Shi Yang tilted the blade, letting the storm winds buffet against him. The sea breeze hissed, droplets spattering across the rusted steel. Wherever the water touched, the corrosion seemed to crawl faster, as though the sword itself was drinking in the ocean's essence.
His eyes narrowed, Dao patterns flickering faintly in their depths. So this is how it resonates… rust, decay, and the sea itself bound together in one edge. If I can fold that into my own Dao, then perhaps I can gain something no sword cultivator can touch.
Lightning ripped across the clouds, briefly illuminating the trembling fishermen. But Shi Yang's attention was already far from them. He turned the blade sideways, watching water bead and hiss against its surface. Then, without hesitation, he let it hang loose at his side and gazed down into the churning black sea.
"If I want the ocean's truth… then I need to dive straight into it."
And so, he leapt.
His astral body pierced the waves without a splash, sinking effortlessly into the abyss. There was no fear of drowning—no lungs to fill with saltwater, no heart to choke on brine. Only endless descent, deeper and deeper, the storm above fading into a pale smear of light.
The sea embraced him with cold silence. Weeds swayed like drifting hair, schools of fish darted like fleeting sparks, but soon even those vanished. Then, he saw it—the ocean bed.
The seabed stretched wide, littered with stone fragments, algae clinging to every surface. Shi Yang's feet touched down lightly, and he muttered under his breath, "I'm starting to act like a real cultivator now."
He crossed his legs, sitting in the stillness of the deep. The rusted sword rested across his lap. Now… let's see what I can comprehend.
Placing a hand along the blade's edge, he infused it with Qi. At once, the surface bubbled and hissed. Orange-red streaks spread like veins, thickening as flakes of rust lifted and crumbled away. It was like watching iron rot in fast motion—metal gnawed by the sea, eaten alive by salt and oxygen. The sword breathed corrosion, as though rust itself was its natural state of being.
Shrikkk.
The weapon hissed, trembling as though it would thrash free of his hold. Its edges crumbled, its hilt shook, and its intent screamed into his mind: Cut. Cut. Cut. Cut. Though its body was falling apart, its edge remained ever-sharp. The sheer force of its will blinded Shi Yang for a heartbeat, and he rubbed his palm against it in reflex.
"!?"
He jerked back. "Ouch—what the hell was that?" His wounded spirit-hand throbbed, forcing him to drop the sword. It quivered on the seafloor, shrieking as he clenched his fist in disbelief. Is this… a living weapon? Still carrying out its master's will?
The thought made his eyes narrow. "Hmm… this just got a bit more interesting." His lips curled into a grin as he picked it up again. The sword hissed louder in his grasp. Rust. Rust. Rust.
Shi Yang forced his will against it, flooding it with Qi. Its edges corroded faster, whole flakes sloughing away, while the ocean currents muffled its fury. Slowly, its rage dulled. He sat cross-legged, sword pressed down beneath his fingers, and opened his mind in meditation.
Cut. Cut. Cut. Cut. Cut. Cut.
The whispers clawed at him, dragging him to the edge. His eyes flickered, body trembling as if he would yield and slice himself again. Yet this time, he resisted. His breathing steadied. He closed his eyes and envisioned a storm.
Within my spirit sea, thunder roars and lightning strikes. The wind howls like a wolf unchained. Clouds veil the night, swallowing sun and moon alike.
No matter the time—day or night, tribulations or raging seas—this is my mantra. Not masterpiece, not faith. Just words cast into chaos above.
His eyes snapped open, wide with shock.
Did… I just reach enlightenment?
A pale bluish aura shimmered around him, soft yet undeniable. His mind cleared of the sword's venomous intent, his thoughts like a calm ocean beneath the storm.
It was said in the cultivation world that enlightenment came in countless shapes and sizes. There was no fixed path. A cultivator could train for years, chasing perfection, yet only find clarity when they abandoned it. Another might stumble into it as easily as waking from sleep, or even by kicking a stray rock.
