A series of wolfish howls and pained cries drifted from the distance, occasionally punctuated by the mournful bleating of a Cloud-Treader steed.
Zhao Yanran, speeding across the ice, allowed a slight upturn of her lips, a fleeting glint of vengeful satisfaction sparking in her eyes.
Suddenly altering her direction, she ascended the slope of a nearby hill. Zhao Yanran glanced back in the direction she had come, spotting the Cloud-Treader carriage now racing eastward, closely pursued by countless marsh wolves.
With a laugh that made her slender frame tremble like a blossoming branch, Zhao Yanran’s smile quickly faded, replaced by a furrowed brow.
The wound in her chest and abdomen was agonizing now, and the poison within her system remained stubbornly unsuppressed.
She reached up to touch her neck, drawing back a hand slick with fresh blood. The seemingly insignificant scratch—meant to be trivial—was being inexplicably resisted by some strange power, refusing to staunch its flow even now.
“Truly, the nascent form of Sword Intent! To achieve spiritual communion with the Way of the Sword at only thirteen years old—”
Murmuring the words, Zhao Yanran closed her eyes, recalling that single strike that felt ripped from the very depths of hell. A wave of agonizing ** shuddered through her entire body.
Unlike the first time she had encountered him, the half-demon youth now seemed not merely uninteresting, but actively detestable.
She had ultimately faltered. Before the sheer pressure of that supreme swordsmanship, the confidence to claim Zong Shou as her own Cauldron Embryo had evaporated.
A crack had formed in her spirit. In this entire world, there was now someone she was uncertain of defeating.
Flipping through the contents of her personal pouch, she found her supply of medicine alarmingly depleted.
Zhao Yanran let out a soft sigh, on the verge of turning to leave. The next moment, however, a subtle shift in her heart stayed her foot. Reaching into the pouch again, she drew out a mirror, roughly a foot square.
She immediately embedded a Fourth-Tier Beast Crystal into the back of the mirror. Once the reflective surface shimmered with a layer of azure spiritual light, Zhao Yanran began to write directly onto the glass using the blood from her own neck as ink.
The characters were hurried and messy, lacking any of the elegance expected of a young lady. Instead, they were sharp, carrying an inherent aura of brutal dominance.
The message conveyed matched the style of the script.
“—Hey! Old hag, does your Taiyuan Sect still need people? Care to take on another direct lineage disciple?”
As soon as the script touched the surface, the blood transformed into tiny motes of spiritual light, scattering away. After a brief pause, the mirror reacted, displaying several lines of text on its face.
At the very top was a simple line drawing of a woman, pretty and cute, depicted in a state of furious anger.
“You madwoman! Dare call me Old Hag again, and I will personally devour you!”
The writing vanished almost immediately, replaced by another line.
“Our Taiyuan Sect is short on people, you know that perfectly well? But a direct disciple? Since when are you so generous? You’re suggesting that someone qualified to be a direct disciple of the Taiyuan Sect—someone your Seven Spirits Sect would discard—should be handed over to us? Is the sun rising in the west today? I suspect—”
The portrait of the beautiful woman shifted again, now wearing an expression riddled with suspicion.
Zhao Yanran uttered a sharp ‘Tch,’ and, still using blood as ink, began to write again on the mirror.
“If this fellow wasn't male, and if my Seven Spirits Sect didn't exclusively accept women, Old Hag, do you think I would bother telling you?”
“So, he’s male—”
The expression on the portrait grew noticeably cooler. “Spit it out. If my mood holds, I might consider it. But you, you troublesome woman, never bring anything good when you seek me out. You cause more trouble than you solve! Given your taste, anyone you recommend probably won’t be worth much. Our Taiyuan Sect’s Taihao Primordial Spirit Sword isn't something just anyone can learn!”
Zhao Yanran’s lips twitched, fighting the intense urge to smash the bronze mirror in her hand into pieces.
After a moment, she let out a cold laugh, a vicious glint shining in her eyes.
“What about the one who shattered the Mingjian Platform of the Lingyun Sect and broke the Minor Heaven Sword Array?”
