The storm behind him receded like a dream, leaving only the faint echo of rain and the whispers of the sea. Shi Yang's figure streaked through the night, barely tangible against the darkened world, his senses stretching across mountains, rivers, and forests. The cursed sword had not stopped, and neither would he.
The vulture circled high above, wings slicing clouds, its eyes locked on the pulsing glow of the blade. Shi Yang felt the surge of the sword's hunger even from miles away, a living thing of steel and malice, pulling him forward with every thought. His Qi coiled in his limbs, carrying him over cliffs and rushing rivers, the wind tearing at his clothes and hair as he fought, practiced his Dao, and tried to contain his target.
Hours passed—or perhaps only minutes; time had no meaning in the chase. The moon rose, pale and indifferent, casting silver over rocky peaks and deep valleys. The vulture's cry cut through the night, a sharp, keening call that announced the sword's presence. Shi Yang's eyes narrowed. He had to intercept it before it vanished into some forgotten wilderness.
He landed briefly atop a jagged cliff, stones cracking underfoot. Below, a cascade of mountain mist rolled like restless spirits, hiding the terrain beneath in a gray sea. The vulture spiraled down, dragging the cursed blade behind it, its red threads slashing at the air with the faintest shimmer of blood-light.
Shi Yang raised his palms, summoning his Dao once more. A faint aura coalesced around him, pale blue and humming with energy, pushing the mist aside as though the mountain obeyed him. "You will not escape," he murmured, voice low but carrying the authority of storm and sky.
The vulture banked sharply, talons extended, claws glittering in the moonlight. The sword pulsed violently, almost alive, as if sensing Shi Yang's nearness. Each step, each flutter of wings, drew the blade closer to madness. Shi Yang's hands itched with the desire to grasp it, to restrain and bind it—but caution tempered him. One false move and the sword would rip through him, consuming every ounce of his Qi.
I don't need this to act mysterious anymore, he thought, dropping the corpse he was carrying. I'll check on you if you have anything special later.
Then he leaped from the cliff edge, descending in a controlled plummet, Qi flowing along his astral limbs like liquid fire. The mountain wind screamed past, carrying with it the scent of wet stone and pine, the distant roar of waterfalls hidden deep in the valleys. Below, the vulture's red threads twisted and coiled, desperate to escape, desperate to feed.
With a surge of power, Shi Yang extended his spirit vision. The world bent, revealing paths unseen by mortal eyes: hidden ridges, narrow ledges, and the pulse of the cursed blade itself, vibrating like a heartbeat in the dark. He moved, gliding along the invisible currents of Dao, closing the distance with terrifying swiftness.
The vulture dove through a narrow pass, cliffs on either side jagged and sharp. Shi Yang followed, palms open, chanting low, the mantra of wind and thunder threading around him like armor. "Rust… Rust… Rust…" he whispered, barely audible, fingers brushing the air to shape currents.
The sword shrieked in resistance, flinging sparks as it clashed against the mountain's jagged edges. The vulture shrieked as if in pain, wings tearing at rock and air alike. Shi Yang's body dropped onto the path below, stones exploding outward under the force of his landing. His aura flared, light casting long shadows against the cliffs, reflecting in the sword's mad shimmer.
The distance closed to a heartbeat. With precise timing, he lunged, one hand seizing the hilt, the other pinning the spine with fingers of steel-like resolve. The sword screamed, a sound that shook the very bones of the mountain, but Shi Yang's mantra flowed through it, weaving restraint and will around the steel's madness.
The vulture shrieked again, talons flailing, claws raking at Shi Yang's Qi, but he ignored it, focusing on the pulse of the blade. Slowly—agonizingly slowly—the weapon's writhing hunger began to calm, drawn into his control. He could feel its spirit, sharp and chaotic, yet malleable, as if recognizing the hand of a master it could not defy.
Finally, the sword stilled. The vulture hovered nearby, wings drooping, exhausted, feathers slick with rain and mist. Shi Yang's palms released the pressure, letting the blade fall lightly to the stone path. Its crimson threads dimmed, retracting like a serpent retreating into shadows.
