True understanding is never pity spoken from above.
It is the choice to kneel down—
and discover a universe reflected in another's eyes.
The second day within the Swordheart Clarity Pool.
Just before dawn.
The water had turned dark crimson—
like blood left too long to stagnate.
At the heart of the vortex, Jiang Muchen sat cross-legged, bare to the waist.
Black, vein-like markings crawled across his skin, pulsing slowly, alive—
the scars of resentment gnawing into flesh and soul alike.
His eyes were closed.
Yet at the center of his brow, a thread of pure white swordlight burned steadily—
the Heart-Guarding Sword Intent Swordmaster Jian Wuji had forced into him the day before.
Above his head hovered the jade flute.
Its tone was hoarse now, torn like silk ripped by force—
yet it refused to fall silent.
Over the course of one night, nearly thirty percent of his shattered soul had been repaired.
The price was steep.
Resentment had already sunk deep into his body.
Without the Soul-Sealing Array formed from Netherworld Iron, his sanity would have collapsed long ago.
Six parts remain,
Qingfengzi's residual consciousness murmured within Jiang Muchen's mind, weak as a candle in wind.
And the backlash will only grow stronger. By noon today, resentment will peak as it has every three centuries. If you fail then—
Then I keep you company,
Jiang Muchen replied calmly, as if discussing someone else's fate.
Then he added, quietly:
Elder… yesterday you said that among the nine hundred and ninety-nine skeletons at the pool's bottom, seven belonged to outsiders. Why did they enter?
A pause.
All sought Swordheart Clarity, Qingfengzi answered.
The Azure Nether Sword Sect once allowed this: outsiders who rendered great service could earn one chance to temper their sword hearts.
Some sought breakthroughs. Some comprehension. Some healing.
And all died?
All died, Qingfengzi sighed.
The pool tests not talent alone—but the heart.
Three were geniuses, yet clung too tightly to obsession. Resentment exploited that.
Two lacked resolve and collapsed under pain.
And two… were killed by something else.
Jiang Muchen's pulse tightened.
What thing?
Even I do not fully know, Qingfengzi replied.
It hides deep within resentment. In three hundred years, it has revealed itself only twice.
Seventy years ago, it devoured the soul of a Sword Sect prodigy.
Thirty years ago, it nearly broke free. Jian Wuji himself descended into the pool to suppress it.
A price was paid. When he emerged, his left arm bore a black scar that never healed.
Jiang Muchen remembered.
Swordmaster Jian Wuji's left arm—
always still. Always unused.
Ancient Demon Clan, Jiang Muchen said quietly.
Isn't it?
Silence.
That alone was answer enough.
Suddenly—
The pool erupted.
Countless black tendrils burst upward, lashing violently against Jiang Muchen's protective swordlight.
Each strike dimmed the jade flute's glow.
Each impact spread the black markings another inch across his skin.
Pain exploded—
far worse than the first day.
Blood spilled from the corner of his mouth.
The droplets fell into the pool—
and the tendrils lunged greedily, absorbing them, swelling thicker and stronger.
They're feeding on your blood! Qingfengzi shouted. Seal the wound—now!
Jiang Muchen opened his eyes.
Instead of fear—
there was understanding.
Elder, he said within his mind,
You said resentment is the crystallized obsession of those who failed.
Then these tendrils… are obsession given form, aren't they?
So what if they are?
Then they have desire.
Jiang Muchen smiled—
a smile twisted by pain.
They crave vitality, he said softly.
They've been sealed here for three hundred years. They're starving.
They don't want to kill.
They want to feel alive.
Before Qingfengzi could react—
Jiang Muchen sliced open his own wrist.
Blood surged forth.
But he did not let it spill into the pool.
Instead, he let it drip—precisely—onto the jade flute.
The flute darkened, its glow turning crimson.
Then he played.
Not a calming hymn.
Not a soul-settling melody.
But something strange.
At times it rang sharp as sword cry.
At times it wept low as mourning wind.
Sometimes joyful as a mountain stream—
sometimes broken as sobs in the night.
He was imitating them.
All nine hundred and ninety-nine strands of resentment.
He was saying:
I hear your pain.
I hear your rage.
I hear the loneliness of being forgotten for three hundred years.
The tendrils froze.
They stopped attacking.
