For a feat as extraordinary as summoning the Xian Sword Spirit, an act that had defied the very will of the heavens, the price Lin Mu had paid seemed far too small.
He had slept for five years and awakened weakened, yes, but such a penalty felt trivial compared to the magnitude of what he had done.
Lin Mu sat on the terrace of the temple one evening, the crimson glow of dusk spilling across the marble floor. He gazed at the horizon, his hand resting lightly on the sheath across his back.
The Sword Cradle Divine Sheath had returned to his Dantian when he fainted after the battle, and though the Xian Sword Spirit within it seemed dormant now, the sheath itself still responded to him faithfully.
When his fingers brushed against it, he could sense its faint hum, the quiet acknowledgment between Dao Embryo and master.
But the spirit itself remained silent.