He stepped back, breathing even but deep, eyes scanning the mountaintop. Moonlight glinted off the steel, faintly illuminating runes along the blade's surface—twisted, hungry inscriptions, still alive with the promise of chaos. Shi Yang knew this was but a temporary calm. The sword's hunger would never vanish. He would have to refine, bind, and master it fully before its next awakening.
The vulture coiled once around the blade, its single golden eye watching him. Shi Yang tilted his head. "You did a great job," he said, voice calm, absolute. The creature rumbled, wings folding neatly as though in agreement, though whether manipulated by his will or its own understanding, he could not tell.
The storm of the world below felt distant now, a faint whisper in the night. Shi Yang's gaze swept across the horizon, mountains stretching endlessly, winds whispering secrets. Somewhere out there, the next trial awaited—but for now, the cursed blade was his, and the mountain was silent but for the faint hiss of mist and the heartbeat of steel.
—
The mountain settled into silence once more, the mist curling between jagged peaks like pale phantoms. Shi Yang glanced at the corpse he had abandoned on the cliff earlier. A thought stirred, and with a wave of his sleeve, the vulture drifted upward and brought it down toward him, suspending it in threads of blood. He crouched and rifled through its robes, his hand closing on a sodden leather satchel.
Inside, preserved beneath layers of waxed paper, lay a manual. Its cover was torn, blackened at the edges, the characters only half-legible.
"The Rusted Sea Sword Sutra."
Shi Yang's eyes glinted. No wonder the cursed blade had such weight. Even in fragmentary form, the technique was dangerous. The corpse's owner had clearly only begun practicing it without mastery, form what he read it was a Foundation-realm weapon-refining technique. "It's a fusion of basic formations and water-Dao proficiency. I don't know if this is actually a Foundation-realm technique or if it's possible to achieve in the real world, but if I sensed my Dao resonance in it, then there should be a little weight to it even if it isn't that powerful once I live my spirit sea."
Shi Yang slid the manual into his pants. His gaze swept across the mountain until he found it: a secluded hollow where a river burst from the cliffside, crashing into a pool so deep it seemed bottomless. The water thundered against stone, yet beneath it, silence waited.
He stepped forward, sinking beneath the surface.
The world above vanished in a rush of bubbles. Below, the water was black and still, as if untouched by light. He folded his legs beneath him, hair spreading like ink through the current. The cursed sword floated before him, its runes bleeding faint crimson, pulsing faintly in the dark. The vulture perched above the pool's edge, silent, its single golden eye fixed downward like a sentinel.
Shi Yang placed the sword across his knees, both hands resting lightly on the steel. Then he opened the manual.
His spirit sea stirred as the words carved themselves into his mind:
"To cultivate rust is to cultivate the undoing of permanence. Rust devours all things—steel, Qi, even time itself. Feed the blade, and it shall consume. Withhold, and it shall consume you instead. Only one who embodies corrosion may turn it into Dao."
Shi Yang exhaled slowly, his voice barely a whisper against the currents:
"Rust."
The word rippled through the pool, distorting the water as if time itself shivered. He fed Qi into the runes etched along the blade's surface. They lit faintly, hissing as though resisting. He pressed harder, forcing his energy into the tangled inscriptions. They writhed and buckled, some dissolving like iron left too long in salt air, others twisting to accept his command.
The previous owner's Qi lingers—a stubborn, branded essence, clinging to the steel like mold to rotted wood. Shi Yang's eyes narrowed. He forced his energy deeper, corroding the remnants, breaking them down stroke by stroke, rune by rune.
The sword shuddered violently, thrashing in his hands, but he did not falter. Rust bloomed across its surface, creeping outward in mottled patches, spreading like disease. He poured his will into it, not to destroy but to overwrite—to claim.
