Not long after Xiǎo Chén left the Xuánxīng Cave—
Before the towering Stone Sword Tower,
sword intent coiled like ten thousand blades suspended in the air.
The stone walls were covered in ancient scars,
as though countless sword cultivators had carved their marks here across the ages.
From within the tower,
waves of sword intent surged outward like a rising tide,
pressing against the chest,
making each breath feel as though it might be sliced apart.
Xuán Chén was still deep in thought,
searching for a method.
But Shī Tóngbǎi's face had already turned pale,
and the stone tiles beneath his feet were beginning to crack.
Clutching his sword,
cold sweat dripping down his forehead,
Shī Tóngbǎi gritted his teeth.
"Senior brother… if this keeps up,
I'm really going to get flattened."
Xuán Chén replied calmly.
"If your heart falters first,
your footing will only grow weaker.
Hold on a little longer.
I'm close to figuring it out."
Sword intent crashed down like waves.
Shī Tóngbǎi had attempted to force his way through several times—
his shoulders and arms were already cut open by sword qi,
his breath chaotic,
yet he refused to retreat.
Frustration churned in his chest.
"Am I really…
unable to even step past this threshold?"
"This won't do…"
He muttered through clenched teeth,
eyes locked on the invisible current of sword force.
He stepped forward again—
but this time, he did not brace himself.
He shifted his body sideways,
letting the sword intent sweep past him.
Though the impact still sent his qi and blood surging wildly,
it was no longer the overwhelming blow from before.
Under that crushing pressure,
he faintly sensed a rhythm—
not pure hostility,
but a flowing sword momentum,
like a river's current,
rising and falling with its own natural pattern.
He drew a deep breath.
"Hard resistance won't work…
then I'll move with it."
With that thought,
he endured the pain
and began trying again.
The first attempt—
he was swept aside like driftwood.
The second—
he barely dodged,
but the residual force numbed his arm.
The third—
he twisted like a fish in water,
slipping through the gaps in the current,
moving in the same direction as the sword flow.
He fell again and again,
adjusting each time.
His movements grew more fluid,
though his breathing was ragged.
Sword qi still grazed past him—
dangerously close—
but no longer shattered him completely.
"This sword intent…
there's a rhythm hidden within it.
If I follow its flow,
I can avoid it—
and even steal a trace of its momentum…"
A spark flashed in Shī Tóngbǎi's mind.
Images of Xuānyuán Dié's Flying Butterfly Sword,
and echoes of the Tiānhén Sword Art,
flitted through his thoughts.
"So that's it…
It's not imitation.
It's finding my own sword path…"
Within the flowing current,
he began to grasp the faintest outline
of a sword momentum that belonged to him alone.
Xuán Chén watched quietly from the side.
Under the crushing sword pressure,
he did not move.
Instead, he slowly closed his eyes.
In that moment,
a completely different sensation surfaced in his heart.
"If Shī Tóngbǎi is a fish entering the water,
moving with the current—
then why can't I become
the stone resting in the river?"
Xuán Chén drew a long breath.
His steps no longer shifted;
his body stood rooted, unmoving—
as though he had become a smooth river stone resting in the current.
He sank his awareness into his chest,
letting the sword momentum sweep past him like flowing water.
He did not resist it head‑on.
He merely adjusted his posture—
a slight turn,
a subtle shift—
allowing the sword intent to slip past his side.
Amid this killing field of sword aura,
a realization dawned upon him.
At first, the sword qi had fallen like a sudden storm,
each strike suffocating.
But when he truly stilled himself—
when he abandoned resistance—
he felt the layers of sword intent
quietly parting around him,
guided away by his stillness.
A sword could "move with the flow,"
but it could also "subdue motion with stillness."
He whispered—
"Like a stone resting in the river…
the water passes, leaving no trace."
This insight was no longer a technique to break a strike.
It was a path—
a way of using softness to dissolve sharpness,
of using stillness to overcome force.
Stone and water.
Fish and current.
Two entirely different approaches—
yet both found survival
within the same torrent of sword intent.
