Chapter 197: The Naturally Born Sword Spirit
Su Li was somewhat wary, yet made no other rash movements.
He knew the origin of this girl—she was the spirit beast of that Eastern Abyss Sect cultivator, having taken human form.
However, he did not know what the cultivator had sent her here for.
She neither broke the formation nor made any move. She simply crouched there, watching, refusing to let him kill those two.
“Hmph. Once Young Master Shaoshan slays that cultivator,” Su Li said with a dark expression, “you will be nothing more than a morsel to go with my wine.”
The sky over Qing Valley was shrouded in dark clouds, the air thick with the stench of blood.
Fear spread like a plague. Some collapsed to the ground, others curled up clutching their heads, their wailing rising and falling without cease.
Yet soon they turned their twisted faces toward that slight figure.
“It’s her! That cursed omen and that beast are the ones who brought this calamity upon us!”
The bare-chested man’s eyes were bloodshot, the chopper in his hand trembling from the force of his grip.
His roar was like a spark that burned away the last remnants of reason among the villagers.
Several young men and farm women followed close behind, brandishing hoes and sickles, spitting curses and venomous words.
It all boiled down to a single thought.
Kill her.
“Kill her! That demonic crow followed her back here!”
Ju Luyi was circulating her energy to heal Liu Xincheng’s wounds. With her cultivation so low, she had no capacity to offer any resistance.
Liu Xincheng roared, “Have you all gone mad?!”
But the villagers paid no heed to his words. Desperation had taken root, and before they died, they wished only to slay the one they blamed for this catastrophe.
The bare-chested man reached for Ju Luyi’s throat with his left hand, while his right hand brought the chopper sweeping through the air.
Hssk.
A single emerald-green leaf materialized from nothing, drifting lightly across the man’s neck.
His movement froze abruptly. The chopper clattered to the ground, but his head tilted slowly, finally rolling into the dust.
Gushing blood splattered across the faces of those nearby, and the frenzied howling ceased as though severed.
Xiao He remained crouched where she was, her emerald-green serpent eyes glancing casually at the villagers before turning back to fix her gaze upon Su Li.
“…”
A tremor passed through the hearts of all who watched, silencing them as though struck dumb.
Was she not the immortal master’s spirit beast?
How could she kill with such ruthlessness?
Was heaven truly determined to destroy Qing Valley?
Su Li’s thoughts ran differently. If this girl killed a villager, Young Master Shaoshan would hold him accountable, and that would be troublesome indeed.
But before he could dwell on it long, a youthful figure emerged from the distant valley entrance, walking at an unhurried pace.
Seeing this figure, Su Li’s eyes widened in disbelief.
Then a wave of fear surged through him. “How can it be you?! Where is Young Master Shaoshan?!”
Only then did everyone realize that the tiger demon’s roaring and the clash of blades within the valley had ceased some time ago.
The villagers looked toward Song Yan, and a desperate, frantic hope for survival rose from the depths of their hearts.
Yet recalling the girl’s cruel methods, they dared not approach.
“Young Master Shaoshan?”
Song Yan casually pinched a demon core between his fingers. “Is this what you mean?”
So that was his name.
Su Li stared fixedly at the demon core, his will teetering on the edge of collapse.
“This… how is this possible?!”
He leapt to his feet. “Young Master Shaoshan’s demonic power is unmatched! Even a cultivator at the tenth layer of Qi Refining would fall beneath his palm!”
“You… you…”
“What sort of trickery are you playing?!”
If the tiger demon was dead, could Su Li still survive?
Watching Su Li’s maddened demeanor, Song Yan could not be bothered to waste a single word on him.
He did not even wish to concern himself with the squalid affairs of this valley.
He turned and walked toward the exit.
“Wait! Let me go—I am a disciple of the Profound Abyss Sect! You had better think twice…”
Hearing these words, Song Yan’s steps halted.
He looked silently at Xiao He, then casually made a gesture, drawing a finger across her own throat.
“…”
Then he turned back, and a single thread of sword qi struck the eye of the trapping formation, dispelling it. With an expression of indifference, he walked on toward the valley’s exit.
“Hee hee hee…”
Xiao He covered her mouth and laughed.
“You…”
Beneath Su Li’s horrified gaze, the sky filled with emerald-green leaf-blades, an avalanche of them that engulfed him entirely.
…
After leaving Qing Valley, Song Yan donned the Xuan’e Reverent Spirit Mask.
He lifted his gaze slightly toward the sky. The faint, condensed traces of sword Dao were visible everywhere.
