Volume One: The Imperial Command Chapter Seventy: The Twelve Swords of the Vagabond

“Pastries?” A crisp, melodious voice grew closer from behind. Liu Xiaoyi wanted to turn his head, but his body refused to obey. The six-pointed star beneath his feet was a clever trapping array—not only did it seal his movements, but it also locked the meridians within his body.

Right now, Liu Xiaoyi was like fish laid out on a cutting board, awaiting the knife; the person behind him needed only a gentle stroke to claim his life.

“I bought flower cakes in the city. They’re right here in my arms.” Liu Xiaoyi tried to stay calm, speaking in a steady voice.

“Hahaha! After so many years without seeing anyone, Heaven sends me a little child! How amusing.”

A pair of delicate hands reached from behind into his coat, retrieving a bundle wrapped in oiled paper—a pair of still-warm flower cakes. He couldn’t see the person’s face, but the sound of chewing was clear.

Soon enough, the cakes were devoured, and the figure moved to stand before him, a pair of bright, sparkling eyes studying Liu Xiaoyi closely.

“You’re quite handsome—not like those old, bearded priests, full of arrogance. What’s your name?”

It was a young girl, barely five feet tall, her hair in twin ponytails, head cocked as she stared at him. Liu Xiaoyi’s face flushed crimson. “Miss, you’re a bit too close…”

Their noses nearly brushed; eye to eye, the girl flashed a mischievous smile, grabbed Liu Xiaoyi’s cheeks with both hands, and pulled them wide.

“Daring to covet me—you’re the first in ten thousand years!”

With that tug, the confinement of the star array dissolved. Freed, Liu Xiaoyi grasped the girl’s wrists. “Ow, ow, ow! You have neither true energy nor magic inside you—are you human or ghost?”

“Of course I’m human! I’ve cultivated for ten thousand years—how could you possibly fathom it? If not for the sake of the Sword of Slaughter, I wouldn’t have lured you here!” The girl seemed to know what Liu Xiaoyi was thinking and answered before he could ask. “Your name! How old are you?”

“Liu Xiaoyi. Nearly sixteen.”

“Remember this—I’m ten thousand and fifteen years old, the Saintess of the Palace of Primordial Unity. Few ever see my true face; you’re lucky!” With a stomp of her foot, she unleashed a formidable aura that sent Liu Xiaoyi flying—only to catch him and place him before her.

“My strength was off—sorry.” The Saintess had clearly not ventured out in ages, chattering endlessly, leaving Liu Xiaoyi dizzy.

Cultivating to immortality, exploring this mysterious land—where was the Southern Gate, and where the Palace of Primordial Unity? Liu Xiaoyi had only heard of the Iron Dynasty and the State of Chu; the rest was foreign to him.

“The Palace of Primordial Unity is beyond the reach of ordinary mortals. The so-called Heavenly King’s Path? Even the Grand Elders are unfit to carry my shoes. The Four Sacred Beasts in my palace are mere gate pets!”

The girl’s name was Xiao Qingshu. She habitually tilted her head when she spoke, though who she learned it from was unknown. Despite her age, she dressed youthfully, in a sheer dress adorned with sparkling jewelry.

“If you’re so powerful, why are you stuck in this coffin?” Liu Xiaoyi was puzzled; from outside, it was a stone coffin, but inside, a palace full of arrays and restrictions.

“You think I want to stay here? If not for chasing the Fire Seal, I wouldn’t linger! Look at this.”

Xiao Qingshu pulled him through a hundred-yard corridor to a stone chamber at its end. “There’s only a Dao-illuminating picture—no other hints. I’ve sat here nearly a century, yet gained nothing.”

“That picture?” Liu Xiaoyi glanced at it and froze. No matter how Xiao Qingshu waved her arms before him, Liu Xiaoyi stood entranced, his eyes vacant.

“A true energy wielder! How did you comprehend it at a glance? I’m not playing anymore!”

With her twin ponytails bouncing, Xiao Qingshu stormed out. She’d come to borrow the Fire Seal but had stumbled into this mysterious stone coffin, where the corpse of an ancient rogue cultivator lay. Before dying, he left behind a painting of a swordsman dancing. Without unraveling its secret, the coffin could not be opened, nor could his relics be taken.

Inside the stone chamber lay many scattered skeletons; each had been a renowned figure in life, any one capable of leveling the entire Heavenly King’s Path with a flick of the wrist.

Yet none unlocked the painting’s mystery, dying in despair.

As for the palace’s arrays, they were Xiao Qingshu’s own creation—her boredom had driven her to lay them. Through the coffin, she could see a certain distance around, but not take a single step beyond it. That rogue cultivator had understood human desire all too well.

The more one wished to leave, the more restless one became; Xiao Qingshu couldn’t sit still even while cultivating, let alone seeking enlightenment.

