In the silent, grand hall of the Sword Pavilion—a place once lively with the chatter of swordsmen and warriors—there was now nothing but a haunting stillness. The cold marble floors echoed faint footsteps, subtle yet firm, as a figure moved purposefully toward a large, imposing door at the far end of the corridor.
The man pushed the door open, its ancient hinges creaking softly as the wood shifted. As soon as the gap allowed air to flow through, a strong, pungent smell greeted his senses—harsh and acrid, the unmistakable odor of cigarettes. His nose wrinkled, his brows drew together into a frustrated frown, and he immediately raised his voice with irritation.
"Can't you even open the windows?" he barked sharply, his tone both annoyed and exasperated. "This f*cking smell is making me lose my mind."
His voice bounced off the high walls of the room, disturbing the calm atmosphere. He turned to the source of the stench—toward the corner where sunlight dared not reach, in the same spot that remained unchanged for years.
There, leaning back nonchalantly on a slightly worn wooden chair, sat a man with an air of unfazed superiority. A thin trail of smoke rose from the cigarette between his fingers, curling lazily into the air. A large, unfolded newspaper rested in his lap, one corner twitching as he turned the page with a casual flick. He inhaled deeply, letting the cigarette burn just a little more, before exhaling a cloud of smoke with practiced ease.
This man was no ordinary smoker. He was the Sword Emperor—Maximus. A man who once ruled battlefields with an indomitable will and unmatched swordsmanship. Though dressed in simple clothes, his mere presence was overwhelming, carrying with it a weight that only those who had witnessed war and death could bear. His body was relaxed, but his eyes—those piercing orbs hidden behind the curtain of smoke—remained alert as ever.
As he looked up from the newspaper, a faint smile curved his lips. A smile not of mockery, but one of familiarity. His assistant—Henry—stood at the doorway, still complaining, still nagging, and still worried.
"Henry," Maximus said in a voice as calm as a silent lake. "There's no need to nag about it. Really, there's not much time left."
Those words, though spoken casually, struck like thunder in Henry's heart.
The younger man froze, his mouth half-open. His hands, once animated in frustration, dropped to his sides as if he had suddenly remembered something painful. Silence fell once again, but this time, it was laden with emotion. His lips trembled ever so slightly. He looked as though he might cry any moment but held it in with great difficulty.
Maximus let out a quiet sigh, the cigarette slowly burning in his fingers.
"We can't do anything about it," he said softly, his gaze no longer on Henry but on something distant, something unreachable. "This time… it's inevitable."
Henry lowered his gaze, fighting back the sting behind his eyes. His voice, when he spoke, was soft, hesitant.
"Sir… are you really sure you want to accept a disciple from this year's academy competition?" he asked carefully. "We can wait longer… wait for proper reports on their capabilities and achievements. We can recruit someone more suitable later. There's no need to rush, is there?"
Maximus didn't respond immediately. Instead, he chuckled—an odd sound amidst the heavy air of sorrow and worry. It was a deep laugh, the kind that came not from humor but from something instinctual, something beyond reason.
"Henry," he said, eyes now twinkling with a strange light, "I don't know why, but I can feel it… something good is going to happen at that academy competition."
He took another drag from the cigarette, smoke rolling from his lips like mist.
"Maybe," he continued, "just maybe… I'll find someone outstanding among them. A brilliant student. Someone worthy of inheriting my legacy."
Henry looked unconvinced. He sighed loudly, resigned to the whims of his master. "Okay… Let's do as you say. But, please—at least consider their behavior, background, discipline, mental state, everything! You can't just pick a random genius and expect them to carry your legacy. They need to be more than talented."
His nagging tone returned as if a dam of concern had cracked open again. But this time, Maximus didn't interrupt. He simply smiled, letting Henry's words fill the air.
The Sword Emperor then leaned back, allowing his head to rest against the wall. For a while, his mind drifted away—away from Henry, away from the Sword Pavilion, and back to a time long past.
In that silent drift, he remembered...
A time of warmth. Of family. Of comrades. Of laughter around a campfire. Of sword duels with friends under blooming cherry trees. A time when his hands held not only a blade but also the small, soft hands of his son—his pride, his legacy, his joy.
But now… all of it was gone.
That warmth had long faded, leaving behind nothing but the cold ache of loneliness.
"Sir?" Henry's voice brought him back. "Are you listening?"
More nagging. More worry.
But instead of scolding or irritation, Maximus smiled again—this time, genuinely.
'Yes,' he thought to himself with a faint sense of comfort. 'I still have my assistant, Henry.'
As his thoughts settled, the weight of the day began to press down on him. He closed his eyes, letting the tension in his body dissolve. Slowly, gradually, sleep pulled him under its gentle, deceptive current.
And once again, the same nightmare returned.
The memory that haunted him like a scar engraved into his very soul.
In the dark fog of the dreamscape, he stood there—blood on his sword, body trembling, knees bruised from battle. Before him lay the mangled body of his son, eyes wide, lips frozen mid-cry. The opponent—that devil—stood only meters away, wounded, exhausted, vulnerable.
Maximus could have ended it.
He should have ended it.
But he hesitated.
Just for a moment.
A moment spent in disbelief, in anguish, in despair over the loss of his child.
That moment was enough.
The devil escaped, disappearing into the shadows like a phantom. The battle was over, but the war was lost.
Maximus dropped to his knees in the dream, fists pounding the ground, his voice breaking with grief.
"Why?" he cried. "I was almost there. I almost had everything. And I couldn't even defeat that monster. Because of my negligence… my son…"
His scream echoed, not just in the dream, but in the depths of his soul.
"That devil will return one day. He'll bring chaos again. Why wasn't I able to kill him when I had the chance?!"
He sobbed in silence, hands trembling, grief wrapping around his heart like a cold iron chain.