Following the sword Dao traces perceived through the Xuan’e Reverent Spirit, he walked unhurriedly along the overgrown mountain path.
The winding trail led deep into the heart of the mountains.
After roughly half an hour, he stopped before the entrance of a narrow gorge, half-concealed by creeping vines.
Mist lingered within the gorge, and the faint sound of a stream seeping through rocky crevices could be heard.
He pushed aside the hanging dead vines, and before him opened a secluded valley no more than ten zhang across, narrow and desolate.
The four walls rose steeply as though carved by a blade, the valley floor blanketed in pale grey gravel, and at its center stood a single dilapidated dwelling.
The house had been abandoned countless years ago. The thatched roof had collapsed in most places, exposing several blackened, rotting beams.
Before the house stood a dead tree, and beneath it, a sword was planted in the earth.
The flying sword measured roughly four chi in length, its entire body a dark purple, the blade thin as a cicada’s wing, gleaming with a cold, spectral light under the moon.
Suddenly.
A wisp of dark purple sword qi slowly unfurled from the blade, condensing at the very tip of the hilt.
It took the form of a crow.
It flew upward and alighted upon a branch of the dead tree, its strange, blood-red eyes fixed intently upon Song Yan.
Identical to the one he had seen in Qing Valley.
“Caw—”
It called once, but its voice was far softer than it had been in Qing Valley.
Then it dissipated.
“…”
Song Yan did not rush to claim the sword. Instead, he stepped forward and gently pushed open the ruined dwelling.
The furnishings within were sparse to the point of austerity. A cypress wood table stood at the center, and beside it, a bed.
The objects upon the table were arranged with perfect order, as though they were ritual implements.
An ordinary cosmos bag. A few common clay bowls and plates.
Nothing else.
His gaze shifted to the side, and upon the bed sat a skeleton, its bones gleaming pale white.
“This senior… passed away in such a place?”
The spiritual qi here was not particularly dense, and thus unsuitable for use as a cultivation cave abode.
Moreover, it was desolate and cramped, ill-suited for convalescence.
Song Yan was silent for a moment, then stepped forward, only to discover several small characters carved into the surface of the wooden table.
“I, Bai Tao, am but an ordinary sword cultivator. What remains in this room, any who come after may freely take.”
“Do not make offerings.”
This senior’s name was Bai Tao.
Song Yan had heard that in Qing Valley, the surname Bai was indeed a prominent one.
“Was he also from Qing Valley…”
Song Yan gathered the cosmos bag from within the dwelling, then channeled his spiritual energy, lifting the senior’s remains from the room.
He found a peaceful spot outside the house and used his sword qi to excavate the earth, burying the skeleton with care.
He casually hewed a smooth stone tablet and erected it before the grave.
“Having come upon the remains of this senior, I suppose it is fate.”
Song Yan produced three sticks of incense, lit them, and planted them before the grave, bowing deeply.
The senior had been forthright, saying no offerings were needed, yet having encountered this karmic connection, to simply leave felt like a discourtesy.
He walked toward the dead tree outside the yard, where the ancient dark purple sword stood quietly planted in the earth.
With a slight gesture of his finger, the ancient sword rose slowly into the air, hovering before him.
A thread of sword qi emerged from Song Yan’s palm, starting at the hilt and flowing toward the tip, scouring away the dust and moss that clung to the blade one by one.
No name was inscribed upon this sword.
The sword qi in his palm grew ever more formidable, and in that surge, he refined the sword into his own magical artifact.
As expected, the moment the refinement was complete, the flying sword flashed once and vanished into the Twin Jade Pearl Bead.
Judging from the precedent of the Qilin Lord, inheriting the memories of ancient sword cultivators did not require much time.
Thus Song Yan did not hesitate. He set up a simple protective formation around the area, then sat cross-legged on the spot, his divine sense entering the Twin Jade Realm.
Within the realm of black and white, the flying sword came to rest beside the Sword Dao Seed.
Ink gathered and condensed into the shape of a crow, perched atop the flying sword.
The crow was lifelike. It tilted its head, as though appraising this small world.
Only when it beheld Song Yan’s divine sense taking form did it cry out strangely: “Caw!”
The crow flapped its wings, trailing scattered feathers as it flew toward Song Yan.
It dissolved into a wisp of ink and plunged into the center of his brow.
Within the Twin Jade Realm, winds and clouds shifted. But contrary to expectation, this time Song Yan felt no discomfort.
He merely drifted into a drowsy slumber.