Shī Tóngbǎi adjusted step by step within the flowing sword stream,
finally moving like a fish entering water.
Xuán Chén stood unmoving,
a stone in the river,
letting the sword intent glide past him like a flowing river.
One in motion,
one in stillness—
both searching for their own path
within the overwhelming tide of sword aura.
In the shadows,
Gǔ Líng watched everything clearly.
He could not help but murmur—
"Different paths…
yet both have stepped into the threshold of sword intent."
His voice was low and steady,
carrying a trace of unhidden satisfaction.
He had never left.
He had merely concealed his presence,
observing their struggle and breakthroughs in silence.
Only now did he speak—
half commentary,
half a reminder for what lay ahead.
As his words faded,
the fierce sword intent within the stone tower
seemed to withdraw slightly.
Not disappearing—
but pausing,
as though acknowledging the perseverance of those who challenged it,
leaving behind a narrow passage.
Xuán Chén and Shī Tóngbǎi exchanged a glance.
Both understood—
this opportunity would not come twice.
Their sword breaths still surged within them,
yet they stepped forward together,
following that narrow seam of calm,
and slowly entered the depths of the stone tower.
Inside, the tower was dim.
The sword scars carved into the stone walls
glimmered faintly—
as though reflecting the trials left behind
by generations of sword cultivators.
Every step felt heavy,
as if they were walking upon
the heart‑marks of those who came before.
The ringing of swords in their ears gradually softened,
yet did not vanish.
Instead, it transformed into thin streams of light,
seeping from the cracks in the stone walls,
circling the air like silent threads.
The sword momentum no longer pressed down blindly.
It shifted—
becoming a subtle pull,
a quiet probing,
as though testing and observing
whether the two could comprehend more under its weight.
Gǔ Líng said nothing further.
Hands clasped behind his back,
he stood outside the tower,
watching as their figures disappeared into the darkness.
At last, the two pushed through the pressure of the sword intent,
opened the stone door,
and stepped into the tower.
The first floor was wide.
The sword scars on the walls were not chaotic—
each carried the intent of a technique,
as if invisible sword cultivators stood all around them,
ready to strike at any moment.
The moment they crossed the threshold,
the sword intent surged again,
as though a new trial had begun.
On the stone walls,
countless sword marks crisscrossed.
Each mark carried a lingering intent—
not dead carvings,
but echoes of the strongest strikes
left behind by those who once trained here.
These were not mere scratches.
They were the eternal shadows
of the strongest sword moves
ever unleashed in this place.
At first, Shī Tóngbǎi thought they were simply old marks.
But when he focused—
his heart jolted violently.
A sword mark leapt from the wall
like a living thing—
transforming into a blade of pure sword momentum
that slashed straight toward him!
Xuán Chén, still at the doorway,
felt the same crushing pressure.
Unlike the outer courtyard's simple "sword aura suppression,"
what lingered here
was the true intent of each strike.
Every mark
was the strongest technique
a sword cultivator had left behind—
a challenge for those who came after.
This was the second trial.
Not to resist—
but to endure
and comprehend.
If they could not see through the intent within the marks,
they would remain trapped at the entrance forever.
The two stood still,
both understanding that this floor
was far more difficult than the outside.
Outside, one could still force their way through.
But here—
to meet these strikes head‑on
was almost certain defeat.
Shī Tóngbǎi stepped forward first.
A sword mark flared—
killing intent erupted.
He raised his sword to block—
but the sword intent here was far sharper than outside.
He reacted too slowly.
The strike cut across his shoulder,
splitting skin and drawing blood.
The pain nearly forced him back out the door.
He let out a bitter laugh.
"So this…
is where the real training begins."
But then—
the insight he gained outside resurfaced.
The feeling of "swimming with the sword flow."
He inhaled deeply
and stepped forward again.
This time, he did not brace himself.
He let his body turn with the sword mark's intent,
avoiding its sharpest edge,
borrowing its momentum to slip past.
His movements were still clumsy,
but he was no longer instantly overwhelmed.
Once.
Twice.
Again and again—
Through repeated wounds and evasions,
he gradually sensed the rhythm hidden within the sword marks.
