The small boat continued to glide in silence, but the atmosphere had completely transformed. The tension and suspicion had dissipated, replaced by a strange cohesion, a silent trust forged after secrets were finally brought to light.
Trinh Cong had personally tended to his wounds, and his complexion had grown much ruddier. He looked at Tran Kien, then at his granddaughter; within his aged eyes gleamed a comfort and hope he hadn't felt in a very long time. Lam Vy no longer clung to Tran Kien to ask inquisitive questions. She merely sat there quietly, occasionally stealing glances at him, her large, round eyes shining with almost absolute trust. To her, this youth was no longer an accidental traveling companion, but the one who bore her destiny upon his shoulders.
Tran Kien sensed this change. The responsibility on his shoulders seemed heavier, yet his heart did not feel bound. On the contrary, he felt a compulsion, a fiercer flame burning within. The path to reclaiming the Lac Viet legacy was no longer a vague goal; it now held a concrete meaning: to protect.
He looked toward Uncle Sword, who still sat leisurely at the bow, his gaze fixed far out on the moonlit, shimmering river. His offer still echoed in Tran Kien's mind.
The true swordplay of the Dingguo Ducal Estate...
"Senior," Tran Kien stood up, walked over, and respectfully cupped his hands. "Junior is dull-witted; I beg Senior for guidance."
Uncle Sword turned his head, a gleam of satisfaction in his profound eyes. He didn't stand up, nor did he draw a sword. He simply raised the bamboo flute in his hand.
"What do you think this is?" he asked.
"It is a flute," Tran Kien replied.
"Correct," Uncle Sword nodded. "It is a flute. But..."
SWISH!
Without any warning, Uncle Sword's wrist flicked. The bamboo flute blurred, thrusting straight toward Tran Kien. The speed wasn't incredibly fast, but it carried an aura of ultimate sharpness, causing the hairs on the back of Tran Kien's neck to stand on end.
Reflexes forged through life-and-death struggles caused Tran Kien to immediately circulate his Primordial Qi, intending to raise his hand to block.
But the bamboo flute stopped abruptly, less than half an inch from his throat. The sharp astral wind blew past, making the skin of his neck sting.
"...it is also a sword," Uncle Sword finished his sentence, his voice as tranquil as ever.
He retracted the flute, looking at the stunned Tran Kien. "Your blade art, I have seen it. It was forged from the furnace and life-and-death battles. Every strike is direct, tyrannical, carrying an unstoppable 'Momentum'. It is an excellent blade art, highly suited for your Dao of Body Cultivation."
"But," he paused, "it is too rigid, too straight. Against a weaker opponent, you can shatter their weapon with a single slash. But against a stronger foe, or those with ghostly movement techniques, that unyielding ferocity becomes a fatal flaw. You have the strength to smash a boulder, but do you know how to use your blade to carve a painting upon it?"
Tran Kien was left speechless. Uncle Sword's words were like a sledgehammer, smashing directly into his perception. He recalled the battle with Shadow Sparrow. If not for the suppressive aura of the Sun Essence Guardian, relying solely on his crude blade art, he wouldn't have been able to touch even the hem of that assassin's clothes.
"Our Dingguo Ducal Estate has no fixed set of sword techniques," Uncle Sword continued, breaking Tran Kien's train of thought. "What we cultivate is not the 'form', but the 'Intent'."
"Sword Intent?"
"Exactly. Sword Intent," Uncle Sword nodded. "When your Intent is sharp enough, then in your hands, a branch, a leaf, or even a drop of water can become the deadliest sword. Conversely, if there is no 'Intent' in your heart, even if you hold a peerless divine weapon, you are nothing but a butcher swinging a cleaver."
He stood up and stepped into the middle of the cabin. "Watch closely."
Uncle Sword did nothing. He just stood there and closed his eyes. But the aura around him suddenly changed. The peaceful, gentle demeanor vanished, replaced by an extreme sharpness. His entire being, at this moment, seemed to transform into a treasured sword just unsheathed, ready to sever the azure sky itself.
Then, he slowly raised the bamboo flute, placed it to his lips, and began to play.
The melody was not melodious or lilting. It was clear and ethereal, yet carried a profound loneliness, the pride of a swordsman standing atop a snowy peak. Each note that rang out seemed to transform into an invisible sword strike, slashing into the air.
Tran Kien listened intently, and he saw it.
He saw the water currents on both sides of the boat, where the flute's melody passed, suddenly develop tiny, razor-sharp ripples.
He saw the fish swimming beneath the water dive deep into the riverbed in terror upon hearing the tune.
He saw a dry leaf blow in from nowhere, and the moment it entered the range of the melody, it was silently and cleanly torn in half.
This was no longer a flute's melody. This was swordplay! A sword art that used sound to command, used "Intent" to kill!
The flute stopped abruptly. Uncle Sword opened his eyes, looking at Tran Kien, who was still immersed in shock.
"Do you understand?"
Tran Kien took a deep breath. Not only did he understand, but he felt enlightened. The door to an entirely new world of the Martial Dao had opened before his eyes. His blade art was powerful, but it was merely "force" and "momentum". Uncle Sword's swordplay, however, had reached the realm of Intent.
"Please instruct me, Senior!" Tran Kien bowed deeply, this time the bow of an apprentice to a Grandmaster.
Uncle Sword smiled. "I cannot teach you swordplay, because your path is the Blade. I can only point you toward finding your own 'Blade Intent'. Your blade was forged in the furnace, carrying the tyranny and radiance of the great sun. Therefore, its 'Intent' must be the will to destroy all evil and cleave through all injustice. You must comprehend it yourself."
Saying this, he spoke no more. He returned to the bow of the boat and resumed sitting there like a statue.
Tran Kien stood alone in the middle of the cabin. He closed his eyes, continuously recalling the flute melody from earlier, recalling the flash of sword light that had neutralized Ly Thuan's palm imprint.
He slowly drew his matte black blade. He did not swing it. He merely stood there, using his entire heart and soul to "listen" to it. He was trying to find its "soul", trying to find the "Intent" of the blade, which was also the "Intent" of himself.
The small boat continued to glide silently through the night. The river ahead was long. The journey to the Indigo Capital was far. But Tran Kien knew that after tonight, he was no longer the youth of yesterday. The scars of maturity had truly transformed into strength, and the blade in his hand was about to awaken a soul of its very own.