Chapter 77: Chapter 74: King Among Swords

At the foot of Hidden Spirit Mountain, Li Chunsong and the others looked up, watching Chu Huaixu stride swiftly above them.

“The spiritual pressure from the mountain doesn’t seem to affect him much.” Nangong Yue smiled, her voice soft as southern silk.

“That’s normal. This is just the foothills area. That slight discomfort means nothing to him.” Li Chunsong replied.

Nangong Yue turned to look at him, asking, “Sixth Brother, you seem particularly attentive to him. Is it because you brought him and Shuangjiang up the mountain, or because he helped you win that bet?”

She was intentionally teasing.

Unexpectedly, the Charitable Gambling King was surprisingly open.

“I did bring them up here on Junior Martial Uncle’s orders, that’s part of it for sure. But mainly, it’s because he helped me win once—I really appreciate this kid!”

“Junior Sister Jiu, you know, I lose every time I bet.”

“The last time I won… that was… well, many, many years ago.”

At this, Li Chunsong glanced at Nangong Yue, suddenly breaking into a grin.

Nangong Yue saw his smile and couldn’t help but recall that afternoon many years ago.

She watched Li Chunsong laugh, yet inexplicably, her heart grew sorrowful, as she remembered someone no longer among the living.

Ironically, it was the deadbeat gambler who looked comforting, lightly patting Nangong Yue’s shoulder.

Once, this group were all true disciples of the Daoist Sect.

There were many inner sect disciples in the Daoist Sect, but only thirty-three direct disciples.

The Sect Leader and ten Elders, each could take three disciples—that’s what made the Daoist Sect’s true line.

But cultivation is an act against the heavens, and besides, the Profound Yellow Realm is turbulent, evil runs rampant, and deaths are inevitable.

The thirty-three true disciples of those days—now, only half remain.

Li Chunsong, the eternal loser at gambling, hadn’t won a wager in twenty years.

It was a lively afternoon, all true disciples gathered outside the grand hall of Wenda Peak. Even many elders were drawn in, coming for the spectacle.

Back then, Junior Martial Uncle was still a wild, unruly, middle-aged sword cultivator—even he came, with a blade of foxtail grass between his lips, sitting in an ancient tree outside the hall, arms folded around his sword, peering down at the crowd.

All this excitement, just for a single bet.

“Sixth Brother, I know you like me. Let’s roll dice. No channeling spiritual power, no cheating, just a test of luck, all the fellow disciples and elders can witness! If your roll is bigger than mine, I’ll agree to you!”

The eleventh-ranked female true disciple raised her head, looking lively and adorable.

Li Chunsong, on hearing this, was so excited he nearly howled at the sky, rubbing his palms wildly.

He’d liked Junior Sister Eleven for so, so many years, he’d probably forgotten how many.

The Daoist Sect never bothered with that lofty air; whether true disciple or elder, all egged him on loudly.

Even Junior Martial Uncle on the tree widened his eyes, spat the grass from his mouth with a “ptooey,” and watched with intent.

By sect rules, a private wager required a silver tael fine—Junior Martial Uncle insisted on paying it himself.

Li Chunsong was dazed, shoved to the front by his brothers and sisters.

He kept rubbing his hands like a frantic fly, even blowing into his palms for luck.

But how could a guy be this unlucky? With everyone watching and encouraging him, his roll came out… a two!

Li Chunsong slumped on a stone bench, spirit half gone.

But Junior Sister Eleven lazily tossed the dice into the air—landed as a six!

Such luck, outrageous!

Yet, in full view of everyone, she openly spun up her spiritual power, flicked the dice, and turned it to a one.

She broke the rules, and did it as openly as could be!

Where was that promise of pure luck?

But that day, everyone—including Junior Martial Uncle—said Li Chunsong had won.

Old Six of the Daoist Sect, who lost every bet in his life, managed his only win twenty years ago, only because she blatantly cheated—she let him win on purpose.

Li Chunsong could never forget that day.

That girl’s sparkling eyes, playful lips, bowing deeply to him, giggling as she said:

“Sixth Brother, you’re impressive! I’ll accept the wager!”

…

…

Twenty years ago, it was a cloudy day.

After the bet ended, it rained hard—really hard.

Li Chunsong looked up to the sky.

But in his memory, the sun was shining, the sky cloudless.

At this moment, Han Shuangjiang stood nearby, wondering why the Ninth Elder suddenly looked melancholy, while the Sixth Elder smiled cheerfully.

The time of an incense stick was almost up.

She, too, would soon climb the mountain.

Just before her turn, she overheard the two elders talking.

“Why’s Chu Huaixu walking so slow, dawdling along? A whole incense stick has passed and he still hasn’t reached the area with spiritual artifacts.” Li Chunsong frowned.

The base area of Hidden Spirit Mountain had a total of 3,333 stone steps; only from step 1,111 up were spiritual artifacts placed for selection.

If the climbing disciples couldn’t reach that point under spiritual pressure, they’d leave empty-handed.

But soon after, it seemed Li Chunsong realized something.

