I Was Forced to Marry a “Trash” Cultivator, But She Turned Out to Be a Reborn Empress!

The moment Shen Xian crossed the threshold of the colossal bronze gate, the world as he knew it dissolved. There was no suffocating miasma of decay or the expected gloom of a crypt. Instead, a vast, desolate world of killing intent rushed to meet them—a realm defined by the sword.

The interior was an architectural impossibility, expanding a hundred times larger than the tomb’s external dimensions. Above, a sky the color of cold ash was choked not by clouds, but by millions of shattered sword blades. They drifted in the void, rotating slowly like silent, metallic stars. Below, the earth was a sea of dark red sand, each grain seemingly soaked in the iron-scented blood of an eon-old slaughter.

“This is…” Mo Hanchuan gasped, his voice thin against the whistling wind. He pointed to the dunes where flashes of cold light peeked through the grit—fragments of ancient steel that still pulsed with a lethal, unyielding aura.

Shen Xian reached down, his fingers brushing a jagged shard of metal. The instant he made contact, a white-hot flash of sword light seared through his mind. His hand recoiled. Residual intent, he realized, his heart hammering. Even after three millennia, the sheer willpower of the original wielders remained etched into the very atoms of the scrap.

“Watch your step!” Han Shan’s roar shattered the reverie.

Coils of black smoke began to seep from the crimson sands, swirling and thickening into grotesque, translucent shapes. These were the demon souls—the dregs of a defeated army, suppressed by the sword intent for ages, now driven by a mindless hunger for the essence of the living. Nearby, a rogue cultivator was a second too slow; a tendril of black smoke lashed out, and within heartbeats, ink-black necrotic veins were crawling up his arm.

In the distance, the sharp, rhythmic ring of sword cries echoed. The sect prodigies had already vanished into the horizon, heading for the deeper layers. For them, this graveyard was merely an obstacle; for the rogues, it was a gauntlet.

“The Sword Asking Pavilion lies at the edge of this wasteland!” Han Shan shouted, pointing toward a shimmering bronze structure that flickered like a mirage through the haze. “Stay together! We cross the Sword Intent Desolate Plain as one!”

The ground groaned in response. The red sand began to churn and boil. Dozens of geysers of black filth erupted into the sky, coalescing into monstrous silhouettes.

“Ancient demon souls!” Han Shan’s face paled as he threw out a [Bronze Ancient Mirror] that cast a protective amber dome over the group. “These are the echoes of the demon lords slain by the Sword Venerables. Even as shadows, they are lethal!”

Shen Xian scanned the horizon. The monsters were nightmares given form: serpents bristling with barbed scales, humanoid giants with three heads and six arms, and one particularly foul entity—a hovering mass of thousands of screaming, calcified skulls. The air hissed and curdled wherever their black mist touched.

“Mind the miasma!” Mo Hanchuan warned, drawing a dark-gold blade. “One touch will rot your Qi; a breath will poison your soul!”

Before the warning could settle, a centipede-like demon soul—the legendary [Thousand-Legged Demon General]—lunged. Its hundreds of obsidian claws tore through the air, leaving visible black cracks in the fabric of space. An early-stage Golden Core cultivator failed to pivot; his protective aura shattered like glass. Five deep furrows were carved into his chest, the wounds instantly erupting with foul, black smoke.

They still have their combat instincts, Shen Xian noted, narrowing his eyes. He watched the entities coordinate: the multi-armed giants held the vanguard, the skull-swarm bombarded their minds with psychic shrieks, and the centipede waited in the shadows to gut the stragglers.

“Form up!” Han Shan commanded.

Shen Xian took a half-step back, settling into the dead center of the formation—the perfect vantage point to observe without drawing attention.

The skull-swarm let out a piercing, soul-shredding wail. Several cultivators collapsed, clutching their heads as blood leaked from their ears and eyes. Shen Xian didn’t hesitate. He flicked his wrist, sending a [Third-Grade Crimson Dragon Talisman] soaring. It ignited into a roaring pillar of flame that carved through the air, incinerating the core of the skull-swarm in a single, violent burst of spiritual heat.

The tide turned. Han Shan’s mirror unleashed a celestial river of azure light, pinning the multi-armed demon in place, while Mo Hanchuan’s blade transformed into a hurricane of gold, severing the legs of the centipede.

As the dust settled, a female cultivator named Bai Zhi moved through the ranks. Her fingers were a blur as silver needles flashed, stitching wounds and sealing the rot of the demonic qi with the scent of bitter herbs and medicinal essence.

“We have the momentum,” Han Shan said, his eyes fixed on the pavilion. “Move!”

They traveled deeper, passing through a forest of shattered sword steles. Suddenly, the harsh wind was broken by the sound of gurgling water. In this parched land of death, the sound was an impossible anomaly.

“There!” Mo Hanchuan pointed toward a crevice in a jagged cliff.

A stream of silvery liquid spilled out, pooling into a three-foot spring. It didn’t ripple; it shimmered with thousands of tiny, fragmented sword glints. The air around the pool hummed with a frequency that made every blade in the group’s possession tremble in their scabbards.

“A [Sword Intent Spirit Spring]!” Han Shan’s voice cracked. He rushed forward, his mirror reflecting the silver essence. “This can temper any weapon or grant a cultivator a breakthrough in sword dao. It is a peerless treasure!”

He reached for his storage bag, but then paused, catching the hungry gazes of the group. “According to our pact, we divide by merit. Mo Hanchuan took the centipede; he takes the first share.”

“I think not, Senior Han.” A man in purple robes, Zhang Mingyu, stepped forward, his folding fan snapped shut with a sharp clack. Though a Golden Core Perfection expert, his eyes burned with a different kind of killing intent. “We agreed to advance and retreat as one. If we distribute by kill counts, the ‘weaker’ brothers among us are just here to be your shield-bearers. That isn’t a pact—that’s a scam.”

The air in the clearing grew colder than the sword-stars above. Behind Zhang Mingyu, several cultivators shifted their stances, their hands hovering over their hilts. The alliance was fraying before it had even reached the door.