110: Chapter 110 Sword Roars to the Sky

Nangong Yueyao's gaze suddenly turned sharp.

The gentle tenderness that had previously flowed across her brow was instantly replaced by a refined sharpness—a sharpness not cultivated overnight, but a cold severity carved into her bones after weathering storms and witnessing blood and fire.

She nodded heavily, every word resolute and ringing with conviction:

"Rest assured! The Nangong Clan and the Xuanyuan Clan have always shared the same glory and the same losses!"

"Although the Imperial Ancestral Temple and the Ancestral Witch side are powerful now, making it inconvenient for our two clans to openly oppose them, but..."

Her gaze deepened, sharp as a needle, as if it could pierce through all pretenses of insincerity. "Secretly investigating information, pulling strings, and even fanning the flames when certain 'accidents' occur—these housekeeping skills and the confidence to use them, the Nangong Clan still possesses."

She paused, her voice lowering, yet sounding even more determined, like a tempered blade—heavy and steady:

"The old subordinates and confidants left behind by your mother, Qing'er, back then—I have never truly severed contact with them over these years. They are scattered everywhere, appearing silent, but in truth... not a single day has passed where they have forgotten the blood feud of the past."

When she spoke the words "blood feud," her voice trembled imperceptibly—not from fear, but from over a decade of suppressed anger, forcibly covered by a thin layer of reason, yet still churning and boiling beneath.

"They are all waiting, waiting for an opportunity, an opportunity to uprightly seek justice for your mother. Now—"

She looked straight into Xuanyuan Zhanxian's eyes, enunciating every word, as if moving the words that had been pressed against her heart for years, piece by piece, out into the sunlight:

"You have returned. Only now, has this opportunity truly arrived."

As she spoke, she slowly withdrew an ancient bronze token from the depths of her wide sleeves.

The token was not large, its edges worn by time to a luster as warm and smooth as jade. As she handed it over, it carried a heavy weight, almost pressing down on the hand.

It felt as if this were not just a token, but the weight of the Nangong Clan's century of accumulated connections, resources, and silent promises—a promise too heavy for ordinary people to bear; yet she handed it over without hesitation, as if she had long been waiting for this day to come.

"This is the core token of the Nangong Clan, the 'Nanlin Token'."

Nangong Yueyao solemnly handed over the token, her fingertips lingering on its surface for a moment, as if using that brief pause to convey something words could not carry. "With this token, in the thirty-six states of the Southern Region, wherever there is a Nangong Clan trading banner, money, provisions, manpower, and even some hidden paths are all at your disposal. As long as they have it, and as long as you need it, there will never be a shred of—excuses or hesitation."

Xuanyuan Zhanxian reached out with both hands and steadily received the token.

His fingertips touched the cold and solid bronze surface, slowly stroking the intricate and deep cloud patterns upon it—this was the ancestral crest passed down through the Nangong Clan for a century. Every turn, every carving, held the deep, enduring Foundation and silent responsibility of a great clan that had weathered storms without falling.

The patterns were clearly discernible under his fingertips, like a family history engraved into metal, every stroke written by predecessors with blood and fire.

He closed his five fingers, gripping the token tightly. His knuckles turned slightly white from the force, as if he wanted to brand this heavy trust and power deep into the texture of his palm—branding it into his bones, into his soul, never to be forgotten in this lifetime.

He raised his head, looked at Nangong Yueyao, and nodded solemnly and deeply:

"Thank you, Aunt."

Those three words were spoken very softly, yet they were as heavy as a mountain.

"Silly child, why be so polite with your Aunt?" Nangong Yueyao smiled, the fine lines at the corners of her eyes brimming with warmth and relief. The smile rippled from the depths of her eyes, spreading across her brows, over the corners of her lips, until her entire face lit up.

Her tone suddenly shifted, carrying a bit of that characteristic, subtle probing and concern of an elder, yet the tone was perfectly struck—neither appearing intentional nor able to hide that trace of curiosity:

"By the way, that Miss Jian who came with you just now... she looks extraordinary in bearing. Is she your fellow disciple?"

"Yes." Mentioning Jian Tanghuang, the jawline of Xuanyuan Zhanxian, which had originally been taut and cold like cold iron, softened imperceptibly. Even the piercing sharpness deep in his eyes faded slightly, rippling with a faint warmth—this change was minimal; if one were not a close relative, it would be impossible to notice.

