"
"You guarded me," Jiang Muchen replied calmly. "It's only right I pay attention."
Then, almost casually:
"Besides, clearing the malice will help your sword path. Your Azure Underworld Sword Canon has reached the third stage—Sword Qi Like Rain. Your next step is Rain Becomes Thunder. If your meridians are obstructed, the breakthrough risk increases by thirty percent."
Lu Mingyuan's fingers tightened around his sword.
He'd been stuck at that threshold for over a year.
Even fellow disciples didn't know that detail.
"…You understand sword Dao?" he asked.
"No," Jiang Muchen shook his head. "But I understand people."
He continued gently, "Whenever you watch the cliff, your gaze always drifts to the Thunderwake Sword embedded there—the relic of a lightning-aspected Sword Sage from three centuries ago. You're studying its remaining intent."
Silence fell.
Then—Lu Mingyuan laughed.
It was the first time Jiang Muchen had ever seen him smile. Like winter ice melting.
"Very well. I'll accept the incense," he said, tucking it away.
"At midday, Elder Chen will be waiting in the menial courtyard. Don't be late."
"Yes, Senior Brother."
Lu Mingyuan turned to leave, then paused.
"Once you enter the pool… if you can't hold on—remember why you came. Sometimes obsession is stronger than talent."
Jiang Muchen bowed deeply.
"I'll remember."
Midday.
Menial Courtyard.
Elder Chen was sweeping again.
His back was bent as ever, his bamboo broom more worn than before. Yet each sweep traced faint golden lines across the stone—appearing and vanishing in the same breath.
Jiang Muchen watched from the gate for half an incense stick.
"You see something?" Elder Chen asked without looking back.
"You aren't sweeping," Jiang Muchen said. "You're setting a formation."
"Oh?" The broom didn't stop. "What kind?"
"I can discern spirit-gathering, dust-clearing, ground-stabilizing effects. But deeper than that…" He hesitated. "It's also nurturing swords."
The broom halted.
Elder Chen turned, surprise and approval shining in his cloudy eyes.
"Even that, huh?" He chuckled. "Explain."
Jiang Muchen knelt, brushing his fingers over fading golden lines.
"These patterns draw earth-vein energy, refining it into pure metal qi. It dissipates after three inches—seemingly wasted, but in truth…"
He looked up.
"You're nourishing the sect's earth-vein sword foundations. The first Sword Saint buried nine Earth-Vein Swords here to anchor the grand formation. After three centuries, their energy must be waning. You're replenishing them."
Elder Chen stared at him for a long time.
"…Sword Wujie really dug up a monster," he muttered.
"Yes. I've done this for sixty years," he admitted. "A job meant for the sect master—but no one else had the patience."
Sixty years.
Silent. Unseen.
Jiang Muchen bowed deeply.
"That's enough," Elder Chen waved. "You've reached Qi Refinement Fourth Layer. Time to learn something real."
He handed over the broom.
"Today, you won't sweep. Arrange the fallen leaves—exactly as I say."
Leaf by leaf. Position by position.
When the final leaf settled, light flared.
A miniature Sword-Nurturing Formation activated.
A single half-withered leaf rose, inscribed with golden sword runes—then shot forward like a blade, embedding itself three inches into stone.
"Formations borrow heaven and earth," Elder Chen said calmly.
"In the Sword Pool, this may save your life."
Later, after hours of instruction, Jiang Muchen produced nine silver needles.
"You noticed my hand tremor," Elder Chen said softly.
"You gave me everything," Jiang Muchen replied. "I'd notice even more."
When the treatment ended, the tremor was gone.
Elder Chen laughed.
"Fine. Tomorrow's test—I'll be gentler."
As Jiang Muchen walked away, his mind felt clearer than ever.
Sweeping. Sword intent. Quiet care.
All these unseen bonds were weaving a net around him.
And he stood at its center.
Then—
Qingluan rushed from the bamboo grove.
"Jiang Muchen. Something's happened."
"The Ghost Palace," she said grimly. "They've found a Demonic Seed."
His heart tightened.
"And the Sword Pool opens tomorrow at dawn."
Jiang Muchen looked toward the main peak.
So be it.
The Way of Devotion — Chapter Maxim
The most dangerous investment isn't power or wealth—
it's making others owe you a debt they can never fully repay.
Because every repayment becomes another piece on your future board.