The elder's roar echoed through the ancestral hall, shaking the incense burners.
Any other young initiate would have quailed under that voice.
Li Qiye only smiled.
"Peace, Elder," he said evenly. "As Brother Nan explained, if I pass the trial, it will bring great honor to the sect.
What I ask is merely a reward fitting the merit I intend to earn."
"Earn it first!" the elder snapped. "Then speak of reward!"
The Grand Elder raised a hand, silencing the room.
"Enough. The boy's point isn't without reason. If he truly passes the Nine Saint Demon Gate's trial, then aside from the Heavenly Mandate Techniques and the Emperor's Core Arts, he may choose any scripture he wishes.
That is—if he succeeds."
The other elders exchanged glances.
To them, if was the easiest promise in the world.
They didn't believe for a second he would survive the Demon Gate.
But Li Qiye's gaze didn't waver.
"The rest can wait until my return," he said, "but one matter must be arranged now."
He paused, voice calm as quiet water.
"When I reach the Physique Enrichment Realm, I'll require a dose of Sacred Body Ointment."
The hall froze.
"Insolence!" an elder barked. "That elixir's refined from ten heaven‑grade herbs! Even core elders court death to obtain it. You overreach!"
Li Qiye's tone stayed mild.
"Elder, such words are unnecessary.
If the Cleansing Dust Sect seals marriage and alliance with the Demon Gate—or reclaims imperial standing—would that not merit a single ointment?
Surely, that honor is worth the cost."
"Humph! If we had one to spare," another elder muttered.
After a long pause, the Grand Elder sighed.
"If you truly succeed, one Sacred Body Ointment can be justified. But the stock's been empty for centuries.
Our alchemists lack three of the key reagents."
Li Qiye lowered his gaze slightly, hiding a wisp of nostalgia.
The sect of today was a shadow of the one he'd built with Mingren so long ago—its treasuries once overflowed with immortal elixirs.
And now they couldn't produce one.
"In that case," he said, lips curving faintly, "I'll settle for the Royal Body Ointment—the best batch you have."
Another silent exchange.
The Grand Elder nodded reluctantly.
"Fine."
"Second," Li Qiye continued, "the journey to the Nine Saint Demon Gate will not be peaceful. Life or death cannot be promised.
I'll need a technique and a weapon to protect myself."
One of the elders sneered. "Well, at least you plan ahead."
"The sect's law allows disciples below Hall Lord rank to choose one manual and one armament," the Grand Elder declared. "Choose wisely."
They had no desire to argue; in their minds, he'd never return anyway. Let the boy have his toys.
Li Qiye bowed lightly. "I wouldn't presume to be greedy.
I heard the sect still keeps a manual called The Qimen Blades.
I'd like that one. It's said to be simple enough to learn quickly. A pair of matched blades will do."
For a moment, the hall was silent.
"The Qimen Blades?" an elder repeated, brow furrowed. "That old forgotten form?"
"Yes," Li Qiye said calmly.
Another elder answered for the rest. "An ancient mortal art—barely counted as a technique. Most children could do better."
The rest shook their heads in shared pity.
So this was their new Chief Disciple—grasping at ashes.
The Grand Elder waved a hand. "Huairen. Fetch the manual. Bring him a pair of blades to match."
"Yes, Elder."
The Grand Elder's gaze lingered on Li Qiye. "Any other requests?"
Li Qiye smiled lightly. "None for now."
"Good. Prepare yourself. You depart in three days. Once you return — only then will you receive your formal ceremony."
His voice was cool, but deep inside he sighed.
If you return at all.
That night, on the Lonely Peak, Nan Huairen delivered a bundle — a thin manual and two freshly forged blades.
Li Qiye tested their weight.
Twin curved knives gleamed under moonlight, forged from red‑gold iron and tempered in silver ash—simple yet razor keen. They sang softly when drawn.
After Huairen left, the courtyard fell silent again.
Li Qiye sat beneath the old tree and opened the manual.
Line by line, word by word, he read — and deep within his mind, something ancient stirred.
The technique's rhythm was familiar, painfully so. Buried memories awoke, scraping against his soul.
He had sealed away his own knowledge when he'd been the Immortal Crow, hiding his power from the Demon Abyss so it could never use it again.
But there were safeguards — triggers to undo those locks when the time was right.
This manual was one of them.
When he read the opening sigil, the seal broke.
Images poured through him — flashes of blades, blood, the ringing of steel and laughter.
The Qimen Blades were no simple mortal form—they carried foundations of a much older dao.
He closed his eyes for a long while.
Then — the forgotten Qimen Heart of the Blade came alive once more.
Opening his eyes, he found the manual faulted—missing whole passages.
Li Qiye sighed softly. Of course it was. The art had been discarded for ages.
Settling cross‑legged, he let his mind sink into the resonance of steel.
Each stroke, each arc replayed within his memory.
He practiced silently until moonlight ran like water over the blades.
Slowly, the motions grew smooth — steady, precise, measured.
He wasn't training for strength.
He was remembering who he was.
Under the cold silver sky, the boy moved like a shadow — blades rising and falling in perfect silence, each stroke carving his will back into the world.