They hovered—trembling—
listening.
High above, at the mountain summit—
Li Granny's eyes flew open.
"He's… resonating with resentment?!"
Chen Sao's fingers tightened around his bamboo broom.
"Madness. One misstep and he'll be assimilated!"
"But look," Jian Wuji said quietly.
The pool was changing.
Not because resentment was gone—
but because its frenzy was easing.
Like a wild beast soothed by a familiar voice.
Below—
Jiang Muchen's melody steadied.
The wound on his wrist stopped bleeding—not healed, but sealed, as the tendrils fed him refined yin energy in return.
Blood for breath.
Understanding for coexistence.
This was the extreme expression of Jiang Muchen's path—
I do not resist you.
I understand you.
When enemies became companions,
a dead end became a crossing.
"Inconceivable…" Qingfengzi whispered.
"For three hundred years, all entrants fought resentment. You are the first… to accept it."
"Resistance only strengthens it," Jiang Muchen replied between notes.
"Resentment is a tide. Fight it, and it drowns you. Step back, and you learn what it wants."
His melody softened—
gentle as a mother's hand on a child's back.
The tendrils withdrew.
Only three remained—
thin as threads—wrapping loosely around his wrist like black bracelets.
Resentment acknowledged him.
Or perhaps—
Resentment chose him.
"Congratulations," Qingfengzi said quietly.
"You've passed the hardest trial. From here on, soul repair will no longer be disrupted."
Then his tone sharpened.
"But the thing at the bottom… is waking."
A thunderous crack echoed from the depths.
The pool shook violently.
Water surged upward, spinning into a massive vortex.
From its center—
A black stone stele rose.
Its surface was carved with warped runes—
neither human, nor demonic beast, but unmistakably ancient demon script.
"That is—" Jiang Muchen's pupils constricted.
"The Ancient Demon Clan's Soul-Sealing Stele," Qingfengzi said gravely.
"Three centuries ago, the First Sword Saint slew an Ancient Demon general and sealed its remnant soul here, refining it with sword intent."
"But after his death… progress slowed."
"Now that remnant has recovered nearly thirty percent of its strength."
"And it has waited patiently."
At last, Jiang Muchen understood Jian Wuji's gamble.
This was no longer a matter of cultivation.
It was a ticking catastrophe.
"Elder," Jiang Muchen asked softly,
"Those two outsiders killed by 'something'… did they leave anything behind?"
"One did," Qingfengzi said after a long silence.
"Three words, carved in blood into the stone."
"What words?"
Do not listen.
The stele was already before him.
Its aura was ancient—corrupt—yet eerily seductive.
A voice entered his mind.
Little one… your resonance… is exquisite…
You hear the cries of resentment—
can you hear my loneliness?
Jiang Muchen's scalp prickled.
This was direct communion.
"You want to leave?" he asked.
A bitter laugh echoed.
Leave? To where?
My clan is extinct. This world has no place for me.
Not rage.
Not hatred.
Only exhaustion.
"What do you want?" Jiang Muchen asked.
A long pause.
To be remembered, the voice said.
We were not born monsters. We had homes. Laughter. Kin.
We were erased… because we were different.
Jiang Muchen remembered the opening line of the Manual of Universal Resonance:
True resonance is not with humans alone—
but with all beings, even those named enemies.
"What can I do for you?" he asked quietly.
The voice hesitated.
Would you… listen to a story?
"I will."
So the ancient lament began.
A fallen race.
A destroyed homeland.
The last echoes of a people erased.
As Jiang Muchen listened, his soul repair accelerated.
And without realizing it—
He cried.
The tear fell into the pool, glowing faintly gold.
The voice broke.
Three hundred years… you are the first human to weep for us.
"I hear you," Jiang Muchen said firmly.
"I will remember."
Silence.
Then—
The runes faded.
That is enough, the voice whispered.
Take this—my understanding of the soul.
Knowledge flooded his mind.
Ancient demon insights into soul structure, restoration, transformation.
Then—
The stele shattered.
The remnant chose dissolution.
Soul repair surged.
Sixty percent.
Seventy.
Eighty.
Noon approached.
Then—
A shrill scream tore through the depths.
Qingfengzi roared:
Careful—something else is coming!
The pool split open.
A jet-black skeletal claw emerged—