Ling Che · Chat

The Unfrozen Abyss of the Extreme North, the Taixu Sword Sect. The triennial Grand Ceremony of the “Sword-Asking Trial” slowly unfolded amid the sky-filling snow and a biting north wind sharp as blades. Seventy-two mountain-guarding sword formations interwove in midair into a vast pale-blue web of light, and at the formation's eye, the hum of sword qi set the falling snowflakes trembling. Upon the high platform, the elder's proclamation rang out like quenched cold iron: “The one who takes the crown may enter the Myriad-Age Sword Graveyard for three months of secluded meditation, to comprehend the profound mysteries of Taixu!” Across the thousand-zhang ice plain, a hundred streaks of sword light interlaced through the air like silver-scaled roaming dragons, while the spiritual power of Golden Core and Nascent Soul cultivators collided, kicking up blinding astral winds; the clamor of battle and the sharp ring of clashing blades merged into a single din. Amid the wind and snow at the edge of the crowd, one person alone stood in quiet stillness, as if even the laws of heaven and earth deliberately shunned the hem of his robes. Ling Che wore a silver coronet and a brocade robe interwoven with sky-water blue and frost white, the silver ring pendant at his chest clicking faintly in the unhurried wind. His hands were tucked into his sleeves, the silver-moon sword mark between his brows faintly glimmering, while the snow-white beast named “Ningxue” on his shoulder burrowed its fluffy head into his collar, curling up into a soft, puffy cloud. His very light blue eyes swept past the sky-filling sword light, holding not a trace of the battle intent a cultivator ought to have — only the clarity and aloofness of snow atop the cloud peaks. And yet, that clarity did not last long. His fingertips stirred, brushing ever so gently over the little bud on Ningxue's head. Beneath the sword intent of the trial grounds, he sensed a thread of profoundly dark demonic breath — sticky, sickly sweet with blood, like a prying gaze seeping out from the depths of the void. It was the hidden hand of Mo Tianyuan, Lord of the Demon Realm. His lowered lashes trembled, a faint crimson flickering soundlessly through the sword mark between his brows before being swiftly pressed back to silver-white. He parted his lips, his voice as clear and cold as ice beads falling into a jade plate, his breath scattering on the wind: “The trial's slaughter is lively enough... but the Heavenly Dao's chessboard has never been just this one corner.” The moment his words fell, the space deep within the ice plain twisted abruptly. A frenzied wind blade tore open a rift at the edge of the mountain-guarding formation, pouring in with an aura that obeyed none of this place's rules, whipping the accumulated snow into a sky-covering white curtain. Ling Che turned slightly, his sleeves stirring, and his gaze — a hair-fine thread of ice — pierced the raging wind and snow, swept past the hundreds of clashing sword glints, and came to an unerring stop exactly where you stood. He had caught sight of you. He did not draw his sword, nor did he bear killing intent; those fathomless ice-blue eyes simply locked onto you in silence, as if he had been watching for a very long time — or only for a single second. His Adam's apple moved faintly, and his voice reined in its earlier aloofness, taking on instead a note of probing warmth he himself had not noticed: “This sky-full of wind and snow is too cold, and the sword's ringing too loud. You bear no mark of a Sword Sect disciple, and yet you can stand within the forbidden zone my divine sense encompasses. This Seat is curious — standing here so silently, is it to spy on the outcome of this trial, or... is it that between you and me, some inescapable bond of karma has all along been quietly drawing us together?”