538: Chapter 538 Eternal Sword Soul

The Void Realm was silent as a grave.

Sword Ruthless's voice was the first to ring out, rough as a ten-thousand-year-old rusted sword grinding repeatedly against ancient stone, every syllable carrying the agony of a shattered blade: "Sword Master."

He lifted his gray eyes, his gaze piercing through the dust of the Void Realm, landing on Lu Changzhi's tattered soul body.

There were no tears in those eyes, only the mottled cracks left behind after the ancient Sword Intent had worn away through the ages.

"The Sword Lineage," he paused, each word as heavy as a star, "today—"

"shall cease."

The moment his words fell, the Void Realm seemed to be sliced open by invisible Sword Qi, creating a wound that would never heal.

Wanyan Shu then raised his head, his golden pupils burning with a kind of almost cruel determination: "But that sword strike from eons ago—"

"No regrets."

The two words rang out like metal clashing, sparking fire in the Void Realm.

Then, the voices of one hundred and five Sword Masters sounded simultaneously—not a unified shout, but the final resonance of the Sword Souls Awakening from their eternal slumber:

"No regrets."

"No resentment."

The waves of sound layered over one another, surging through the Void Realm like a tide. These were not merely one hundred and five voices, but one hundred and five severed histories, one hundred and five buried paths of the Dao, one hundred and five unfinished battles, all emitting their final cry at this very moment.

The sound shook the Void Realm, lingering for a long time.

No, it was not lingering—the Void Realm itself had remembered this sound.

From now on, this Star Domain would forever echo with the vows of the Sword Souls, until the end of time.

Lu Changzhi knelt where he was.

In his hand, he gripped that broken hilt—the final remains of the dragon-subduing imperial weapon, its touch as cold as eternal frozen iron.

At his chest, a grayish-white light core flickered, each flash taking away a part of his soul body, like a candle in the wind.

He lifted his head.

He looked at the figures filling the sky.

Sword Ruthless—the founder of the "Ruthless Sword Dao" from eons ago, who once severed three thousand li of emotional ties with a single sword strike, imprisoned himself in the Sword Tomb for three thousand years, and finally grasped the true meaning that "only by having the utmost emotion and nature can one be truly ruthless."

At this moment, every crack in his gray eyes was a severed worldly tie.

Wanyan Shu—the Master of the War Sword with blazing golden pupils, who once used a common iron sword case to carry ninety-nine peerless vicious swords, guarding a pass alone against an army of one hundred thousand alien races for three days and three nights.

In the broken case cradled in his left arm, the low humming of broken swords was vaguely audible.

Red-Haired Swordmaster—wielding a charred wooden sword, this was the Legacy of the "Kindling Sword Dao"; as long as the sword remained, the person lived, and if the sword perished, the Dao would endure.

Beneath the scorch marks, sparks reignited, like the fire of civilization that would never be extinguished.

The white-haired old woman—standing while leaning on her sword, the barely legible characters "Zhenyue" could be discerned on the rust-covered blade.

She was the last Earth Vein Sword Master, who once stabilized the mountains and rivers of the Nine Provinces for thirty thousand years with a single sword strike.

The Black-robed Youth—his sword remained sheathed, but the Sword Intent within the scabbard already roared like a trapped beast.

He was the successor of the "Unsheathed Sword," having practiced swordcraft his entire life without ever drawing his blade, because the true essence of his sword Dao lay in "accumulating momentum"—accumulating a single sword strike over eons, which would cause the heavens to collapse the moment it was drawn.

Every figure. Every legend.

Every name had once illuminated the entire starry sky in its era, every story had once made future generations of Sword Cultivators boil with blood, and every sword swing had left an indelible mark in the River of Time.

And now, they were all but residual souls.

Residual souls about to dissipate.

Lu Changzhi knew—the manifestation of residual souls was the final burning.

It was not a Rebirth, not a return, but the burning away of the last bit of spiritual light accumulated during their eternal slumber, without reservation, just to stand side-by-side in this moment.

After this battle—

The Sword Lineage would have no more Sword Masters.

No more Sword Cultivators.

No more Sword Dao Legacy.

The foundation of eons would be destroyed today.

He had once seen the most glorious era of the Sword Dao: ten thousand swords singing in unison, Sword Qi soaring to the heavens, and a single promise from a Sword Cultivator could make the galaxy reverse its flow.

The Sword Pavilion stood at the source of time, the Sword Canon recorded the methods to sever the three thousand Daos, and the Sword Intent could reach every corner of the Myriad Heavens and Worlds.

And now, only residual souls and broken bodies remained.

He closed his eyes.

The moment his eyelids closed, he saw the scene from ten thousand years ago: blood staining the starry sky, swords shattering the firmament, his fellow disciples falling one by one beside him, the Sword Pavilion collapsing into ash behind him, and the Legacy turning into nothingness in the flames.