Yet Nangong Yueyao happened to be that "close relative."

"Her name is Jian Tanghuang; she is the Eldest Princess of the Shenwu Imperial Dynasty and also my Junior Sister in the Xuantian Sect."

"The Eldest Princess of the Shenwu Imperial Dynasty?" A flash of clear surprise crossed Nangong Yueyao's eyes, immediately transforming into a knowing smile. She nodded gently, as if she had figured something out. "No wonder... I saw that young lady had a vibrant heroic spirit between her brows, her demeanor free and easy yet not lacking in propriety. That elegance interwoven with nobility and chivalry, which shines from her very bones, is certainly not something an ordinary woman could possess. You... in the Sect, do you get along well?"

Xuanyuan Zhanxian nodded slightly, not saying much.

Yet the natural softness and relaxation that flowed from his brow, which perhaps even he himself did not notice, were already more persuasive than any flowery language or explanation.

It was a subconscious tenderness that only appeared when mentioning a special person.

His gaze naturally turned to the distance—to that small figure who was tugging on a maid's sleeve, gazing longingly at the maid's pouch, and softly begging for candy, and he took the opportunity to gently steer the conversation away:

"Ling'er's talent seems excellent. I observe that the Spiritual Qi surrounding her flows and circulates, not through deliberate guidance, but through innate affinity, extremely natural and harmonious."

Mentioning her daughter, the smile on Nangong Yueyao's face was immediately dyed with the unique, almost overflowing gentle radiance of motherhood. Yet, deep within that radiance, there was quietly mixed a bit of indescribable, complex emotion, like a faint shadow under the sun—it was truly warm, but the shadow was also truly there.

"Yes... this girl, she takes after her... after her father." Her voice was soft, carrying the distance of memory, as if drifting from far away in time. "She is a natural 'Pure Spirit Body'; her perception and affinity for Heaven and Earth Spiritual Qi are more than ten times sharper than ordinary children."

"It is just that she is truly too young, her bones and Bloodline have not yet fully developed, and I... I dare not let her come into contact with orthodox Cultivation methods too early. I fear that by pulling up the seedlings to help them grow, eager for success, I would instead... ruin this one-in-ten-thousand excellent Foundation."

As she spoke, her gaze fell on Ling'er. In those eyes, there was pride, affection, and a trace of faint, unwanted-to-be-noticed worry—like holding a newly lit lamp, hoping it would burn brighter, yet fearing the wind was too strong and would blow it out.

Xuanyuan Zhanxian's gaze was like lightning; he had already clearly seen the invisible yet tangible circulation of Spiritual Qi around little Ling'er—that was not a deliberate trajectory guided by Acquired Cultivation, but an innate, instinctive attraction as natural as breathing.

Countless specks of Spiritual Qi, as fine as dust, were like being attracted by an invisible magnet, lightly circling and merging into her side—she was clearly a top-tier Cultivation talent that would be hard to find in a billion people.

"Aunt's consideration is absolutely correct." He said in a deep voice, his tone carrying a profound understanding of Cultivation—this was an insight carved into his bones, exchanged for over a decade of blood and sweat. "The Foundation is the cornerstone for the ten-thousand-foot tall building of Cultivation. It is better to be slower, to solidify step by step, and never to ruin the possibility of reaching the Peak in the future for the sake of momentary speed."

As the two were speaking in low voices, the little one over there who had grown tired of playing had already jumped down from the slowly swaying swing with a "thump."

Her goose-yellow skirt swept across the grass, kicking up a few emerald green leaves, like a light butterfly flitting through the flowers.

She moved her short little legs, trotting over with a "pitter-patter," carrying the scent of sunshine and grass, and dove headlong into Nangong Yueyao's warm and soft embrace.

Her little face was flushed, like a ripe, sweet-smelling peach, and her forehead was covered with fine, crystalline beads of sweat, which were quietly sliding down along the soft hair at her temples, shimmering with broken golden light in the afterglow of the setting sun.

"Mother, Cousin, what secret are you whispering about?" She tilted her pink, tender little face up. Those large eyes, like black grapes, were filled with pure curiosity, like two pools of spring water clear enough to see the bottom, where one could look straight to the deepest part at a glance.

When she spoke, she was still panting slightly and cutely from running, her little chest rising and falling, like a little sparrow that had just finished flapping its wings.

