At the peak of a snowy mountain stood a lonely, unnamed grave.0

There were no offerings, no mourners, only a stone tablet buried under a thick blanket of snow.0

Zhao Changhe and Sisi stood hand in hand before the grave in silence. Neither harbored any real resentment toward the Sword Emperor. After all, his appearance had been like a shooting star—fleeting and leaving little trace behind. If anything, his sword arts had been of great benefit during Zhao Changhe’s formative years. The method of accumulating force in layered waves had laid the foundation for the unstoppable momentum of Zhao Changhe’s saber art.0

In his days wandering across the jianghu, Zhao Changhe had drawn from many schools of thought, and the Sword Emperor was a major influence.0

The bitterness of old grudges had long since faded. That said, while the Sword Emperor himself had made little impression, his lineage had been an ever-present companion in Zhao Changhe’s cultivation. From the moment Zhao first set foot into the world, the Snow-Listening Pavilion had been entangled with him. Though they had never harmed him directly, he had fled their pursuit on more than one occasion. Their presence had shaped many of his early trials.0

Now, being buried beneath the snowy peaks felt only fitting for a legacy named Snow-Listening.0

This particular lineage had always been a strange one. From Han Wubing, to Shi Wuding, to Snow Owl, and finally to the Sword Emperor. Their methods were all about control and consumption. They felt more like a parasitic hive than a sect of sword cultivators. By that logic, the Heavenly Dao, in the world of cultivation, should be a demonic cultivator, as His brand of cultivation was hardly what one would call righteous.0

Zhao Changhe crouched down, brushed the snow off the gravestone, and carved two lines into the tablet:0

The ancient Sword Emperor’s grave0

To commemorate the fateful bond of Changhe and Sisi.0

He spoke aloud, “Since it’s a monument for...0