These were not simple attacks.
They were as if someone were standing before him,
unleashing their strongest sword strike
in that very moment.
Shī Tóngbǎi's eyes gradually brightened.
He had once learned the Flying Butterfly Sword—light and agile as a dancing butterfly.
He had witnessed the Tiānhén Sword Art—steady and weighty as the stars.
Now, within the sword marks,
he found traces of both.
His movements shifted—sometimes light, sometimes heavy—
and a faint pattern began forming within his swordplay.
It was not yet a complete sword technique.
But like a seed,
it quietly sprouted in the depths of his heart.
Xuán Chén moved beside him in silence.
Under the crushing sword intent,
he did not rush to strike.
Instead, he dissolved each incoming force
with subtle motions—
a deflection,
a misalignment,
a gentle redirection.
Every strand of sword qi that brushed past him
was guided aside—
tilted, displaced,
its sharpness drained away by his calm.
He did not seek to oppose.
He sought to neutralize.
His presence was steady as a mountain,
a natural stillness forming around him—
soft yet unyielding,
like a Taiji sword born from silence.
Shī Tóngbǎi couldn't help but laugh between breaths.
"Senior brother…
your sword is so still it drives people mad.
You should call it the 'Immovable Sword'!"
Xuán Chén only smiled faintly,
offering no reply.
Deep within the stone tower,
the staircase leading to the second floor
finally came into view.
That was the true exit.
The two supported each other,
pushing through the relentless sword intent
until they reached the steps.
By the time they arrived,
their breaths were ragged.
Though they had gradually learned to dissolve the sword pressure,
the constant strain had nearly drained them dry.
Their bodies felt crushed,
as if their bones had been ground beneath the weight of countless blades.
The moment they stepped onto the second floor—
the sword momentum vanished.
Only the cold stillness of stone remained.
They exchanged a glance—
no words needed—
and collapsed onto the icy floor at the same time.
The exhaustion accumulated under the sword scars
finally erupted.
They let their robes gather dust
and sank into a deep, heavy sleep.
—
No one knew how much time passed
before they awoke together.
Outside, the light had already shifted.
Shī Tóngbǎi rubbed his eyes and muttered,
"This place…
is definitely not an ordinary dormitory."
Xuán Chén simply nodded.
They exchanged a look—
a quiet understanding passing between them.
As they explored the second floor,
they finally discovered, in one dim corner,
a dust‑covered plaque.
Three ancient characters were carved upon it:
[Jiànxīng Lóu] — The Sword‑Star Tower
The strokes were rugged yet razor‑sharp,
as though even the writing itself
held sword intent.
Shī Tóngbǎi stared at the plaque for a long moment
before speaking with a faint smile.
"Jiànxīng Lóu…
that name isn't simple.
According to the Academy's records,
a hundred years ago there was a sword cultivator—
one who joined no sect,
fought for no ranking,
and trained alone.
Before his death,
he left behind a tower here.
Could it be…
that this place was originally the trial he left for future generations?"
His tone shifted,
growing quieter.
"People say his final wish
was to become the proudest, loneliest sword‑star in the night sky.
Even if no one remembered him,
he wanted to shine forever."
Xuán Chén's brows lowered slightly.
He said nothing,
but his fingers brushed across the sword scars on the wall—
and a faint resonance stirred in his chest,
something he could not name.
The two continued exploring the second floor.
Though it lacked the crushing sword pressure of the first level,
a quiet sword intent lingered in the air—
calm, steady, profound.
The marks on the walls and pillars were deep.
Each seemed to contain the full variation of a sword technique.
Yet none of the sword intent attacked them.
It simply waited—
as though inviting those who entered
to comprehend it at their own pace.
"It seems the first floor was the trial,"
Shī Tóngbǎi murmured.
"This second floor…
is the true inheritance."
Xuán Chén nodded.
A thought surfaced in his mind:
This place…
may not be a residence at all,
but a legacy left behind by a sword cultivator.
He lifted his gaze.
In the depths of the second floor,
a stone staircase stretched upward—
dim, ancient,
leading to the higher levels above.