Nangong Yueyao took out a clean white silk handkerchief embroidered with orchids from her sleeve, her movements so gentle they could drip water, and meticulously wiped the sweat from her forehead and the tip of her nose. Her voice was as soft as if she were humming a lullaby, every word wrapped in honey-like sweetness: "Mother and Cousin were talking about whether our Ling'er would like to learn some top-notch skills like Cousin in the future, so that she can protect the people she wants to protect?"

"As amazing as Cousin?" Ling'er's big eyes "swished" and became sparkling, as if they were suddenly filled with crushed starlight, dazzling and eye-catching, even the twilight was brightened a bit by this radiance.

She broke free from her mother's warm embrace and ran a few steps to stand in front of Xuanyuan Zhanxian, straining to lift her little neck, her dark, rolling eyes full of pure anticipation and longing, her gaze so clean that there wasn't a trace of impurity:

"Can Ling'er do it? Can Ling'er also become that—that amazing, and be able to hold a pretty sword and 'whoosh' and fly up?"

As she spoke, she even spread her two chubby little arms, imitating the appearance of flying on a sword, tracing a crooked arc in the air. She almost lost her footing, stumbled, quickly steadied herself, and kept looking up at him longingly.

Xuanyuan Zhanxian crouched down again, bringing himself to eye level with those pure eyes that were untainted by dust.

The hem of his black robe spread out on the grass, forming a gentle contrast with that small goose-yellow figure.

He reached out, his fingertips touching the tinkling silver bells on the top of her head very lightly, his voice becoming exceptionally low and soft, with rare patience and gentleness—the voice was so light, as if afraid of startling a butterfly resting on a flower petal:

"As long as Ling'er is willing to work hard, willing to put in the effort, not afraid of being tired, not afraid of difficulties..."

He looked at her, word for word, earnestly promising. That promise was not perfunctory, not words to coax a child, but a promise, heavier than Mount Tai, made by a Sword Cultivator, a powerhouse, to the purest heart in this world:

"In the future, not only will you be able to fly across the heavens and earth on a sword, viewing all the scenery of the mountains and rivers... but you will definitely be able to be even more amazing than Cousin."

"Really?!" The little one excitedly clapped her small hands, the silver bells on her head ringing out a happy and joyful movement with her movements, crisp and melodious like a spring flowing in a mountain stream, or like the first rain of spring falling on newly sprouted leaves.

The laughter and the ringing bells mixed together, echoing in the courtyard. Even the old locust tree under the corridor seemed to be infected, rustling its leaves as if applauding for her.

"Then Ling'er wants to learn! Ling'er wants to become the most amazing! Protect Mother, protect Father, and also protect Cousin!"

She counted on her fingers, one by one. With each number, she nodded her little head vigorously, making the silver bells atop her head sway. She was incredibly earnest.

That earnest little expression was enough to melt anyone's heart.

Watching her daughter, so innocent and full of infinite potential, a heavy, imperceptible shadow of worry flashed deep within the gentle smile in Nangong Yueyao's eyes.

That worry was like a thin, dark cloud, gently veiling the warm sun in her eyes and leaving a faint shadow—it vanished in a flash, so quickly it was nearly imperceptible, but a closer look would reveal her fingertips tightening slightly within her sleeves.

Elsewhere, under the same deepening twilight.

Qingyi led Jian Tanghuang through towering rows of vermilion palace walls.

In the final afterglow of the sunset, the palace walls gleamed with a solemn, warm luster, as if plated in flowing red gold. The light slid slowly along the curves of the walls, eventually settling into the shadows at their base.

In the distance, the rhythmic, cold "clanging" of armor plates rubbing together during the Imperial Guard's shift change could be heard. The sound echoed through the empty palace corridors, one note after another, like some ancient ritual that only heightened the solemnity and inviolability of this royal Forbidden Ground.

Finally, they reached the heart of the Shenwu Dynasty's station for the competition—Zichen Hall.

As they stepped onto the nine mirror-smooth white jade stairs before the hall, they saw that the heavy doors were already wide open.

Inside, it was as bright as day, illuminating every detail within the hall. This light was not from ordinary candles, but from the essence of Spirit Stone; it was eternal, bright yet not dazzling, softly bathing every corner.

Dozens of golden pillars, each carved with coiling dragons and thick enough for two people to embrace, stood towering, supporting the magnificent roof.