Shi Yang's lips curved faintly at the thought. So this is mine…
But then—
Cut. Cut. Cut.
The whispers crept back, gnawing at his focus, testing his resolve. His grip tightened on the blade.
This time, however, he was ready. He drew upon his newfound mantra, letting the storm within his spirit sea answer the sword's cries. Thunder rolled, lightning lashed, and the endless howls of wind swallowed the whispers whole.
—
Back on the surface.
The deck stank of blood and brine. Broken planks groaned under the fishermen's boots, their breaths ragged as they staggered about like men who had stared into hell and somehow lived. Some huddled at the railings, retching seawater and bile, others pressed their backs to the mast, eyes still fixed on the dark waves as though something might leap again at any moment.
"What… what the fuck was that thing?" one man whispered, hands trembling as he fumbled a cigarette he couldn't light.
Another laughed too loudly, a high, cracking sound. "Doesn't matter, it's gone—yeah? Gone!" He swiped at his face, but the tears and snot kept running.
The streamer clutched her camera rig, fingers white-knuckled, still streaming live despite everything. She had almost died minutes ago, and now every movement felt unreal—her voice a thin rasp when she tried to speak.
But the chat was exploding. Messages blurred across the screen, thousands a second:
"WTF DID WE JUST SEE???"
"This can't be real, no way—"
"Holy shit holy shit holy shit—share this now."
"LOOK AT THE WATER IT'S STILL MOVING."
And the viewer count—already high when panic first broke out—was climbing in a frenzy. Fifty thousand, a hundred thousand, three hundred thousand… then past a million as clips of the chaos spread like wildfire across the net. People weren't just watching anymore—they were obsessed.
The fishermen noticed too. One of them snarled, pointing at the streamer. "Turn that damn thing off! We're not circus animals—"
"No!" another snapped back, hysterical. "Don't you get it? We need this! Proof! No one'll believe us without it!"
Their voices overlapped, desperation against denial, survival instinct against the creeping realization that the world was watching their fear in real time.
And then the storm deepened.
The sea darkened into black iron, waves hammering the hull until it shook with every strike. Wind howled like a living thing, tearing at ropes, snapping loose tarps and sails. The fishermen staggered, clutching whatever they could to stay upright.
Then, with a sound like tearing flesh, the ocean split.
A vulture burst from the depths—its great wings beating against the storm winds, feathers matted and slick with brine. Normally brown, they had turned a sodden black, weighed down by seawater and the stench of rot.
Its crooked neck jutted forward, bald head gleaming wet under the lightning, and from its raw, pale eyes bled tears of red. It soared above the mast, and with its cry came strings—bloody cords unraveling from its chest, whipping across the deck in wet cracks.
The men froze as the red threads coiled around them one by one. Chests seized, arms bound, throats pressed tight until they could only choke out gasps.
The streamer's camera dropped to the floor, the lens tilted up as the crimson bindings pulled everyone still.
And then—
Shi Yang erupted from the water.
His astral form broke the surface with no splash, only force, the sea itself seeming to part around him. In his hand burned that rusted blade, shrieking a sound that wasn't sound, edges flaking yet sharper than any steel.
The sword fought him. It twisted in his grip, tore free, and circled like a predator, shrieking, hungry to cut.
Shi Yang's will surged, and the vulture above screamed in tandem. Its bloody cords thickened, tightening, then snapping out toward the flying sword, trying to bind it.
But the blade was no ordinary weapon. With every sweep, it split the threads like paper. Crimson strands fluttered apart, dissolving into steam as if the sword drank them whole.
"Rust…" Shi Yang growled, forcing his Dao into the weapon even as it resisted, "…you are mine."
The vulture shrieked again, binding and binding, strings wrapping faster, denser, until the air was thick with red. Yet the sword screamed louder, cutting through every restraint, scattering the cords like spilled entrails across the deck.
The fishermen, bound and gasping, could only watch in terror as man, beast, and weapon clashed—storm winds tearing around them, lightning splitting the sky above.