The silence following Shen Xian’s departure was absolute, heavy enough to stifle the breath. The cultivators remained rooted to the parched earth, their bodies rigid as if struck by a binding curse.

The middle-aged leader of the Green Mist Sect finally let out a shuddering breath, the tension leaving his frame only to be replaced by the cold, clinging dampness of a sweat-soaked robe. He wiped his brow with trembling fingers, his heart still hammering against his ribs in a rhythmic pulse of lingering fear. He had looked into the abyss of a master’s indifference and, by some miracle, the abyss had not swallowed him whole.

“Damn it all!” The hook-nosed cultivator spat, the venom returning to his eyes the moment the pressure lifted. He straightened his back, his face twisting into a mask of bitter resentment. “With power like that, why play the part of a lowly rogue? To mock us? To—”

A flash of cyan light, swifter than a thunderbolt and sharper than a scream, tore through the air.

Squelch.

The man’s words died in a spray of crimson. His head was tossed skyward, his expression of petty malice forever frozen in a macabre mask. The headless trunk swayed for a heartbeat before collapsing into the dirt with a dull, wet thud.

“Blind and ignorant,” Liu Qingxu’s voice drifted back from the horizon, cold and crystalline, echoing like a death knell across the wasteland. “A path to death, paved by your own tongue.”

The silence returned, deeper and more terrifying than before. Han Shan’s knees gave way, and he hit the ground with a heavy thud, his spirit broken. The rogue cultivators who had sought shelter under the Green Mist Sect’s banner looked on with faces the color of ash. Two of them simply rolled their eyes back and slumped into a dead faint.

The middle-aged leader didn’t wait for a second warning. Without a word, he turned and fled, his disciples scrambling behind him in a panicked rout. To stay was to invite the sword; to linger was to die.

The Sword Asking Pavilion loomed at the edge of the world—a monolithic structure of ancient bronze, its surface etched with swirling sword-veins that seemed to pulse with a life of their own.

The interior was split into two distinct realms. The lower level was a vast, somber hall. Thirty-six bronze pillars formed a grim perimeter, and to each was nailed the desiccated remains of a demon. Though the life had long since fled these husks, a palpable, heart-palpitating pressure still radiated from their twisted forms. Beneath them, the floor was paved in slabs of cinnabar stone, where wisps of black Qi seeped from the grout like dark smoke, held in check by the silver flickers of stray sword intent dancing in the rafters.

In the center of the hall stood a three-meter-high altar. Seven broken blades were thrust into the bronze, their steel rusted and pitted, yet they retained a ghostly echo of the sharpness that had once split the heavens.

Three skeletons in tattered, salt-stained robes knelt before the altar in a triangular formation. Their skulls had been pierced through the crown—a final, desperate act of defiance. Recognizing their defeat in ages past, these masters had used their own [Natal Sword Intent] to end their lives, sealing their entire cultivation and essence into the platform to keep it from enemy hands.

Radiating outward from this centerpiece were seventy-two white jade Dao Platforms, arranged in the celestial pattern of the Zhou Tian stars. Each was encased in a soft, cyan light-shroud, protecting the phantom scrolls of ancient techniques that drifted within.

“Senior, please observe,” Liu Qingxu said, gesturing toward the nearest platform where the characters for the [Xuan Yin Soul-Refining Art] glowed faintly. “While these ancient legacies are numerous, most are…”

“Relics of a dead age,” Wang Chuan interrupted with a dismissive snort. He adjusted the cyan jade sword case on his back, his posture radiating the casual arrogance of a Great Sect disciple. “Take the [Nine Underworld Heart-Devouring Scripture] there. It requires a direct connection to a Nine Underworld Earth Vein. Those dried up ten thousand years ago. It’s useless.”

Zhang Xu, the disciple with the three-colored spirit lotus embroidered on his sleeve, nodded in agreement. “The [Heaven-Devouring Divine Art] is no better. It needs Ten-Thousand-Year Cold Marrow as a catalyst. You’d have better luck finding a dragon’s tear in a desert.”

To these elite disciples, the hall was a museum of obsolescence. To the rogue cultivators now flooding through the gates, however, it was a cathedral of miracles.

“Hahaha! The [Heavenly Corpse Rebirth Art]! It’s mine!” A scarred man screamed, throwing himself at a light-shroud with the desperation of a starving wolf.

Zhang Xu’s lip curled in disgust. “To treat such a gutter-tier evil art as a treasure… pathetic.”

Shen Xian watched them in silence. He didn’t share Zhang Xu’s disdain. He saw the way they clutched at those “worn-out shoes” as if they were lifeboats in a storm. For those without a Sect, even a flawed path was better than a dead end.

“Senior,” Liu Qingxu whispered, stepping closer to Shen Xian. “There is nothing here for one of your stature. The true providence lies above. Will you accompany us to the second level?”

“And what waits there?” Shen Xian asked, his voice calm.

“The Five Elements Hall,” she replied, her eyes sparking with a sudden, fervent heat. “The ancient Sword Sect’s sanctum for alchemy and artifact forging. It is divided into five elemental zones, each housing an [Innate Spiritual Fire]. The materials left behind are legendary.”

“Not just materials,” Wang Chuan added, his sword case vibrating in resonance. “The Twelve Innate Sword Souls are said to slumber there. If one could merge a Sword Soul with their [Natal Flying Sword], its lethality would triple instantly!”

Zhang Xu leaned in. “Three years ago, a lucky rogue found a Geng-Metal Sword Soul here. Today, his ‘Dragon Slaying Sword’ is ranked seventh on the Qingzhou Famous Sword List.”

Shen Xian’s interest piqued. He wasn’t looking for a sword, but the mention of [Innate Spiritual Fire] struck a chord. He was, after all, a man of the forge and the field. If he could harness such a flame to fuse the two [Bronze Compasses] he had acquired, his utility would soar.

“Very well,” Shen Xian said. “Lead the way.”

They ascended a staircase of forged bronze, their footsteps ringing out like hammer blows. With every step, a ripple of golden light spread across the metal. At the summit stood a gargantuan door, embossed with a complex [Five Elements Array].

Rumble—

The doors groaned open, revealing not a room, but a pocket dimension. A fragmented continent floated in the void, partitioned into five distinct, terrifying landscapes.

To the west, the Metal Pass glittered with a forest of inverted blades. To the east, the Wood Pass was a jungle of sentient, towering oaks. In the center, a heavenly river fell from the sky in the Water Pass, while the Fire Pass erupted in rivers of blood-red magma. Finally, the Earth Pass loomed with mountains so dense they seemed to warp the very air.

“The Five Elements Hall…” Wang Chuan whispered, his bravado finally failing him. “It… it’s magnificent.”

Shen Xian narrowed his eyes, his spirit sensing the raw, untapped power of the primordial fires waiting within the chaos. This was no longer a simple ruin; it was a workshop of the gods.