The floor, paved with gold bricks, was so polished it acted as a mirror, reflecting the swaying candlelight and the ornate paintings on the beams. Walking across it felt like stepping into an inverted galaxy.

The auspicious Dragon and Phoenix patterns carved into the hall beams were intricately detailed to the extreme. The Dragon's claws were powerful as iron hooks, its muscles bulging, and its scales layered—each one meticulously carved as if it might break free from the wood at any moment, roaring as it soared into the sky.

The Phoenix feathers were as magnificent as seven-colored clouds, each feather's texture delicate and lifelike, shimmering with iridescent light as if they might quiver at the slightest breeze.

These omnipresent details all served to manifest the royal family's supreme, unquestionable majesty and prestige.

This was more than just a palace; it was the crystallization of a Dynasty's millennium of heritage, a living monument forged by countless artisans who had poured their life's blood into its creation.

As soon as Jian Tanghuang stepped over the high threshold, her gaze was instantly captured by the figure seated on the throne at the far end of the hall—

He was a middle-aged man dressed in a bright yellow robe embroidered with nine dragons. His face was resolute, as if carved by an axe, polished by the passage of time. Though fine lines lined the corners of his eyes, he showed no signs of aging or fatigue; instead, they added to his steady, commanding presence. These lines were not marks of age, but medals left upon his face by time and the weight of power.

His eyes and brows, in particular, bore a striking seventy percent resemblance to Jian Tanghuang's, though his were deeper and more composed, possessing an inherent, commanding authority.

The resemblance was not merely superficial; it was in their very bones—the same sharpness, the same stubbornness, and the same pride that refused to bow easily.

It was the current sovereign of the Shenwu Dynasty, her father, Jian Xiaotian.

On his dragon robe, the twelve symbols—the sun, moon, stars, mountains, dragons, and flowery creatures—shimmered with a deep, restrained dark gold luster under the countless candles. This complemented his steady, mountain-like, and vast, ocean-like aura, inspiring awe in all who beheld him.

This was not a majesty deliberately put on display, but an aura etched into his very bones, tempered day after day by power and responsibility over decades on the throne.

"Father." Jian Tanghuang immediately reined in all the playfulness, spontaneity, and cunning she had displayed outside the palace. She walked forward with decorum and performed a standard, elegant court bow.

Even her voice was noticeably more composed and steady than it had been on the street. Yet, the tiny, restless spark in her eyes did not extinguish; it was merely suppressed, hidden behind her long eyelashes, waiting for the right moment.

Jian Xiaotian looked up at her, shook his head with a touch of helplessness, and gave a slight wave of his hand.

"Whoosh—"

The attendants and eunuchs lining both sides of the hall retreated silently and swiftly like a receding tide. Their footsteps were so light they made almost no sound, and like clouds dispersed by a gust of wind, they vanished completely in the blink of an eye.

In an instant, the vast, empty, and magnificent Zichen Hall was left with only the two of them.

The heavy doors remained open, allowing the evening breeze to drift through the hall, carrying the fresh scent of the courtyard's greenery and bringing with it an even deeper silence. This silence was not empty; it was heavy, filled with countless unspoken words that pressed against the heart.

Jian Xiaotian finally spoke. His tone carried the chiding of a father, yet it could not mask his deep-seated concern. It was like the thousands of words a father wishes to say upon reuniting with a child who has traveled far, all distilled into this seemingly ordinary question:

"You girl, you've only been away at the Sect to Cultivate for a few months, how did you become this wild? In the Xuantian Sect... are you getting used to it? Is your Revered Master... is he well?"

Jian Tanghuang pursed her lips almost imperceptibly. She walked a few steps to the carved rosewood daybed placed in the hall, sat down without ceremony, and casually plucked a honey-preserved plum from a glass dish on the side table, popping it into her mouth.

The movement was fluid and natural, clearly not the first time she had done so. In this palace governed by strict rules, she was likely the only one who dared to be this "presumptuous" in front of her father.

As the sweet and sour flavor dissolved on her tongue, she spoke with a nonchalant yet faintly cheerful tone:

"Of course I'm used to it! It's much more comfortable than in the palace—no one stares at me all day about which court dress I should wear, or whether my hairpins should be on the left or the right, and no one nags me about rules and etiquette."

"If I want to practice swords, I just dive into the sword field and practice from sunrise until the stars appear; if I want to Cultivate, I find a mountain Peak rich in Spiritual Qi and sit there all day. It's incredibly satisfying!"