When he opened them again, there were no tears in his eyes.

Only a grayish-white—that was the color of a Sword Soul burned out, the embers after hope had been extinguished, the final glimmer of an eternal obsession.

"Rise."

His voice was not loud, yet it was like an invisible sword, piercing through the silence of all the Sword Souls.

Every Sword Master heard it.

Not with their ears.

But with their Sword Heart.

"The Sword Lineage," Lu Changzhi slowly began, each word accompanied by the disintegration of his soul body, "has not yet dispersed."

He braced himself on the broken hilt and stood up, inch by inch.

As his knees left the Void Realm, a sound like shattering glass rang out—this was the lament of space, unable to bear the will of the Sword Master.

His body was disintegrating, the light core was cracking, and billions of grayish-white threads of light were being pulled from his soul body, like willow catkins in the wind.

But he stood up.

His spine was as straight as a sword.

"As long as one person is still standing," his voice was hoarse, but carried the determination to sever the heavens and earth, "The Sword Lineage is not dead."

He turned his head and looked toward the distant Void Realm—that was the direction where Lord Jixing had disappeared, and also the lair of the Void Clan.

The Thirty-Six Heavens of the Divine Realm were the source of that catastrophe eons ago, the place where all hatred and destruction began.

"The eternal debt—"

He paused, the final flames igniting in his grayish-white eyes:

"is not yet cleared."

Then he turned back and looked at the one hundred and five Sword Masters before him.

His gaze swept over every face, remembering every countenance, every look, every wisp of Sword Intent about to dissipate.

"You have awakened," he said softly, his voice gentle as a whisper to an old friend, "so do not be in such a hurry to disperse."

He gripped the broken hilt tightly.

The grayish-white light core in his chest suddenly blazed—

"Accompany me—"

The light core exploded with billions of rays of light, each ray being a forgotten sword technique, an unfinished sword song, an unfulfilled vow.

"To kill once more."

The one hundred and five Sword Masters looked up simultaneously.

Deep within the cracks in Sword Ruthless's gray eyes, the ancient Sword Intent reignited like dying embers—not a Rebirth, but a final flare of life, a last stand, burning away the last bit of their existence completely.

Wanyan Shu's golden pupils were as blazing as molten gold; in the broken case cradled in his left arm, the residual souls of ninety-nine vicious swords shrieked in unison, their voices as mournful as ten thousand ghosts weeping together.

Red-Haired Swordmaster drew his sword—on the charred wooden sword, sparks splashed into a galaxy, each spark being a piece of the lost "Kindling Sword Intent."

The white-haired old woman's rusted sword trembled—the moment the rust peeled away, a cold light flashed like the moon illuminating the Nine Provinces; that was the "Zhenyue Sword Intent" that had been sleeping for eons, manifesting in the world for the last time.

The Black-robed Youth's Sword Intent finally roared out from the scabbard—it was not drawing the sword, but burning the scabbard and sword together; the single sword strike accumulated over eons was burned away today, leaving nothing behind.

One hundred and seven people.

One hundred and seven residual souls.

One hundred and seven extremes of Sword Dao.

They should have long since dissipated in the River of Time, should have been left with only legends and ruins, should have been forgotten by the world.

But now, they stood here.

Because someone needed them.

Because The Sword Lineage was not yet dead.

Because the eternal debt was not yet cleared.

They responded in unison:

"Understood!"

The sound tore through the Void Realm, echoing through the ages.

This was not one hundred and seven voices, but the resonance of one hundred and seven histories, the final swan song of one hundred and seven traditions, the last cry emitted by the Sword civilization before its complete annihilation—

unyielding.

Lu Changzhi stood before them.

His broken body was about to dissipate, the light core about to shatter, his soul body flickering like a candle in the wind.

But his spine remained unbent.

He looked into the distance.

There, was the Void Clan—monsters that devoured civilizations, erased history, and used all things as food.

There, was the eternal debt—the hatred of the master's sect's blood feud, the severance of the Legacy, the annihilation of the civilization.

There, were things that must be severed—not just the enemy, but this era that had led The Sword Lineage to its end, this fate that had reduced heroes to residual souls, this dead end where no light could be seen.

And behind him, there were one hundred and five people willing to die with him.

No, not one hundred and five people.

It was everything they represented: the eternal Sword Dao, countless legacies, the faith of billions upon billions of Sword Cultivators, the final dignity of the entire Sword civilization.

That was enough.

He looked down at the broken hilt in his hand—the dragon-subduing imperial weapon was silent, having once severed the galaxy and suppressed the heavens, now only half a charred broken hilt remained.

But his hands were still there.

These hands that had once held imperial weapons, slain gods, and written Sword Canons, were still there.

That was enough.

He took a step.

As he took the first step, lotus flowers bloomed in the Void Realm—not real lotus flowers, but illusory flowers condensed from Sword Qi, blooming only to wither, as brief and brilliant as their existence.

