Supreme Sword Saint Du Cang halted his leisurely stroll ten paces from the promontory ledge, suspended entirely on empty air above the howling deep pit. His white robes remained spotless, unmarred by the clouds of stone dust drifting up from the ruins of Peak Three.
“In five hundred years of pursuing the Sovereign Sword Dao,” Du Cang declared, his gaze looking past Lin Tao toward the distant southern horizon, “I have met heavenly prodigies born with sky spiritual roots, ancient sect patriarchs cloaked in nine layers of defensive formations, and monstrous demon beasts whose hides could turn royal giant crossbow bolts. All of them died beneath my blade because they believed their power belonged to themselves.”
Du Cang raised his left hand. He formed a complex sword-will mudra with his index and middle fingers pressed tightly together.
“They didn’t understand,” Du Cang continued, his voice swelling until it seemed to originate from the granite bones of the mountain range itself. “A sword isn’t an instrument of metal. A sword is a decree of heaven. When I draw breath, the nine peaks resonate. When I exhale, nine thousand souls answer.”
High above the sea of clouds, a sound began to manifest.
