Chapter Eighty-One: Spiritual Treasure

Ding~!

A fingernail gently flicked the sword, ringing out like a clear spring flowing over stone.

He exhaled a breath of qi, and a layer of pure radiance enveloped the blade.

Hiss!

Gripping the sword’s hilt, he swept it out with a flowing motion. Instantly, in the primordial, indistinct void, a deep scar was slashed open. This mark rapidly spread, expanding ever outward toward some distant, unseen place.

“What a fine sword!” A hearty laugh echoed throughout the emptiness.

A man sat suspended in the void, watching as winds and clouds swirled through the chaos like long, colorful sleeves. He gently smoothed over the fissure left behind by the sweep of sword energy.

This man was none other than the avatar of the Ancestor Luo within the world-in-a-jar—a fleshly incarnation in the realm of mortals.

He exhaled again, the breath transforming into brocade-like colors that attached to the sword in his hand. On the blade, he inscribed two characters.

“Zi Ying.”

The sword shimmered with a limpid brilliance, its watery gleam tinged with purple. Thus, Ancestor Luo bestowed upon it this name.

Yet, after naming the sword, Ancestor Luo had no intention of wielding it himself—not yet. Instead, he cast it away.

The Zi Ying Sword soared and ascended, shattering the chaos as it flew, penetrating the primordial mists to reveal the world of men. It then swiftly plunged into the membrane of the mortal earth.

Rip!

There was no need for Ancestor Luo to guide it; the sword broke through all barriers by its own power and fell directly into the human realm.

...

A mournful wailing of spirits rang across the land, chilling the hearts of all who heard it.

The clear sky for ten thousand miles suddenly shifted in hue as purple clouds swept over the heavens, rolling in like waves and flooding the celestial realm.

“A sage has emerged! A sage has emerged!” The superstitious cried out, raising their voices to the sky.

Those who fancied themselves able to divine the heavens muttered, “The realm of purple clouds—calamity is upon us.”

But those who truly understood the cause were bewildered. “A divine weapon?”

The Zi Ying Sword had already chosen its vessel—a ghostly immortal named Yang.

“Zi Ying…” Yang found it inexplicable. He cradled the sword before his eyes, carefully examining the blade.

And so he confirmed that this was indeed a divine weapon descended from beyond the heavens.

“Is it you?” He held the Zi Ying Sword, gazing up at the brilliant opening the sword had carved in the roof of the mountain cave.

“Do you wish me to use this sword to slay the lord of the demons?” he mused, a flash of insight dawning on him.

“Thank you.” Yang bowed deeply to the east, sword in hand.

The east was the direction of the “Sacred Mountain.”

After this sincere bow, Yang carefully put the sword away.

To house this sword, he had specially instructed his disciples to craft a simple yet precious scabbard—fashioned from wood struck by lightning a thousand years ago, inlaid with rare refining materials, able to absorb the spiritual energy of heaven and earth and thus nurture the sword at all times.

Even so, Yang felt it was not enough. He breathed his own sovereign true qi into it, refining the sword so its quality would continually improve.

Yang’s true qi had already drawn infinitely close to Ancestor Luo’s immortal qi—though “infinitely close” was still a vast chasm away.

This was why the Zi Ying Sword had chosen him as its vessel.

The sword was not yet sentient, but it possessed a certain instinct—an instinct born from the rune-forbidden spells inscribed within it.

These spells would seek out higher forms of true qi, then attach themselves, drawing upon that power to gradually drive the sword’s own transformation.

Ancestor Luo was well pleased with this “instinct” in the Zi Ying Sword.

It signified the possibility that it might one day transform into a “living spirit”—true sentience. In Ancestor Luo’s design, this was an inevitable step for any magical implement to become a true treasure.

If a magical treasure could not gain sentience, how could it be called a treasure, or refine and grow on its own?

Above magical treasures were spirit treasures—these possessed a true spirit, an artifact spirit.

Once a treasure had an artifact spirit, it became a genuine living being and could no longer be regarded as a mere object, but as a “Daoist companion.”

Ancestor Luo longed for such a companion by his side.

Alas, no innate spirit treasures had come to him; not only had none surrendered themselves, he had never even seen one. He had only heard a rumor of one such treasure from Tang, and that treasure had already been offered up to the demon god of the Celestial Court.

This showed how even true immortals and celestial immortals, if they possessed a spirit treasure, would be like children flaunting gold in the marketplace—far too conspicuous. Thus, such treasures were offered up to the demon god, who in turn would bestow upon the devotee an item capable of elevating a true immortal to a celestial immortal.

From the intelligence Ancestor Luo had gathered, spirit treasures were divided into innate and acquired. This division was not based on whether they were forged by man or nurtured by heaven and earth, but whether they predated heaven and earth or were born alongside them. Those that existed before or alongside creation were innate; those born after the world’s opening were acquired.

Innate spirit treasures were not necessarily stronger than acquired ones, but the essence of an acquired one could never surpass that of an innate treasure.

With the Zi Ying Sword forged, Ancestor Luo set about reforging the Juque Sword.

Of course, he would not melt it down and recast it—if that were necessary, it would be simpler just to forge a new Juque Sword.

He intended to add new elements to the Juque Sword—thirty-six kinds of metallic alloys he had recently devised.

These alloys could combine the properties of various metals—even those that were normally contradictory, such as extreme hardness and flexibility.

Moreover, their conductivity for true qi and spiritual energy was exceptional; one could fairly call them “celestial golds born for the Dao.”

Clang! Clang!

Clang! Clang!

Again came the sound of furious hammering, like a torrential rain upon iron.

Sometimes urgent, sometimes gentle, each strike seemed to cleanse the soul.

After this forging, the Juque Sword had not diminished in size—in fact, it had grown larger and heavier.

Already as wide as a door plank, it gained another half-foot in width (about sixteen centimeters), another foot in length, but no increase in thickness.

As for its weight—from seventy-nine kilos to one hundred and eight.

To wield such a massive sword would require the strength to hurl bricks like feathers.

To send it flying like a bolt of lightning, one would need to strap a rocket to it.

Fortunately, Ancestor Luo was clever—more than clever.

He ran calculations and made plans for many scenarios, bestowing two new rune-forbidden spells upon the Juque Sword—granting it the ability to fly at high speed, and greatly enhancing its durability.

Thus, when this sword is propelled at speeds a hundred times the speed of sound, it would not shatter upon impact.

Now the Juque Sword bore three rune-forbidden spells, each interacting and resonating with the others—never hindering, only amplifying its power.

This, after all, was the purpose of refining magical implements.

With the Juque Sword thus refined, the next step was to slowly nurture these two new foundational spells, allowing the runes within to truly take form and fix themselves upon the sword.

To complete the process would take about a month.

As soon as Ancestor Luo retrieved the Juque Sword from the world-in-a-jar, a clansman came rushing in with urgent news.

“What has happened today?” Ancestor Luo asked, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

It was because the messenger was a member of the hunting party under Ironhead’s command—the same one who had reported the migration of the Qiu Zhi demon tribe last time.

It seemed today was not to be—he had sent his carriage for maintenance, and some matters had delayed him. But tomorrow he would be back at work, with time to spare. (Time to loaf around.) So tomorrow the real catch-up would begin. Now six chapters behind—twelve thousand words. For the rest of this week, twelve thousand words daily would make up the backlog. Heh, starting tomorrow: three thousand words at eight in the morning, three thousand at noon, three thousand at six in the evening, and another three thousand before midnight. This time, it will be done for sure.