“Your foundation is solid, but your sword technique relies too much on explosive eruptions of spiritual energy. A true swordsman needs a touch of gracefulness.”
Each afternoon, Corin awaited inside the narrow bamboo lodge. He never once rose to demonstrate. Instead, reclined on a low bamboo couch, fingers roaming the length of a pitch-black wooden sword, and pointed out Jared’s flaws with a casual nod or a single tap of the wooden blade.
“Look at this old bamboo,” Corin remarked, “When the wind comes, it bows, when the wind fades, it straightens… It looks fragile, yet its strength is hidden in its bend. A sword should be the same. Steel breaks if it stays hard too long. Mix hardness with grace and you can slice, coil, deflect, maintain control of the battle.”
Jared focused on the bamboo outside the window. Gusts whipped the green trunk until it seemed certain to snap, yet each time the gale peaked, the stalk leaned, shedding most of the force before settling upright again.
Understanding struck like flint on steel. Dragonslayer Sword hummed In his grip, and the brutal sword technique had practiced for years melted into something lighter.
Sword light fluttered like shadows of bamboo leaves, one instant shooting straight up like a newborn shoot, the next skimming sideways as gently as a leaf riding the wind.
“Mm. Now we are getting somewhere,” Corin remarked, “Sword technique is not a set of fixed rules. Follow forms too closely, and you are merely ordinary. Grasp the idea behind the blade, and you become something special. Until today, you’ve only known to ‘sever‘. Remember the blade can also coil and circle.”
With a flick of his finger, Corin sent a bronze practice sword whirling from the floor. The blade drifted toward Jared, slow as falling snow yet closing every angle of retreat. Instinct screamed for a head-on block, but Jared heard Corin’s lesson ringing in his ears. He rolled his wrist in response.
Dragonslayer Sword slithered around the incoming edge like a silver serpent, gliding down the spine of bronze and redirecting its weight into empty air.
Steel kissed steel for an instant-long enough for Jared to twist once more and aim his point at the opponent’s hilt.
Ding!
The bronze sword crashed to the ground, ringing bright and hollow before lying still.
Shock pinned Jared in place.
The insight of that single heartbeat tore through the last bottleneck of Wandering Immortal Realm Level Seven. Power roared out to every muscle and bone, the unmistakable surge of a Wandering Immortal Realm Level Eight.
“You broke through?” Flaxseed gaped from the doorway. “It has only been four days. Are you even human, Jared?”
Corin rose from the weather-worn stone bench, the loose gray folds of his robe whispering around his boots.
He moved toward Jared. For the first time in all their lessons, pride softened Corin’s storm-dark eyes and coaxed a rare smile across his stern face. “Not bad… One hint, and you cut straight through the mist. Your instinct is sharper than mine ever was at your age.”
A young Sword Sect disciple burst through the cedar gate, breath snagging in his throat and eyes blazing with excitement.
Cold dew flew from his boots as skidded to a halt. “Mr. Chance, Master Morden, the centennial Sword Championship in Swordmaster City is about to begin. Every sect within a thousand kilometers is rushing to register!”
Jared’s curiosity was piqued. He turned around, brows lifting. “Sword Championship? What exactly is that?”
Still panting, the disciple launched into an eager explanation.
Flaxseed rubbed his palms together, eyes sparkling. “Sword Championship, huh? Sounds exciting! Jared, why don’t we stroll over and take a look?”
Jared glanced at Corin. Instead of shared excitement. found the older man frowning, a faint, inexplicable crease cutting between the latter’s brows.
Within a few days, news of the Sword Championship spread like wildfire.
Disciples from every corner of Swordmaster City and those belonging to big sects and prestigious families situated within five hundred kilometers came to register their names.
Even the usually restrained disciples of the Sword Sect could no longer stay calm. Lyra and several other senior disciples sought out Corin, determination bright in their eyes. They bowed low, voices overlapping in urgent pleas to join the coming competition.
“Master Morden, this chance arrives only once in a century,” Lyra said, her tone earnest, almost trembling. “Even if we win no laurels, seeing other sects’ sword technique with our own eyes would sharpen our blades and our hearts alike!”
Silence stretched.
Corln stared at the courtyard’s white-sand floor for a long while before finally shook his head. “Your cultivation is still shallow. The championship draws many mysterious yet powerful figures. Many sects will stop at nothing to win. Enter that arena unprepared, and you’d be gifting them your lives.”
Lyra opened mouth-feeling the urge to protest-yet Corin raised a hand. The gesture cut words like a blade through silk, leaving only the hush of falling leaves.
Corin’s tone dropped like iron through water, the air Itself seeming to recoil.
“Most of all, Sacred Sword Manor,” warned, each syllable slow, deliberate. “Their feud with our sect is ancient and bitter. Their disciples strike hard and finish the job. If you meet them on the championship stage, you won’t see mercy.”