…
Caw—
Caw—
So noisy. What bird is that calling?
It hurts. Everything hurts…
His vision swayed, falling from the sky to strike a cluster of frost-laden branches.
He struggled with all his might, barely steadying himself.
Caw—
What bird is that? So unbearably noisy!
Oh?
It’s me.
I am a crow.
Some wretched child had struck me with a slingshot, and I had tumbled and fluttered to this uninhabited mountain ridge.
It was desolate here—surely no one was around. He could rest a while, recover from his wounds.
Yes, once he healed, he would go back and peck out those little brats’ eyes.
No! Someone was here after all?
…
On a winter moonlit night, frost clung to the branches. The crow had been perched unsteadily between them.
Startled by the sight of the boy practicing swordwork below the tree, the crow lost its footing and plummeted.
“Caw—”
My life is over!
Yet the agonizing pain of shattering against the ground never came.
Instead, he was enveloped in a feeling of warmth.
The crow opened his eyes and beheld the boy’s young, unlined face.
“Caw—”
The crow struggled instinctively, flapping his wings in the boy’s arms, his feathers brushing against the boy’s cheek and chin.
“Hey, hold still, hold still.”
After thrashing about for some time, he was truly exhausted.
Thus the crow was carried by the boy into a nearby mountain hovel, his talons twitching now and then in a show of unbroken spirit.
Would he be stewed, perhaps?
He had heard humans ate everything…
To the crow’s surprise, the boy retrieved a small medicine chest from within the hut, muttering to himself.
“Good thing you fell here. In this bitter cold, you might not have survived.”
“Will medicine meant for human wounds work on a bird?”
“It probably will.”
The wooden hut was crude—a bed, a table, and a brazier. Nothing more.
The boy started a fire and gently washed the wound on the crow’s wing with warm water. The bone was broken. He found thin wooden strips to splint it, then tore a corner of his robe to bind the bandage.
The crow did not struggle again, only emitting low, intermittent calls, as though enduring pain.
“Hmm… whether you live or die is up to you now.”
The boy placed him on a straw mat beside the brazier and sat at the table, polishing his long sword.
At dawn the next day, before the sky had lightened, the crow’s rustling roused the boy from sleep.
The crow stood on the table’s edge, preening his feathers with his beak. His injured wing still hung limp, but his spirit was visibly improved.
Seeing the boy wake, the crow tilted his head and suddenly let out a “caw.”
It seemed to be thanking him.
Days flowed like water.
The crow’s wounds gradually healed, yet he showed no intention of leaving.
When the boy practiced his swordwork, the crow perched on a nearby branch to watch; when he sat in meditation, the crow quietly nestled upon his shoulder. Occasionally, when the boy left the valley to trade for rice and provisions, he always returned to find the crow waiting before the hut.
“You’ve quite attached yourself to me.”
The boy casually tossed a wild fruit to the crow, who deftly caught it, cradling it in his wings as he pecked at the flesh.
After finishing, the crow cawed twice and settled upon his shoulder.
“My name is Bai Tao.” A trace of melancholy flickered through the boy’s eyes. “You are my first friend.”
One evening at dusk, Bai Tao was practicing swordwork at the cliff’s edge as usual.
His sword momentum was like a rainbow, scattering fallen leaves in its wake. Suddenly, he noticed the crow was absent from its usual branch.
He sheathed his sword and looked around, only to find the crow standing on a protruding rock, swaying left and right in time with his strikes, as though mimicking him.
Bai Tao was somewhat startled. He deliberately slowed his movements, and the crow indeed followed along.
“You want to learn swordwork too?” Bai Tao looked the crow up and down. “But you don’t have hands—how will you learn?”
“Caw—”
The crow let out an indignant cry, spread his wings, and flew to the top of the boy’s head, pecking insistently at the sword hilt.
For the crow, it did not matter if he never learned.
As long as he could go back and exact his revenge on those children, that would be enough.
Winter gave way to spring, and Bai Tao seemed to have grown accustomed to having a raucous crow by his side.
One summer, the boy prepared to leave.
“Foolish bird, I’m going now,” Bai Tao said. “You are free.”
He shouldered his pack and stepped from the hut, not daring to look back.
The mountain path wound onward. After roughly half an hour of walking, he heard the beat of wings behind him.
The crow alighted upon his shoulder, bearing a small wild flower in its beak.
…
That brat Bai Tao was truly blessed with extraordinary fortune, catching the eye of an immortal who guided him onto the path of cultivation.
Without question, that was all thanks to the great Crow.