He wriggled his brows at Han Shuangjiang, tut-tutting aloud.

“Maybe kid’s intentionally waiting for you, eh?” He started playing matchmaker again.

And for some reason, he was particularly enthusiastic about it today.

Even Nangong Yue, on hearing this, smiled brightly at Han Shuangjiang, as if thinking back to that afternoon.

The chill on Big Ice Cube’s face melted away, and under the elders’ gazes, she couldn’t help bowing her head slightly, cheeks flushing.

“How would I know why he’s moving so slow!” she thought to herself.

She’d never figured out what that Dead Fox was thinking all day long.

Finally, Nangong Yue reined in her laughter and signaled, “Alright, Shuangjiang—you can start your ascent.”

“Yes,” Han Shuangjiang acknowledged, stepping onto the stone steps.

She paused a moment upon reaching the first step.

She felt what spiritual pressure truly meant.

The bodily oppression wasn’t much; most was mental, a pressure on the Sea of Consciousness.

But fortunately, the discomfort was slight for her.

Big Ice Cube showed no change of expression as she swiftly climbed upward.

“Maybe if I go faster, I’ll actually catch up to him?” she wondered.

Li Chunsong saw Han Shuangjiang begin to climb, and the gambling dog started rubbing his hands again.

“Junior Sister Jiu, let’s go! Quick, to the grand hall!”

Nangong Yue, helpless, knew the Sixth Elder was about to clamor for another bet.

The two soared off, flying toward Wenda Peak’s grand hall.

Sect Leader Xiang Yan and the others were already waiting inside.

…

…

Elsewhere, Chu Huaixu had reached over nine hundred steps.

“I recall a post saying every 111 steps on Hidden Spirit Mountain, the spiritual pressure increases.”

So he kept stopping to feel his way, careful and precise.

One incense stick had passed, and he still hadn’t reached where the spiritual artifacts were.

“This is weird. Why don’t I feel a thing?” Chu Huaixu was puzzled.

He didn’t feel the slightest discomfort.

In fact… he felt invigorated standing here!

“It’s comfortable—hard to describe.”

“It’s like leaving some filthy city, and suddenly finding yourself in clean mountains and clear water.”

“Not that the air is sweet, but my heart feels open and relaxed—a real pleasure!”

Chu Huaixu knew well that spiritual pressure presses down on both body and Sea of Consciousness, especially the latter.

The disciples climbing Hidden Spirit Mountain all had First Realm cultivation; with his bodily strength, maybe not unprecedented, but surely among the best.

He felt no bodily discomfort—of course.

So he calmed himself, observing his Sea of Consciousness.

The little black sword inside his Sea of Consciousness was still listless and frail.

As his cultivation improved, the sword’s state slowly brightened, but it still seemed gloomy, changing only minutely.

“But it seems a little livelier than before?” Chu Huaixu thought.

He was spiritually attuned to the black sword—even tiny changes didn’t escape him.

“Sword severs flesh; the heart severs the soul.”

“Maybe it’s thanks to the sword that spiritual pressure on my Sea of Consciousness can’t threaten me at all.” Some answers began to form in his heart.

“After all, its person is actually high—it already has Sword Heart Clarity.”

So he stopped analyzing and quit dawdling.

Chu Huaixu picked up the pace, racing swiftly up the mountain.

He hadn’t planned to glance at any spiritual artifact in the foothills anyway.

“Big Ice Cube should be climbing by now?”

“Hmph! I’ve got to hurry!”

“Big Ice Cube, you might as well chase my dust!”

Chu Huaixu laughed freely and bounded up the mountain.

The wind caught his Black Robe, snapping it loudly.

The faster he ran, the better he felt—as if the stronger the spiritual pressure, the more excited he became.

Soon, Chu Huaixu reached the 1,111th stone step in one breath.

From here on upward, spiritual artifacts would be placed haphazardly beside the steps, with no pattern.

His original plan was to just sprint up through the mid-mountain section.

He had no intention to take any artifact from this area—why waste time?

Yet his feet stopped anyway.

Chu Huaixu stood on the 1,111th step, gazing upward.

Hidden Spirit Mountain was always shrouded in thick fog—you could only see ten meters ahead, and beyond that things grew hazy.

Right now, he was somewhat dazed.

Because right there by the step, lay a sword.

This sword was nothing special—just like a normal Cyan Blade from the Mortal World.

A few steps higher, another sword—a short sword.

In the mist, vaguely, more sword shapes seemed to flicker in silhouette.

All these swords were trembling!

Chu Huaixu’s senses were much keener now; his hearing far surpassed ordinary First Realm cultivators.

He listened closely—even in the unseen mist above, the sound of quivering swords echoed—there were so many!

The reason was simple: the little black sword in his Sea of Consciousness had shivered, just once.

That was enough to make all the spirit swords over a whole stretch start to tremble! And they kept trembling, without pause.

The little black sword was like a king sitting atop the throne of swords.

Tired it might be, sickly as it seemed, yet so long as it cast a lazy glance downward, everything that crouched below would start to shiver in fear.

…

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