Chapter Eight: Annihilation by the Sword

The young man and the elder hastened their pace, running full speed down the mountain.

Another flash of white light erupted at the foot of the distant mountain. The vast sword intent split the world asunder, and after a brief moment of brilliance, endless darkness once again shrouded the land.

That was Father’s sword aura! Anxiety gnawed at the boy’s heart. He stumbled, tumbling down the mountain path.

“Hold on!” The elder’s figure flickered; he leaped ahead, reaching out to lift the boy upright. “Young Master, don’t worry—your father’s strength reigns supreme. No one can harm him!”

Yes, Father was so powerful. With him around, the Sword Sect would surely be safe. The youth calmed a little, but unease lingered. “Uncle Fu, let’s hurry home and see what’s happened.”

The elder nodded, swiftly descending with the boy once more, though this time with more composure.

Sword aura and explosions occasionally flashed from the manor at the mountain’s base. Though Liu Wujian was invincible, the enemy dared cause trouble at the Sword Sect—such foes were hardly ordinary.

“Ah!” The boy cried out in alarm—a corpse lay by the roadside. It was a disciple of the Sword Sect, and even in death, his hand still gripped his sword tightly.

Uncle Fu frowned at the sight, his worst fears confirmed: someone had breached the Sword Sect!

The youth drew the sword strapped to his back, gripping it firmly, straightening his spine as he approached the manor gates.

Uncle Fu also drew his sword, quickly stepping to the boy’s side.

The gates were half open, darkness reigning within. By moonlight, he glimpsed blood trickling inside. The manor was eerily silent; the explosions and sword lights from moments before had ceased.

The boy’s right hand clenched the sword hilt tightly. This was the home he had longed for even in dreams. Five years of failing to break through the Cold Pride Sword Technique had prompted Father to send him with Uncle Fu to train atop the snowy mountain. He still hadn’t broken through, but today was Father’s fortieth birthday. Uncle Fu had brought him down the mountain, full of joy, hoping to celebrate. Never could he have imagined such calamity.

Faced with the familiar gates, the home that often appeared in his dreams, fear suddenly surged within him. His steps faltered; his left hand reached for the gate.

What scene would greet him beyond the door?

With a creak, the gate swung open. Red—so vivid it pierced the night—filled the world, as if all existence were drenched in crimson.

Blood covered the manor grounds. Bodies lay collapsed, one after another, numbering in the thousands.

Darkness nearly overtook the boy; he almost fainted. Uncle Fu caught him from behind, gently patting his back. The youth forced himself to suppress the tidal wave of terror and worry, stepping inside.

Blood flowed everywhere across the front courtyard; after a few steps, his cloth shoes were soaked in it.

Da Bao’s neck had been twisted, Xiao Min’s chest had been pierced through, Second Senior Brother’s body and head were severed in two...

The boy walked onward, step by step, gazing at the bodies of childhood friends, of senior brothers and sisters who had cared for him. Now, all lay in pools of blood. Yet the boy’s heart grew strangely calm. Around his blood-stained footprints, crystalline blood began to form.

Uncle Fu suddenly sensed a chill emanating from the boy, instinctively pulling away. He turned to see the youth enveloped in a pale white glow—the aura of ice. Had the Young Master finally broken through?

Passing through the front courtyard, the boy pushed open a door to the inner courtyard. Dozens lay dead within; he glanced briefly. They wore black clothes and masks—no doubt enemies slain.

Those black-clad foes had been killed in a single stroke. Recalling the mighty sword aura seen on the mountain, it must have been Father who slew them all.

The boy crossed the inner courtyard, his pace slowing. As he opened the door to the rear courtyard, the corpses in the inner yard were suddenly encased in frost, silently shattering, then shattering again until nothing remained.

The rear door opened. A figure stood there: Liu Wujian.

Liu Wujian was meticulously wiping blood from his sword with a white cloth. Seeing the boy push open the rear courtyard door, he said, “You’ve returned?”

The boy stepped forward. “I’m back.”

“Who told you to return?” Liu Wujian tossed aside the cloth, his treasured sword vibrating in his hand. He looked up at the boy; his eyes brimmed with murderous intent. An invisible sword aura locked onto the youth.

