The sound from the hidden passage was slow and heavy.
Metal dragged against stone again and again, as if something inside had awakened after countless years and was unwilling to move too quickly. The cultivators in the Weapon Resting Hall stared at the narrow opening in the wall, and for several breaths, no one spoke.
Then the darkness inside the passage moved.
It was not mist, nor was it smoke. It was more like the absence of light itself spreading outward. The weapon racks nearest to the opening trembled softly, and several rusted blades cracked apart where they stood. A cold pressure filled the hall, making the weaker disciples feel as if a sword had been placed against their throats.
Feng Jiu'er's eyes narrowed. Duan Qingshan tightened his grip on his spear. He Lanyue's gentle smile faded by another trace, and Xu Hanjiang's gaze burned for an instant before he hid it again.
From the passage, a sword slowly slid into view.
It was black from hilt to tip, but not the dull black of iron. Its blade was narrow and long, with a faint dark-red vein running near the spine like old blood sealed beneath ice. There was no reflection on its surface. The surrounding torchlight did not land on it properly. Instead, the light seemed to sink into the blade and disappear.
The sword had no scabbard.
Thin black chains wrapped around its hilt and blade, dragging behind it as if the weapon had once been bound to the depths of the hall. Every time the chains scraped the stone floor, the weapon racks trembled.
Zhao Feng swallowed. "That thing looks like it has killed more people than I have seen."
Murong Yue glanced at him. "With your mouth, that number is not difficult."
Zhao Feng opened his mouth, then closed it. Even he felt this was not the time to argue.
The sword stopped before the opened wall. Ancient characters appeared above the passage, carved in black-red light.
A weapon that refuses the hand shall take the hand. A weapon that accepts the hand shall follow the blood.
The words were simple, but the hall became even quieter.
A few cultivators looked at the sword, then looked away. Desire was one thing. Reaching for a weapon that could devour a person's hand was another.
One smaller sect disciple took half a step forward, then immediately froze when the sword's dark pressure touched his face. His lips turned pale, and he stepped back without saying a word.
Duan Qingshan stared at the sword for a long time. His eyes were sharp, but he did not move. He used the spear, and his battle path was built around the spear, but a treasure sword was still a treasure. Forcing the wrong weapon, however, could turn fortune into death.
He Lanyue said softly, "That sword was hidden behind a wall and chained inside the hall. Anyone who treats it like an ordinary spoil may not keep the hand that reaches for it."
No one laughed. In that moment, even an obvious warning carried weight.
Fang Lin walked forward.
The moment he moved, countless eyes followed him.
Xu Hanjiang's fingers tightened slightly. The spear from the previous arena was already enough to make people restless. If Shen Mo took this sword as well, then even those who had no grudge against him would begin counting whether his life was cheaper than his storage treasure.
Feng Jiu'er did not stop him. She looked at his back, and a faint unease appeared in her heart. Shen Mo's steps were calm. Too calm. It was not the calm of someone gambling with death, but the calm of someone greeting something he had already seen in another form.
Fang Lin stopped before the sword.
The dark-red vein inside the blade pulsed once, and the chains on the floor trembled. A sharp pressure rushed toward his palm before he even touched the hilt. His sleeve split open, and a thin line of blood appeared across the back of his hand. Bai Qing's expression changed, while Li Shan took half a step forward before forcing himself to stop.
Fang Lin's hand closed around the hilt.
The entire hall shook.
Black light surged up from the sword, wrapping around his wrist and forearm. It did not look like flame, but it burned the air all the same. The stone beneath Fang Lin's feet cracked, and the weapon racks behind him rattled violently. Several broken sabers fell to the ground and shattered into rust.
Fang Lin's expression did not change much, but his fingers tightened.
The black light tried to enter his flesh.
For one breath, everyone felt the sword's resentment. It was cold, deep, and hungry. It carried the unwillingness of battle, the loneliness of burial, and the sharp hatred of a weapon that had slept too long without a master.
Fang Lin's eyes darkened slightly.
A faint trace of blood slid down from his palm and entered the hilt.
The sword stopped shaking.
The first black chain cracked with a sharp sound. The second followed, then the third, until the chains wrapped around the blade broke one after another and fell to the floor as black dust. The sword finally became still in Fang Lin's hand.
Old characters appeared along the blade for only an instant before sinking back into the metal. Fang Lin saw them clearly.
Night Burial Sword.
