The solemn atmosphere of the memorial ceremony pressed heavily upon his heart like waterlogged cotton. Even though the ritual had concluded, the lingering grief and emptiness continued to swirl in Tang Xiaoqi's spiritual sea. He did not return to the luxurious residence arranged for him by the Alliance in the core district of Tian Shu City, nor did he go to the Qingxu Temple's auxiliary courtyard in the city. Instead, after dismissing all his attendants, he walked alone through the cool moonlight toward a secluded courtyard in the western part of the city.
This courtyard was a private property that his senior brother Mu Qingfeng had acquired during his early travels. It was not large, but it was peaceful and quiet. Several bamboo cottages, a small pond, and a few clusters of sparse bamboo cast dappled shadows in the moonlight. At this moment, it had become a refuge where Xiao Qi could temporarily escape the noise and glory, to lick his inner wounds.
Inside the bamboo cottage, the furnishings were simple: a bed, a table, a chair, and a solitary lamp. Xiao Qi sat at the table without lighting the candle, letting the cool moonlight spill through the window lattice, casting a silvery glow across the room. He sat in silence for a long time, like a frozen statue. Only his slightly rising and falling chest betrayed the turmoil within.
Finally, he slowly raised his hand, and a faint spiritual light flickered at his fingertips. The next moment, two objects appeared on that simple wooden table.
A sword. A broken sword.
The blade had snapped in the middle, with jagged, uneven edges, as if shattered by an irresistible force. The once crimson-red blade that had flowed with scorching spiritual light was now dull and lifeless, covered in spiderweb-like fine cracks, especially near the break where the damage was deep enough to see the "bone," faintly exuding a deathly gray pallor. The patterns on the hilt remained familiar, the texture he had felt day and night, now etched into his very soul. This was the Crimson Flame Ancient Sword he had obtained from the secret realm inheritance hall, which had accompanied him through countless battles, slaying demons and eradicating evil. Later, through his own blood essence refinement, it had become his bonded magical treasure—the Crimson Flame Sword. Now, it was merely a remnant, a fragment that carried countless memories and glory, yet also witnessed the final tragedy and sacrifice.
The other object was a pile of fragments of varying sizes. They presented a dull metallic luster, with sharp edges and irregular shapes that could barely be pieced together into a vague, circular outline. This was that mysterious frying pan of unknown origin that had seemed ordinary yet was indestructible, accompanying him from the kitchen of Qingxu Temple all the way to the core of the Demon Palace. It lacked the dazzling brilliance of the Crimson Flame Sword, yet with its unique "Wok Dao," it had saved him from danger countless times—whether stunning beasts, blocking fatal attacks, or even assisting in alchemy and training his fire control, it had contributed immensely. And now, this miraculous pan had finally shattered completely under the terrifying power of the Demonic Lord's essence, its spirituality extinguished, reduced to a pile of cold fragments.
The moonlight quietly flowed over the broken sword and fragments, reflecting a faint, desolate glow. Xiao Qi extended his hand, his fingertips trembling imperceptibly, as he gently and extremely carefully touched the cold broken sword.
What his fingertips felt was no longer the warmth and joyous sword resonance of the blood connection from the past, but only a deathly silence and coldness, along with the rough texture of the cracks. An indescribable sourness rushed to his nose, and his vision instantly blurred.
He seemed to return to that hidden valley behind Qingxu Temple, the first time he had grasped this ancient sword, the heat and resonance transmitted through the blade, as if finding a long-lost master. At that time, he was still a youth who had just activated the jade pendant's power, filled with both longing and confusion about the future.
He seemed to see himself in the Cloud Mist Secret Realm, first wielding the Crimson Flame Sword against an enemy, the sword light like fire, sweeping away demonic energy with high spirits. He saw how, in life-and-death battles time and again, the Crimson Flame Sword resonated with his mind, the sword following his will, breaking through countless obstacles.
He even more clearly remembered how, in the final battle, facing the Demonic Lord's world-destroying power, the Crimson Flame Sword had erupted with unprecedented mournful resonance and blazing intensity, burning essence and blood together with him to deliver that desperate final strike that sought to protect everything... and then came the heart-shattering sound of shattering, followed by boundless darkness and agony.
This sword had witnessed his growth from a "little waste" to the "World-Purifying True Lord" renowned throughout the Three Realms. It was not just a weapon, but a companion, a mentor, an indispensable part of his path. Its breaking seemed to symbolize the end of a part of his past, branded with blood and fire, pressing heavily upon his heart.
His gaze shifted to the pile of frying pan fragments.
His fingertips traced those sharp edges, the touch cold and unfamiliar. He recalled how he had clumsily used this pan to cook in Qingxu Temple's kitchen, yet accidentally trained his precise control over heat. He remembered his first mission down the mountain, encountering a beast, and in panic raising this pan to block, discovering its extraordinary durability with surprise and secret delight.
He thought of his third senior sister Liu Yun's expression of not knowing whether to laugh or cry when she saw him "cultivating" with the frying pan, of his second senior brother Luo Feng's various bizarre guesses and experiments about this pan's "extraordinary nature," of his own whimsical attempts to apply sword techniques to wielding the pan with that persistence and... absurdity.
This pan had carried too many relaxed, warm, even slightly humorous memories for him. It was a rare bright color and down-to-earth comfort on his cruel path of cultivation. Unlike the brilliant Crimson Flame Sword, it had silently accompanied and supported him in an unassuming way until the very end, when it crashed and shattered to protect him and the world behind him.
Whether the tragic heroism of the Crimson Flame Sword or the silent sacrifice of the frying pan, they had both reached their end for the same goal.
Xiao Qi closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. His chest felt as if a bellows were pumping within it. He did not weep, but his heart felt tightly gripped by an invisible hand—sour, painful, and filled with an empty sense of loss.
He carefully placed the Crimson Flame Sword's remains together, then collected the frying pan fragments one by one with extreme gentleness, as if handling fragile dreams. From his storage device, he took out two pieces of the finest "Warm Sun Spirit Jade" that contained warming and nourishing spiritual properties, and personally carved them into two appropriately sized jade boxes. Inside the boxes, he thoughtfully lined them with a layer of soft celestial silk brocade.
He gently placed the broken Crimson Flame Sword into one jade box, and the cold fragments into the other. His movements were slow and solemn, as if performing a silent farewell ceremony.
The moment the boxes closed, he seemed to hear an extremely faint sigh from the distant past—or perhaps that was just an illusion of his heart.
He placed the two jade boxes side by side on the table, precisely where the moonlight could best illuminate them. He sat there quietly, gazing at them, as if keeping final company with two old friends.
The night grew deep. The chirping of insects outside the window gradually sparse.
After an unknown time, Xiao Qi finally moved. He reached out again, gently stroking the two cold jade boxes, his fingertips feeling the warm texture of the jade.
"It won't end like this," he whispered to himself, his voice sounding remarkably clear in the silent bamboo cottage, carrying an undeniable determination. "Crimson Flame, Black Pot... you accompanied me through the most difficult paths, witnessed my growth, and gave your last drop of 'blood' to protect this world. I, Tang Xiaoqi, swear here that as long as I have breath left, I will seek the supreme treasures of heaven and earth, exhaust all my learning, and ensure your rebirth!"
His eyes no longer held only sorrow and remembrance, but a small yet incredibly resilient flame had ignited. That was a promise to the past and an expectation for the future.
Collecting the remains was not to bury memories, but to carry this heavy past and emotion to create a future where they could shine again.
The moonlight remained cold, the jade boxes on the table silent. But in this quiet deep night, a seed named "hope" had quietly been planted in the ruins of destruction.