Trapped for a century, she’d dragged in a few hapless souls—all had failed, dying here.

“If the little one doesn’t comprehend it, I’ll have to keep digging tunnels—dirty, tiring, and nowhere to bathe!”

Half an hour passed, and Xiao Qingshu anxiously checked the door three times. Each time, Liu Xiaoyi remained transfixed, staring at the painting.

The swordsman, poised on one foot in a spinning move, stood at the edge of a cliff; his long sword melded perfectly with the terrain. The gleam of the sword unsettled Liu Xiaoyi.

When he recovered, he found himself standing on the cliff’s edge, facing the dancing swordsman.

The stranger didn’t acknowledge his sudden arrival, continuing his sword moves. The blade was bright and sharp, yet carried no sword energy; the swordsman had not a trace of true energy within him—he was just an ordinary man.

How could that be? Such skill, and no true energy?

Liu Xiaoyi doubted, studying the sword moves. Each one followed the flow of nature, fluid and unimpeded. The footwork shifted in harmony with the world’s momentum. The blade always passed through places where spirit energy was weakest.

Astounding! Using this sword art in battle, a single strike to the soft spot could kill without a trace.

Curious, Liu Xiaoyi drew his Frost Sword and stepped forward, swinging without using true energy—just trading moves.

The swordsman bent low to dodge, flicked his fingers so deftly that Liu Xiaoyi’s blade veered off course, cutting empty air.

The stranger’s sword appeared silently at Liu Xiaoyi’s waist, stopping just outside his clothes.

“Master, what sword art is this?” One exchange and his flaw was exposed; Liu Xiaoyi was disheartened. Normally, his Dao skills could defeat foes two realms higher, but here he could do nothing against a mere mortal.

“Watch.” The swordsman didn’t answer, but tossed his hair tie into the air, then struck it with his sword.

“How many strikes did I make?”

“Three.”

The strikes were too swift; Liu Xiaoyi guessed. The swordsman, speechless, picked up the tie—it was cut into thirteen pieces.

“I’ll show you again. Once you learn, you may descend the mountain.”

The swordsman twisted his wrist, moving within a narrow space, and in a blink stabbed twelve times, each in a different direction, every strike perfectly balanced.

What skill! In the same interval, Liu Xiaoyi could only strike twice. Without true energy, his arm quickly tired.

The swordsman practiced tirelessly, swinging his sword at the cliff’s edge all day.

Liu Xiaoyi’s stubbornness kept him swinging as well. “Without true energy, how do you achieve such power?”

“Hard training.”

“Why not use true energy? It should be stronger.”

“I can’t. I haven’t learned it.”

The swordsman spoke concisely, saying little, just focusing on his practice.

Day turned to night, then sunrise. Bathed in golden light, Liu Xiaoyi took a deep breath and managed four strikes.

Day after day, the two figures on the cliff never rested. The Frost Sword began by scattering cold light, but after a few days, even the sword energy grew subdued, acquiring a hint of mastery.

In truth, the swordsman did rest—every three days he’d descend the mountain to bring Liu Xiaoyi food and drink, always arriving just before his strength gave out, as if he could predict it.

Unbeknownst to them, the painting in the stone chamber now featured a small figure, drenched in sweat, practicing the sword. At first, Xiao Qingshu hadn’t noticed, but after hundreds of bored checks, she finally saw the scene shifting.

“This rogue cultivator is truly strong. If he were alive, I wonder if he could defeat the palace master,” Xiao Qingshu mused.

“The Palace Master of the Primordial Unity Palace is far beyond me—without true energy, how could I fight?”

A voice echoed from the stone chamber, startling Xiao Qingshu into activating her arrays for protection.

“Fear not. I’ve been dead for countless years; only a trace of my will lingers here, unable to harm anyone.” If Liu Xiaoyi were outside, he’d recognize the voice as strikingly similar to the swordsman’s, though this one carried an ancient, weathered tone.

“Yet you trapped me for a hundred years without a word—let me out! I need the Fire Seal to save my sister!” Xiao Qingshu pleaded.

“Without someone unlocking the Dao painting, I can only sleep. Wait until the young friend finishes his training, and you may leave together.”

The rogue cultivator had neither name nor record in the martial world. He was born with a love for sword and spear, but could never cultivate true energy. His peers mocked him, refusing to associate.

This setback didn’t break his resolve. As long as his hands could lift the sword, he practiced from the beginning, training at the cliff’s edge for eighty-one years.

Passing farmers would point and whisper, assuming he was mad—a hermit who’d achieved nothing after so many years.

Then one day, when people set out to work at dawn, he was gone. Where he used to dance with his sword at sunrise, only a river remained below the cliff, now divided by twelve deep channels, its waters roaring in waves.