"I know you sent them," Long Chen said, his voice calm, cold. "The assassins in the forest. They told me everything before they died."
Shenlie's smile didn't waver. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"You will." Long Chen took a step closer. Spiritual pressure radiated from him—Stage 5, dense and sharp. "At the gathering. I'll make sure of it."
Shenlie's eyes narrowed, slightly amused. "You think you're finally something."
Long Chen turned away and walked toward the pavilion entrance.
"You're making a mistake, if you think you can defeat me with that meager cultivation." Shenlie called after him.
Long Chen didn't look back. "Let's wait and see," he muttered under his breath, stepping through the doorway and letting it close behind him.
The inside of the Spirit Sword Pavilion was quiet. Rows of weapon racks lined the walls, each one holding swords of varying sizes and designs. The air hummed with spiritual energy, thick enough to taste. Every blade in the room radiated power—some faintly, others so strongly they seemed to vibrate in their sheaths.
An old man sat near the back, cross-legged on a cushion, with his eyes closed. His robes were simple but well-kept, and a single sword rested across his lap.
He opened one eye as Long Chen entered.
"A servant," the old man said. It wasn't a question. Just an observation.
"I have a token," Long Chen replied, pulling the jade slip from his sleeve.
The old man's other eye opened. He studied the token for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Tower reward. Rare for someone your age to make it that far."
He stood with surprising grace for someone who looked ancient. "Second floor. Spirit-ranked swords. Follow me."
They climbed a narrow staircase to the second level. The spiritual pressure here was stronger, heavier. Long Chen felt it pressing against his skin like a physical weight.
He took this time to recall about treasures and their ranks.
'Mortal
Spirit
King
Saint
Divine
God
Immortal
Primordial'
With treasures above divine grade nothing more than a myth a spirit grade treasure was useful.
The second floor was smaller than the first, with only a dozen weapon racks arranged in a circle. Each sword here looked different—some ornate, some plain, but all of them radiated power that made the hair on Long Chen's arms stand up.
The old man gestured around the room. "Spirit swords choose their master, not the other way around. If one resonates with you, you'll know and if you try to force it, you may end up with nothing"
Long Chen nodded and started moving through the room. He passed a blade with a silver hilt and dragon engravings, feeling nothing.
Another with a black sheath and red tassels. Still nothing.
A third with a curved edge and jade inlays. He got no reaction.
He was halfway through the room when he felt it.
A pull.
It was faint at first, like a whisper at the edge of hearing. But it grew stronger with each step he took.
Long Chen turned toward the far corner and saw it. There, resting on a plain wooden rack, was a sword.
It looked... wrong.
The blade was dull gray, almost colorless, with faint cracks running along its surface like old scars. The hilt was wrapped in frayed black cloth, and the sheath looked like it had been repaired a dozen times.
But the moment Long Chen looked at it, something inside him stirred.
The sword pulsed. Once. Twice.
His chest tightened, and his heartbeat synced with the pulse. He walked toward it slowly, hand reaching out.
The old man's voice stopped him. "Not that one."
Long Chen turned. The old man's expression had changed. His eyes were sharp now, serious.
"That sword is cursed," the old man said. "Every master who's wielded it has died. Some in battle. Some by their own hand. Some simply... vanished."
Long Chen looked back at the blade. The pull was stronger now, almost magnetic.
"How many?" he asked.
"Seven," the old man replied. "Over three hundred years. The clan tried to destroy it once. The blade survived. So they locked it away here, hoping someone ignorant enough would take it and rid us of the problem."
"And you're telling me this, why?"
The old man studied him for a long moment. "Because you're the first person in fifty years that sword has reacted to. And I'm old enough to know that some things happen for a reason."
Long Chen's hand hovered over the hilt. "What if I can handle it?"
"Then you'll be the first." The old man's expression softened slightly. "Or the eighth corpse. Your choice."
Long Chen's fingers closed around the hilt.
The moment he touched it, the world tilted.
Cold flooded through him, sharp and biting, like plunging into frozen water. His vision blurred. A terrible killing intent assaulted his mind. Voices whispered at the edge of hearing— Kill Kill Kill.
Kill them all.
Then warmth. His dragon bloodline flared in response, golden light spreading through his veins. The cold recoiled, pushed back, and the voices suppressed.
The whispers stopped.
Long Chen pulled the sword free.
The blade rang as it left the sheath, a clear, sharp sound that echoed through the pavilion. The dull gray surface shimmered faintly, and for just a moment, Long Chen saw something beneath the cracks—veins of dark red, pulsing like a heartbeat.
The old man's eyes widened. "Impossible."
Long Chen held the blade up, testing its weight. It felt... right. Balanced. Alive.
"What's its name?" Long Chen asked.
The old man hesitated. Then, quietly: "Its name has been lost to time, but it's known as demon dweller nowadays."
Long Chen nodded. "I'll take it." Not minding the ominous sounding name.
The old man said nothing for a long moment. Then he sighed. "If you die, don't haunt me."
Long Chen slid the blade back into its sheath and strapped it to his waist.
He turned and walked toward the stairs.
Behind him, the old man watched with an expression caught between concern and curiosity.
"Who would have thought," the old man muttered to himself. "After all this time..."
Long Chen stepped out of the pavilion and into the afternoon light.
He was ready.