Within my spirit sea, thunder roars. Lightning strikes. Wind howls like a wolf unchained. Clouds veil the night, swallowing sun and moon alike.
Now, new words joined the mantra, threads of iron decay woven into storm:
"And all that stands shall rust. All that resists shall corrode. Nothing escapes the rot of time."
The water around him darkened. Flakes of rust drifted from the blade, spreading through the pool like blood. Even the rocks beneath him groaned as a faint corrosion gnawed at their surface. His Qi swirled, pale-blue stormlight now streaked with orange-brown veins, the essence of rust threading itself into his Dao.
The struggle was brutal. His spirit trembled as the cursed blade lashed against him, its old master's Qi trying to gnaw at his own. Yet the more it resisted, the more he pressed, corroding every trace of that foreign essence.
Time bled away beneath the mountain waters. Minutes. Hours. He did not know. His lungs burned, yet he endured, his body more spirit than flesh in this state. Slowly, agonizingly, the blade's resistance waned.
When at last he opened his eyes, the runes glowed faintly—not crimson, but a dark, weathered bronze. They pulsed in rhythm with his breathing, no longer rejecting but yielding.
Shi Yang lifted the weapon, now pitted and scarred, yet alive with a deeper resonance. The cursed sword had not been purified—it never would be—but it had bent. Its hunger had been layered with his own will, its old master's brand dissolved into rust and storm.
He gazed at its surface, expression calm but eyes burning with intent.
"From now on," he murmured, voice carrying through water like thunder through mist, "you are no longer a relic of another man's Dao. In this world you are mine—a sword of storm and rust."
The weapon pulsed once in his grip, as though acknowledging.
Above, the vulture spread its wings, letting out a low, rasping cry that echoed off the cliffs.
Shi Yang closed the manual, tucking it away. His legs unfolded, his body rising slowly through the water until he breached the surface. Moonlight struck his face, pale and cold.
He sheathed the blade across his back.
The world whispered again, winds curling through pine and stone. And Shi Yang felt it—the faint shift of his Dao, expanding, deepening. Rust had entered his path, and the mountain itself seemed to corrode at his presence.
Shi Yang smirked, his palm flattening against the cold stone.
Hissss~
The sound spread like oil on water. Minerals writhed beneath his touch, veins of quartz paling, granite darkening as if disease had seeped into its marrow. The surface blistered, flaking in ragged patches.
Rust.
It shouldn't have been possible—stone did not rust, not in the sense of steel. Yet under his will, even solid mountain began to wither. The edges bled into orange-brown streaks, then into deeper hues of black rot. Small fissures opened across the surface, hissing as moisture within the stone boiled away, leaving only a brittle husk.
Shi Yang drew his hand back.
The rock cracked under its own weight, collapsing into a heap of dust and corroded fragments that scattered with the mountain breeze.
His smirk widened.
"So even mountains can rust under my Dao." His voice was quiet but carried the satisfaction of a predator testing new fangs.
He flexed his fingers, watching faint traces of bronze-brown Qi coil across his knuckles before dissolving into stormy-ocean light. The resonance was intoxicating—storm and rust feeding each other, a cycle of corrosion and renewal. Storm broke mountains; rust consumed what storm left behind.
Yet he knew it was not without danger. The same essence that corroded rock also gnawed at the edges of his own Qi, subtle but relentless. He felt the faint ache in his meridians, the weary pulse in his spirit sea. Rust spared nothing, not even its wielder.
He exhaled, steadying his breath. "To wield decay is to invite decay," he murmured. "If I falter, this path will devour me too."
The sword on his back gave a low hum, faint but alive, as though agreeing—or mocking. Its runes glowed with dark bronze light, pulsing in rhythm with the faint hiss of corrosion still hanging in the air.
Shi Yang glanced at the ruined stone, then at his own palm.
"This power isn't complete yet," he said, eyes narrowing with resolve. "I'll refine it until it bends fully to me… until my essence is one with rust."
The mountain winds curled tighter around him, carrying flecks of corroded dust away into the night.