The name vanished almost immediately, but the pressure of the weapon remained. It was not loud or bright. It did not announce itself with dazzling light. It simply rested in Fang Lin's hand, silent and cold, as if the hall itself had become slightly darker because of it.
Fang Lin lowered the sword.
The dark pressure around him slowly withdrew.
Only then did the others seem to breathe again.
Zhao Feng stared at the sword and muttered, "It accepted him?"
Murong Yue's eyes were bright. "It accepted his blood. There is a difference."
Zhao Feng looked at her. "Is the difference dangerous?"
"Usually."
He looked at Fang Lin and chose to stand half a step farther behind Feng Jiu'er.
Feng Jiu'er noticed the movement and almost smiled, but her gaze quickly returned to Fang Lin. Her expression was calm, yet her fingers rested lightly on her own sword hilt.
That sword suited him too well.
Not Shen Mo, but him.
The thought flashed through her mind so quickly that even she did not fully catch it.
Duan Qingshan looked at the Night Burial Sword, and the muscles in his jaw tightened. He did not walk the Sword Dao, but he understood weapons. The sword had not been left on an open rack. It had been hidden behind a wall. It had been chained. It had tested blood. Such a weapon was not meant to be common spoil.
He Lanyue's gaze moved from the sword to Fang Lin's face. Her smile returned, but it was thinner than before.
Xu Hanjiang lowered his eyes.
No one saw the cold joy that flashed through his gaze.
At that moment, two other passages opened at the side of the hall.
From the left, cultivators in black-brown armored robes appeared first. The disciples who walked out carried the black mountain crest on their chests, and their steps were heavy enough to make dust tremble beneath their boots. At their front was a thick-shouldered young man with a square face and cold eyes. Dark stone pressure gathered faintly around his body, revealing his Late Spirit Foundation cultivation the moment he released his aura to force weaker cultivators aside.
Black Mountain Gate.
Zhu Kang.
From the right, pale jade mist drifted into the hall. A group of cultivators in pale jade robes followed, their sleeves embroidered with mist-thread patterns. Their leader was a young woman with soft eyes and a quiet expression. Her aura was Middle Spirit Foundation, jade-blue and hazy, spreading gently but making the edges of her figure slightly difficult to grasp.
Jade Mist Palace.
Lan Meiyu.
Behind her, a male disciple with narrow eyes quickly assessed the hall. When he saw River Sword Sect, Iron Spear Valley, Cloud Crane Manor, and Green Bamboo Sect all gathered, his expression changed several times before settling into a polite smile.
Ruan Cheng.
He cupped his hands toward Xu Hanjiang first. "Senior Brother Xu, I did not expect River Sword Sect to be here. With you present, this hall should be much safer."
The flattery was smooth enough that several people pretended not to hear it.
Xu Hanjiang smiled faintly. "Fellow Daoist Ruan is too polite."
Zhu Kang's gaze swept across the hall and landed on Fang Lin. More accurately, it landed on the sword in Fang Lin's hand.
Then his eyes moved to Fang Lin's pressure type skill.
A trace of doubt flickered across Zhu Kang's face. It was brief, but Fang Lin caught it.
Xu Hanjiang's lips did not move, but a thin sound transmission slipped toward Zhu Kang and Lan Meiyu.
A moment later, Zhu Kang's eyes sharpened. Lan Meiyu's lashes lowered slightly, and Ruan Cheng's smile became brighter.
The mantis stalks the cicada, unaware of the oriole behind. But in the cultivation world, sometimes the cicada also carried a blade.
Fang Lin turned the Night Burial Sword once in his hand. The blade made no sound.
Xu Hanjiang looked at him and smiled with gentle concern. "Fellow Daoist Shen has gained another treasure. Truly enviable luck."
This time, Fang Lin did not look away.
He looked directly at Xu Hanjiang.
The smile on Xu Hanjiang's face remained, but his fingers tightened behind his sleeve.
Fang Lin replied calmly, "Fellow Daoist Xu praises me too often."
The hall grew quiet.
Fang Lin's voice remained even. "I am beginning to wonder whether your praise brings fortune, or trouble."
Xu Hanjiang's smile stiffened by a fraction.
Murong Yue's eyes curved slightly.
Duan Qingshan glanced between them and said nothing.
The Night Burial Sword rested quietly at Fang Lin's side, its edge angled toward the ground. A few cultivators who had been staring at it quickly looked away.
Then the mist beneath the floor began to move.
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