The boy’s face was expressionless. His gaze rested on the old man lying beside Liu Wujian. The elder was dead, blood from his chest soaking his robes. His eyes stared wide, terrified and hollow, as if unable to believe what had happened even at the moment of death.

The chill around the boy intensified. He addressed the man pointing the sword at him—his father, Liu Wujian. “No one told me to return.”

“Then you’ll die!” Liu Wujian’s voice was icy and heartless. The sword aura he unleashed was even colder, for this blade was meant for his own son.

A sword aura shot forth, yet the boy neither dodged nor flinched. He stared straight ahead at Liu Wujian, unwilling to believe this was real. Was the world’s greatest swordsman truly killing Grandfather? And now seeking his son’s life?

“Young Master, look out!” Uncle Fu pulled the boy back, his own sword meeting the incoming sword aura. The sword tip shattered upon contact, and the aura surged through, striking Uncle Fu. He twisted, but could not evade.

A splash of hot blood landed on the boy’s face. The bitter, salty taste filled his senses; fresh, warm blood trickled down.

“Master, what’s happened to you?” Uncle Fu pressed his wounded arm, enduring the pain.

Liu Wujian flashed forward, appearing before the boy and Uncle Fu. He addressed the youth coldly: “Still relying on others to protect you? How could Liu Wujian have such a useless son? Why don’t you just die?”

The boy stood dumbly. “Why? Why is this happening? Grandfather... you killed Grandfather?” He clutched Liu Wujian’s sleeve tightly.

“I killed him. As for why, you’re not worthy to know—because you’re about to die as well.” Liu Wujian frowned, his expression full of disdain. Looking at the boy gripping his sleeve, he declared: “I killed all of them. What can you do? You’re nothing but a useless waste! All of you are wastes! You all deserve to die!”

These words struck the boy like thunder, like sharp blades piercing his heart. He released Liu Wujian’s sleeve, clutching his chest, retreating step by step, pain etched across his face.

“Ha, still thinking of running? Useless waste! Five years and not a single breakthrough—I’ve long wanted to slaughter you!” The true face of Liu Wujian was utterly ruthless.

The boy leaned against the door behind him, stooping to pick up the sword that had fallen at his feet. A wave of cold surged from him, coating the door in frost.

“Want to kill me? Go on! Stab me with your sword! Useless waste!” Liu Wujian sneered at the boy. “Do you have the guts?” Before the words were finished, the boy’s sword lightly pierced forward.

It seemed gentle, yet the blade was suffused with icy aura, glowing faintly white—the first form of the Cold Pride Sword Technique: A Single Cold Star.

This strike was exceedingly slow, for speed was needless; before the blade moved, the enemy was already frozen. The icy aura was like a cold star, shattering the opponent.

Yet the slow blade stopped, unable to advance further—the target was Liu Wujian. The tip halted three inches from his body, unable to move forward.

“That’s all you’ve got?” Liu Wujian casually raised his hand; the boy crashed against the door, smashing a gaping hole in the thick red wood.

Liu Wujian turned and walked away, leaving only a cold remark: “You’re not worthy for me to kill.”

The boy lay on the ground, eyes hollow, as if lifeless.

Uncle Fu stumbled to his side, desperately shaking him. “Young Master, wake up!” But the boy remained unresponsive, staring blankly at the dark night sky where a few stars winked.

Just then, a commotion arose from the front courtyard, growing louder as it approached the rear.

Uncle Fu looked up—a squad of armored soldiers marched in. They paused in surprise, not expecting anyone alive.

After a brief silence, the leader drew his sword from his belt, shouting, “Kill without mercy!” He led the troops towards Uncle Fu and the boy.

Uncle Fu glanced at the boy lying on the ground, steeled himself, picked up a nearby sword, and charged forward.

With one arm lost, Uncle Fu fought in a fury, slashing at the soldiers and being slashed in turn. On the fifty-seventh blow, Uncle Fu fell.

Before collapsing, he glanced at the boy—only to find him gone. A smile touched his lips as he died.