As she spoke, her eyes shone brightly, as if she had returned to that mountain Peak where she could run freely, with the wind whistling past her ears and nothing between heaven and earth to hold her back.

Jian Xiaotian watched her, so completely relaxed and even somewhat "unruly" in his presence. He was both annoyed and amused, feelings that ultimately dissolved into a trace of indulgent helplessness deep within his eyes.

"You! You're already a young woman at the age of maturity; how are you still like a wild, unrefined child? Do you dare to be this... presumptuous in front of your Revered Master, too?"

"Revered Master doesn't care about such things." Jian Tanghuang swung her legs, the tips of her embroidered shoes barely brushing the mirror-polished golden floor. Her tone was full of small pride and affection. "He says that the path of Cultivation prizes the 'original heart' above all else."

"If one has to restrain and bind their own nature, constantly feeling tied down, one will only fall into mediocrity and never achieve true greatness."

A flash of complex, indescribable emotion crossed Jian Xiaotian's eyes—gratification, pride, and a trace of deep, hidden, almost imperceptible... envy.

That envy was too profound, so profound that he was unwilling to even acknowledge it himself.

Such a life of Cultivation—single-minded, following one's heart, and seeking only the Dao—was a luxury he could never truly attain. He was an emperor nailed to the throne since birth, spending his days dealing with mountains of memorials, intricate power struggles, and the delicate balance between opposing factions.

Immediately, the gentleness of a father vanished from his face. The steady, oppressive aura of an emperor instantly permeated the air, enveloping the entire, vast hall.

That aura had not appeared suddenly; it had always been there, merely masked by the warmth of their reunion. Now that the warmth had faded, it stood revealed like a reef after the tide recedes—cold, sharp, and unshakable.

He straightened his posture, his gaze becoming sharp and profound. He spoke in a low, heavy voice, cutting straight to the point:

"Enough, we can save the idle chatter for later. I summoned you back in such a hurry because the Hundred Dynasties War has reached its most critical juncture. The Imperial Ancestral Temple... their recent actions have frequently crossed the line."

His fingers tapped unconsciously against the cold, hard agarwood armrest of the dragon throne, producing a dull "thud, thud, thud." The sound echoed clearly through the overly quiet hall, striking like a blow to the heartstrings—each note carrying a long-suppressed warning.

"I have received secret intelligence that they... are likely planning to pull some 'small tricks' on the competition grounds during this event."

Jian Tanghuang immediately arched an eyebrow, forgetting to even chew the half-plum still in her mouth. A sharp, sword-like light erupted from her almond-shaped eyes, and her tone became filled with undisguised vigilance and cold severity—that edge made her seem like a completely different person from the gluttonous, spoiled girl she had been moments before.

"Those old things hiding behind the altars, too cowardly to face the light—are their hides itching again? What are they... planning this time?"

"What else could it be?" Jian Xiaotian snorted coldly. His voice was imbued with the chill and insight of a life steeped in power struggles—a coldness not feigned, but an instinctive reaction tempered by countless conspiracies and betrayals. "It is nothing more than an attempt to exploit the Hundred Dynasties War—where all forces gather and the good and the bad are mixed—to secretly prop up a few obedient Puppets, or to incite a few 'accidents.' They intend to stir up chaos, take the opportunity to weaken, or even shake the very Foundation of our three Imperial Dynasties."

His gaze felt physical as it landed on Jian Tanghuang's face. He emphasized his words, each one enunciated with absolute clarity, as if carved by a blade:

"Especially... that Senior Brother of yours, Xuanyuan Zhanxian."

"His identity has likely already piqued the 'interest' of certain people in the Imperial Ancestral Temple."

Jian Xiaotian leaned forward slightly. The candlelight danced in his deep eyes, reflecting a cold, icy glint—a glint that held an emperor's majesty, a strategist's calculations, and a deeper, almost imperceptible... dread.

"Those people will never sit idly by and watch someone who bears the direct Bloodline of the previous Dynasty—someone whose talent and strength are so terrifying, and who may be inextricably linked to the old cases of the past—grow up smoothly, let alone reach the Peak."

"They will not allow such a massive, uncontrollable 'variable' to exist. And they certainly will not allow someone who could threaten their power and status to..."

He paused, and the words he spat out carried a bloody chill—a chill so heavy that the bright candles in the hall seemed to dim for a moment:

"...live too long."