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The Sword Lord paused, his stoic face betraying a flicker of astonishment.
A nervous tension gripped the Sword Heaven crowd, a mix of disbelief and indignation painting their expressions.
“I’m asking for the Sword Tempering Pill not out of whim,” Yun Xiao began, pausing for emphasis with each word, his voice a resonant and unwavering beam in the tense silence, “My master, Zhao Jianxing, dispatched twenty thousand demons, his blade shattering only at the bitter end! He expended himself for the people of the thousand mortal nations, willingly greeting death’s cold embrace. I, as his pupil, desire his continued existence.”
Silence. A heavy, saturated silence engulfed the space, consuming every stray whisper.
They knew of Zhao Jianxing, of course. His tales meandered through countless conversations. Yet, none ever contemplated extending aid, for Zhao Jianxing was the outcast of Sword Heaven—an enigma of solitude and stubbornness, a commoner blissfully ignorant of societal norms.
Everyone deemed him dead already. And yet, here was his disciple, demanding, pleading.
“You march in here, demanding a Sword Tempering Pill—what exactly do you take us for, brat?” Lin Chen’s words sliced through the silence, his eyes, afire with an inherited wrath, locked unyieldingly onto Yun Xiao. A violent specter of his mother’s bleeding visage seemed to cascade onto Yun Xiao, crystallizing into an armor of vengeance.
“Lin Chen, do you also desire the Pill?” the Sword Lord asked.
“Yes,” Lin Chen nodded.
“Can you defeat...
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