As he took the second step, time flowed backward—not truly reversing time, but because the Sword Intent was too intense, causing the surrounding space-time to become chaotic, overlapping the sword songs from eons ago with the sound of his footsteps in this moment.

As he took the third step—

Behind him, one hundred and five strands of Sword Intent soared into the sky.

Sword Ruthless transformed into a gray line, emotionless and desireless, with only the determination to sever everything.

Wanyan Shu transformed into a golden meteor, the residual souls of the vicious swords in the broken case following like a shadow, shrieking as they lunged toward the void.

Red-Haired Swordmaster transformed into a prairie fire, the wooden sword burning into a torch, illuminating the path ahead like daylight.

The white-haired old woman transformed into an illusion of mountains and rivers, stabilizing the turbulent space-time with a single sword strike of Zhenyue.

The Black-robed Youth finally unsheathed—no, it was not unsheathing, he had transformed into a sword himself, burning together with the scabbard and his body, turning into a black thunderbolt that pierced the heavens and earth.

One hundred and seven beams of sword light.

Like the final grand fireworks in the eternal long night.

Knowing they would dissipate—every beam of light was fading, every figure was disappearing, every wisp of Sword Intent was burning out.

Knowing they would be extinguished—after this battle, they would cease to exist, The Sword Lineage would completely become history, all legacies would be lost forever.

But in this moment—

the sword light still remained.

They were still here.

That was enough.

Lu Changzhi's residual soul stood in the center of the Void Realm, his grayish-white long hair cascading down like a waterfall, each strand condensed from Sword Intent.

His brows and eyes were as if carved by a sword, sharp and tragic.

He looked down at the body he had just separated from.

This was no longer his body.

This was the body of the Sword Child—the last Bloodline of the Sword Clan, the Myriad Kalpa Immortal Sword Body, the last successor of The Sword Lineage.

He had resided within it with his residual soul, borrowing the body to revive, just to complete one last battle.

And now, the battle was about to begin, the residual soul must leave the body, and the shell must be returned to its original owner.

Because this battle did not need a body.

It only needed a Sword Soul.

The Sword Child opened his eyes.

In this instant, the grayish-white light core flickered in his chest, and the aura of the Myriad Kalpa Immortal Sword Body surged out from within him—not an Awakening, but a return to its rightful place.

This was his Physique all along, the most precious Legacy in the Sword Clan's Bloodline, the Dao seed planted in him personally by the Sword Master eons ago.

Lu Changzhi had resided in it for a moment, merely acting as a temporary substitute.

Now that the residual soul had departed, the Sword Body was like a Seal being lifted, finally completely released.

The Sword Child stood up slowly.

He looked down at his own hands—the grayish-white patterns emerging on his palms were like the runes on the ancient Sword Canon, each one containing the power to sever the Great Dao.

He felt his blood surging in his veins like a river, his bones clanging within his body like the singing of swords, every cell Awakening memories that had slept for eons.

He looked up again, looking at the figures filling the sky in the Void Realm.

One hundred and seven Sword Masters—no, now there were one hundred and eight, because Lu Changzhi's residual soul had also joined them, standing side-by-side with them.

One hundred and eight residual souls.

One hundred and eight extremes of Sword Dao.

Each one was of an unknown number of generations higher than him.

Each one was a hero who had gone to their death with the Sword Master eons ago.

Each one had slept throughout the eons, just for this battle today.

And he—

a descendant of the Sword Clan.

A successor of the Sword Master.

The true owner of the Myriad Kalpa Immortal Sword Body.

The last living Sword Cultivator.

The Sword Child took a deep breath—this breath was like a giant whale drinking water, drawing all the residual Sword Qi from the surrounding Void Realm into his body.

Then he knelt on both knees.

Not out of weakness, not out of submission.

It was the highest ritual for a descendant of the Sword Clan to pay respects to their ancestors.

His spine remained straight as a sword, his head bowed like an ear of grain—mature and humble.

"Sword Clan descendant, Sword Child—"

His voice was as clear and cold as an ice spring striking stone, exploding in the Void Realm, resonating with the eternal sword songs.

"Paying respects to the Sword Clan Seniors!"

As his voice fell, he kowtowed to the Void Realm.

The moment his forehead touched the space-time, thousands upon thousands of sword shadows appeared in the Void Realm—these were the imprints of the ancestors of the Sword Clan throughout the generations, the veins of the Sword Dao Legacy, the epitome of the entire civilization's history.

This kneeling was for the martyrs who went to their deaths eons ago.

This kowtow was for the unyielding spine of The Sword Lineage.

This act of respect was for the entire era—that was about to completely dissipate.

When he lifted his head, there was no more confusion in his eyes.

Only the sword.

Only battle.

Only the determination—to go to his death together with his ancestors.