Ancient scrolls, some clearly older than the sect's current buildings, rested behind shimmering preservation formations that kept the passage of time from touching them further. The entire hall carried the distinct scent of old paper and ink, a smell that settled into the back of his throat and stayed there, oddly comforting in a way he couldn't quite explain.
Mo Xuan's eyes lit up, and he walked slowly between the shelves, letting his fingers trail lightly along the spines as he passed.
The first floor, as the keeper had mentioned, held foundational knowledge — the kind of material meant to build a disciple's base understanding. History. Geography. Spirit Beasts. Medicinal herbs. Basic formations. Sword fundamentals. Cultivation theory. Section after section, each one labelled clearly at the head of its row, the categories stretching further back into the hall than he'd initially expected from the outside.
Although he already knew a fair amount of the introductory material from his years in the Outer Court, the Inner Court's collection was noticeably more complete — deeper, more detailed, filling in gaps he hadn't even realised existed.
He borrowed three books without much deliberation. Foundations of Sword Intent. Elementary Formation Principles. Atlas of Spirit Beasts. Each one felt like a natural next step from what he already understood.
After finishing the registration process required to borrow them, Mo Xuan found a quiet table tucked near a window overlooking the cypress grove outside, settled into the seat, and opened the first book to begin studying.
Morning light filtered through the lattice windows, illuminating drifting dust motes that floated lazily through the quiet hall as he continued reading. Hours passed without him noticing, his fingers tracing the same passages over and over as he worked through each chapter, occasionally pausing to jot a brief note onto a spare scrap of paper before returning to the text. Whenever he finished a book, he'd place it back on its shelf, choose another, complete the borrowing process again, and settle back into his seat to continue reading. Before he fully realised it, three full days had slipped by, each one dissolving quietly into the next as he stayed immersed in study, barely noticing when disciples around him came and went or when the light through the windows shifted from morning gold to afternoon amber and back again.
On the third day, Mo Xuan finally stretched the stiffness out of his shoulders and returned all the books he'd borrowed before stepping back out toward the entrance. He cupped his hands toward the elderly keeper in farewell; the old man just waved at him without opening his eyes, apparently having tracked his comings and goings all along despite never once looking up from whatever he'd been dozing over.
The mountain paths outside were quieter than they had been when he first arrived. The afternoon sun had already begun descending behind the western peaks, bathing the Inner Court in warm, slanted light. Disciples passed occasionally along the stone paths, some returning from missions with dust still clinging to their robes, others heading briskly toward the cultivation grounds before the light faded entirely.
Mo Xuan walked slowly, letting the pace of the mountain settle back into him after three days spent hunched over books, until he finally reached his own courtyard. He cleaned himself up, found some fruit to eat from the small store the attendant had left in his kitchen, and lay down to rest, letting the events of the past few days catch up with him properly for the first time.
His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to his father's words from that quiet night beneath the moon — his master's promise to bring some of their clan to the sect eventually, so father and son wouldn't have to remain so far apart again. The thought settled warmly in his chest, something to look forward to.
At the same time, his mind kept drifting elsewhere, circling back to a single image he couldn't quite shake.
The Sword Cliff.
Ever since Jin Bao had casually mentioned the mountain split clean through by a single sword strike, the image had refused to leave his thoughts, resurfacing at odd moments throughout the day — while he read, while he ate, even now as he tried to rest. One sword. One strike. A legacy that had somehow survived countless years, carved so deep into stone that generations of disciples still felt its weight just by standing near it.
Outside his window, the bamboo swayed gently in the evening breeze, and Mo Xuan tried to settle into meditation, hoping the familiar rhythm might quiet his thoughts the way it usually did. It didn't work. The cliff remained lodged in his mind, refusing to let him find the stillness he was reaching for.
Perhaps, he thought, turning the idea over one more time before finally giving in, I should go there.
The notion took root, growing steadier and more insistent the longer he sat with it, until resisting it felt more exhausting than simply acting on it.
Outside, night slowly enveloped Azure Peak. Stars bloomed across the sky like scattered pearls, and lanterns flickered softly along the stone paths winding through the Inner Court below. Most disciples had already returned to their own courtyards to cultivate or rest, and the mountain settled into the particular kind of quiet that only came after dark, when even the wind seemed to move more carefully.
Mo Xuan eventually got up. "Just a look," he told himself, as though saying it aloud might make the decision feel less impulsive than it actually was.
He stepped out of his courtyard, and the night wind brushed cool against his face as he looked toward the distant peak where the Sword Cliff waited, its silhouette barely visible against the darker shape of the mountain range behind it. Without another word, he began walking.
When Mo Xuan finally reached the stone archway marking the entrance to Sword Cliff, his footsteps slowed on their own.
An enormous pressure descended on him the moment he crossed close enough to the archway, and his pupils contracted sharply in response. For a single instant, a vision flashed before his eyes — a sword, not merely large but vast enough to split mountains in half, descending from the heavens directly toward his head. His first-stage Sword Intent erupted on pure instinct, the invisible pressure surrounding his body sharpening into something solid enough to push back against the vision. Just as suddenly as it had appeared, the illusion shattered, and the terrifying image disappeared.
Mo Xuan let out a slow breath, only then noticing the thin layer of sweat that had gathered across his forehead. "What a terrifying aura," he murmured, still catching his breath. And this, he reminded himself, was merely the entrance — nothing more than the first test the cliff offered to judge them before anyone even stepped inside.
After steadying his breathing, he crossed the threshold properly.
The moment his foot landed on the ground beyond the archway, the atmosphere shifted entirely. The Sword Intent here no longer drifted gently through the air the way it had from a distance — it pressed directly against his bones now, sharp, heavy, and unmistakably ancient.
Mo Xuan didn't resist it. He walked deeper, one measured step after another, letting the pressure settle over him rather than fighting against it.
The massive sword scar carved into the cliff wall gradually came into view beneath the moonlight, its edges catching the pale light in a way that made the stone seem almost luminous. It looked impossibly close, and yet strangely distant at the same time, as though no matter how far he walked toward it, some silent law of the place ensured it would always remain just beyond reach. His Rune Sword Soul stirred faintly in response to the sight.
He slowed further, his gaze fixed on the ancient mark, unwilling to look away even as his feet continued carrying him closer.
Then his attention shifted, caught by something closer at hand. Two figures sat deeper within the cliff, motionless, cultivating beneath the drifting currents of Sword Intent that seemed to pool more thickly the closer one got to the scar itself.
One radiated heat — the air around them shimmered faintly, as though invisible flames danced just beneath the surface of their skin without ever quite breaking free. The other exhaled cold, a delicate mist coiling steadily around their seated form, leaving thin crystals of frost scattered across the nearby stone wherever it touched. Both wore hooded cloaks that obscured their faces, and both remained perfectly, unnervingly still, as though they'd been carved into the mountain alongside the sword scar itself.
Mo Xuan stopped instinctively, unwilling to risk disturbing them. He quietly began angling toward a different stretch of the cliff, intending to find a spot far enough away to cultivate without interrupting them. But before he could take another step, a cold voice cut through the stillness.
"Please leave."
Another voice followed almost immediately, sharper and considerably more impatient than the first. "Can't you see we're using this place?"
Mo Xuan slowly turned toward them and met their hidden gazes beneath the moonlight.
The night at Sword Cliff, it seemed, had only just begun.