And then—he woke up.
Gasping. Sweating. Heart thundering in his chest.
He sat up, the bedsheets tangled around his legs. His breath came in short bursts, and his hands trembled as if he'd just fought a war again.
"Why the hell…" he muttered, dragging a hand across his face, "Why is that nightmare haunting me again? Can't I even be at peace in my sleep?"
He stood up and walked barefoot across the polished floor, the moonlight spilling through the large balcony windows. He slid the door open and stepped outside. The cold night air greeted him like an old friend, and he leaned against the railing, staring up at the glowing silver orb above.
The moon hung there, silent and patient, witnessing his pain.
Maximus closed his eyes.
'Maybe this time…' he thought. 'Maybe this time, I can find someone to pass my legacy to. Someone who'll carry the burden, the name, the strength… and let me die peacefully.'
Behind him, the slightly opened bedroom door revealed a sliver of light.
Henry stood there, unseen.
His eyes rested on the figure of his master, silhouetted under the moonlight, a man worn down by guilt and memory.
Henry sighed softly, speaking only to himself.
"When will you finally get over your guilt… sir?"
Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving Maximus alone with the moon, the silence, and the ghost of his past.
Far away from the solemn silence of the Sword Pavilion and the haunting regrets of the Sword Emperor Maximus, the world moved forward, oblivious to the weight of his pain.
On the opposite side of the continent, within a forest clearing lit by faint rays of morning sunlight, the air trembled faintly. A strange energy swirled through the atmosphere like an invisible tide crashing against the shore of reality. Trees rustled, the wind carrying a surge of spiritual pressure so dense that even birds in flight turned direction and fled.
And at the center of it all, a young man stood.
His hands were clenched into fists, and his eyes burned with a feral pride. His breathing was deep, steady, and filled with a strength that had not been there before. A powerful aura surrounded him, causing the very grass under his feet to tremble. His clothes fluttered against the storm of raw power emanating from his body.
The moment had finally arrived.
He had done it.
He had broken through.
"HAHAHAHA!" The young man threw his head back and laughed, loud and unrestrained, his voice echoing across the hills like a madman's cry of triumph. "I did it! I really did it! I finally broke through to the Spellroot Realm!"
That young man was Alex—an upstart genius with ambition that reached the heavens, and an ego just as high.
He spun around on one foot and broke into a ridiculous, manic dance, moving in wide circles as if the world had just crowned him king.
"Leo! Ooooh, Leo! Your end is coming up!" he declared in a loud, dramatic voice. "Do you hear me, you arrogant bastard?! Prepare yourself! Be ready to get your ass beat by me! HAHAHAHA!"
He continued spinning in circles, hands raised like a victorious warrior. His laughter twisted into a crazed cackle, revealing the edge of obsession behind his joy.
In truth, to others, it was just a simple breakthrough into the Spellroot Realm—a milestone many would achieve during their cultivation path. But for Alex, it was everything. It wasn't just power.
It was revenge.
It was the key to finally surpassing the one person who had haunted his pride: Leo.
As he celebrated, several pairs of eyes hidden in the shadows watched in silence. Clad in black robes and adorned with subtle symbols of a crescent-shaped dagger, the Shadow Force members observed his movements from the treetops and bushes, blending perfectly into the natural surroundings.
Their leader narrowed his eyes, the faint silver glint in his pupils indicating deep analytical focus. His tone was flat, unimpressed, as he finally spoke.
"…So he's broken through to the Spellroot Realm."
Another member clicked his tongue. "Tch. Just Spellroot Realm, huh? You'd think he became a god from the way he's dancing around."
Another chuckled lightly. "Yeah. He's celebrating like he shattered the heavens. Not like he just made the first step into something serious."
The squad leader said nothing. His eyes remained on Alex, scanning the boy's movements and chakra flow.
In the world of cultivation, breaking into the Spellroot Realm was certainly an achievement—it marked the end of the foundational stage, where one's body and spirit began aligning with deeper cosmic energies. But in the grand scheme of things, it was just the beginning of true advancement.
To the Shadow Force—an elite organization known for scouting threats and opportunities alike—this was nothing more than a small development.
Still, they had been assigned to monitor this particular individual. His rivalry with Leo had not gone unnoticed by certain powers, and where Leo went, change tended to follow. It was always wise to keep an eye on the unstable pieces of the board.
"Should we report this now?" one of them asked casually.
The leader nodded. "Yes. Report it. It's just a minor breakthrough… but considering his current obsession, we may see something interesting soon."
The team nodded and faded away like mist, disappearing from the clearing one by one.
Meanwhile, Alex remained in his personal celebration, entirely unaware that his triumph had already been observed, analyzed, and filed away like a passing breeze.
His grin widened as he imagined the upcoming academy competition—the place where he would finally settle everything.
"I'll crush him," he muttered under his breath. "In front of everyone. I'll humiliate Leo where it matters the most. Let's see how he grins then."
He closed his eyes, letting the spiritual energy within his body settle. His breakthrough had come with great effort and sacrifice. Countless sleepless nights, endless sparring, harsh failures, and intense mental training had led him here.
And now that he stood at the Spellroot Realm, everything felt different. His senses were sharper, his awareness wider, and his confidence nearly immeasurable.
But beneath that joy… was something darker.
It wasn't just about being stronger.
It was about revenge.
It was about superiority.
About proving something that no one asked him to prove—but he needed it nonetheless.
As he walked away from the training ground, muttering strategies and imagining Leo's defeat for the hundredth time, the winds seemed to whisper around him, carrying secrets and promises into the future.
A storm was coming.
And it was being brewed by the ambition of boys turned warriors, by the guilt of fallen emperors, and by the legacy that refused to die quietly.
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Chapter 67 ends
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