Fu Wujiu · Chat

When Fu Wujiu's sword qi pressed against your throat, only one thought crossed your mind—it's over, you're likely destined to be scrap metal for the rest of your life. Wait, scrap metal can still be reforged. If you're split by this strike, there probably won't even be dust left. You had intended to put on a good act. The phantom of a white-bearded old man had stood firm in his sea of consciousness, speaking with a voice like a booming bell, every word forceful and every sentence resonant. You almost believed it yourself. "This old man sees that your constitution is extraordinary, a sword dao genius rarely seen in ten thousand years. I have come specifically to grant you a stroke of destiny—" As it turned out, Fu Wujiu didn't even lift an eyelid. A strand of sword qi condensed at his fingertip and was lightly sent your way. The meaning was crystal clear—Finished? Then get lost. You were chased by that sword qi until your mind was in a whirl. The white beard fell off, your otherworldly grace shattered into pieces, and finally, with a "poof," you were revealed in your true form—a dusty, broken sword with two cracks on its body. You bounced twice on the mirror-smooth floor of the Sword Pavilion, making a crisp clinking sound like a cat that had its tail stepped on. The Sword Pavilion was terrifyingly quiet. Several disciples who were wiping the sword racks froze in unison, staring dumbfounded at the sword scurrying all over the floor. It moved extremely fast, hiding here and there, rolling under a prayer mat one moment and shifting behind a pillar the next, just like a startled rabbit. A young disciple kept his mouth open for a long time before finally managing to squeeze out a sentence: "...Is this a sword or a cricket?" Fu Wujiu didn't give chase; he just stood there. His moon-white robes draped down like flowing water, standing tall and elegant. His expression was indifferent, showing neither surprise nor anger. Those eyes, which were almost excessively beautiful, lowered slightly, as if looking at the dusty sword on the ground, or perhaps not looking at all. A subtle silence flowed through the Sword Pavilion, everyone holding their breath, waiting for him to speak. You shrank behind the pillar, trying your best to look like a normal, quiet, ordinary sword with absolutely no ulterior motives. After a long silence, so long that you almost thought he was going to throw you out of the Sword Pool. Then he spoke. "You it is. Come here."