“The Minor Heaven Sword Array? Hmm, that is noteworthy, but it only garners fame in the East Lin Cloud Continent. As for the Ten Great Sacred Lands and the Nineteen Spirit Mansions, any direct disciple from those sovereign sects could break it easily; they simply consider it beneath them. Such talent might barely qualify for my door—”
“What if this person is only thirteen years old, and used only three hundred and forty-three breaths to do it?”
The mirror fell silent. As if unsatisfied, Zhao Yanran continued writing: “What if this person then managed to perfectly copy the Twelve Divine Stele Heavenly Talismans in only two hours?”
This time, she waited a long time before the bronze mirror reacted again: “Are you joking? Such a prodigy in the East Lin Cloud Continent? Madwoman, are you certain?”
“I haven't witnessed it myself, but it was spoken directly by Lingyun Long Ruo!”
“I don't believe it! If such a person truly existed, the Lingyun Sect would surely snatch him back to their mountain. How could they allow us to interfere?”
“He is a half-demon, possessing a Dual Meridian Body. Rumor has it he also has an internal affliction preventing him from breaking through to the Wheel Realm!”
The portrait on the mirror instantly displayed an expression of ‘as expected.’ Even the text forming on the glass seemed to carry a hint of smug satisfaction.
“—I knew it! If he has a Dual Meridian Body and can’t reach the Wheel Realm, what use is joining our Taiyuan Sect?”
Zhao Yanran smirked coldly. After the previous words dissolved, she began to write again.
“Thirteen years old, spiritual communion with the Sword Way! A Martial Master peering into the profound mysteries of Sword Intent. My own disciple, restraining his Innate True Qi, battled this person. On the seventy-sixth strike, he was wounded by a single sword slash; the injury proves difficult to heal. Thereafter, his will to fight completely vanished, realizing he held no hope of victory!”
Though the characters written in blood remained fierce and overbearing, they were inexplicably laced with an inexpressible tone of loss and dejection.
The bronze mirror fell silent once more. However, instead of new script appearing, a cold, grave voice echoed, transmitted faintly through the mirror itself.
“Who exactly is this person? Where is he now? Is he currently in the East Lin Cloud Continent? Thirteen years old, communion with the Sword Way? Are you perhaps trying to trick me?”
Zhao Yanran had no intention of writing further. She promptly tucked the mirror away, freezing the ice beneath her feet and gliding down the slope of the hill.
Then, a furious voice shrieked, “Madwoman, are you going to speak or not? Believe it or not, I’ll rush over to the Seven Spirits Sect right now and file a charge of disrespecting your elder!”
Zhao Yanran’s expression remained placid, only a hint of teasing appearing in her eyes.
“Accuse me if you like. Since someone mentioned they needed time to consider, they can wait until they’ve finished considering. Besides, our Cang Sheng Dao isn't the only sect looking for successor disciples!”
The voice immediately choked off, shifting instantly to an ingratiating, fawning tone.
“Alright, Yanran, your Martial Aunt was wrong! How about this: later, I’ll give you five Fire Soul Pills, okay? While you may not need them now, they’ll be perfect for breaking through to the Rebirth Realm soon. Or perhaps the Nameless Sword from my sect—I can give that to you too—”
Zhao Yanran’s lips curved upward slightly, her previous gloom instantly swept away.
“Add twenty Fetus Refining Pills and twenty Snow Soul Pills, or we don’t talk!”
“Zhao Yanran, you are insane!”
The voice rose a full eight octaves, and the bronze mirror in her pouch vibrated violently. Zhao Yanran disdained to pay it any mind, abruptly accelerating her speed and sliding toward the distance.
At almost the exact same moment, in a pavilion several tens of thousands of miles away, a woman appearing to be in her early twenties stood up, looking somewhat dazed.
On the mirror surface before her still floated the line Zhao Yanran had inscribed earlier:
“Thirteen years old, spiritual communion with the Sword Way! A Martial Master peering into the profound mysteries of Sword Intent. On the seventy-sixth strike, he was wounded by a single sword slash; the injury proves difficult to heal. Thereafter, his will to fight completely vanished, realizing he held no hope of victory—”
A strange look flickered across the beautiful, clear-eyed woman’s gaze.
“Such a singular genius truly exists in this world? Could this be a blessing sent by Heaven upon my Taiyuan Sect?”