The great Crow was gifted with heaven-bestowed talent. Following Bai Tao to listen to the immortal’s lectures and observe the practice of swordwork, he dined on morning dew and drank the mist—surely he had already become an immortal among crows.
They called themselves… sword cultivators?
Then the great Crow must be a crow sword immortal.
Bai Tao’s sect forged a flying sword for him, dark purple, much like the crow’s feathers.
He gave the sword an elegant name.
Crying Moon.
He did not know what it meant.
…
From that day forth, a peculiar sword cultivator appeared in the cultivation world. He was taciturn and unskilled in conversation.
But upon his shoulder, a crow was always perched.
Together they traveled to many places—the misty rains of Jiangnan, the windswept sands of the northern frontier. The crow remained at his side through it all.
Until one day, Bai Tao returned to his sect’s mountain gate.
Only to discover that every senior brother and sister, every elder and sect master—his own master included—had all vanished.
They had gone to a very distant place.
But Bai Tao’s cultivation was still too shallow, so they left him behind, to preserve the sect’s humble legacy.
In the blink of an eye, he was alone once more.
…
The young man, newly come of age, had suddenly become the sect’s sole remaining disciple.
He seemed to have matured overnight.
Not the sullen, pretentious affectation of before, but a true and substantial growth in character.
Sometimes, he spoke to himself.
“My talent is dull. My cultivation advances slowly. Going along would only be a burden, adding worry for my master and martial uncles.”
“Remaining to guard the sect is the most natural thing.”
“This is the only task my master and the sect master entrusted to me. No matter what, I must see it through.”
Yet he did not remain at the mountain gate for long.
From some unknown point onward, the worry in Bai Tao’s brow deepened with each passing day.
News of sword cultivator sects and monasteries falling one after another grew ever more frequent.
Many small sects of fellow sword cultivators were slaughtered overnight.
Some were even erased so thoroughly that no trace of their existence remained.
At last, one day, Bai Tao gathered all the important items within the sect, left his marks, and departed the mountain gate with the crow.
His fears had not been unfounded.
Even though he had sensed it dimly, a group of cultivators of unknown origin pursued him.
After a desperate battle to the death, Bai Tao cut them down one by one.
But he himself was gravely wounded.
He pressed on without rest, bringing the crow back to his homeland of Qing Valley, and hid himself in the deep mountains nearby.
It was the very same secluded gorge where he and the crow had first met.
More than ten years had passed since he had last left this place, and the crow immortal had already shown signs of age.
But this place seemed not to have changed at all.
…
In the years that followed, Bai Tao took on several disciples.
Once each disciple formally joined the sect, he told them the location of their former mountain gate.
He instructed them that when they ventured out to roam the world in the future, they could return to the mountain gate on their own, to pay respects to their ancestral home.
Yet the injuries from that great battle never fully healed.
On the contrary, they grew worse with each passing year.
Until one day, Bai Tao passed all the sect’s inheritances to his disciples and bade them depart.
He sat alone atop a distant mountain peak, gazing toward the direction of the mountain gate, with Qing Valley at his back.
“I wonder how Master and the others are faring.”
Bai Tao rose and danced with his sword in the mountain wind, the crow perched upon the stone.
The setting sun cast its golden light, and it seemed he had returned to his youth.
Suddenly.
The crow cried out, its call mournful.
Bai Tao seemed to sense something, yet laughed aloud. “You and I have known each other and kept each other company. That alone has been the fortune of a lifetime.”
“Why grieve?”
He planted the flying sword beneath the tree and walked alone back into the house.
He passed away in silence.
Thus the world lost a young sword cultivator.
And yet.
The crow did not leave.
…
That brat Bai Tao had truly lived a bitter life.
He had once saved my life, yet I could do nothing to repay him.
He left nothing behind in this world. How could the great Crow ever repay such a debt?
The only things in this world connected to him were the villagers of Qing Valley.
Fortunately, the great Crow still had a few years to live, and could still fly well enough. He would watch over them as best he could.
…
When new snow first began to melt, the crow took flight for the first time, descending toward Qing Valley below.
He smelled the scent of death.
The old village chief of Qing Valley treated people with kindness and was held in great esteem, yet he was mortally ill and did not know it.
Caw—
The crow alighted upon a tree in the village chief’s courtyard and called out.
A woman hanging laundry glanced up briefly before continuing to beat the clothes. Children played and laughed, hurling stones at him.
Several days later.
That vigorous old village chief of Qing Valley suddenly passed away from illness.
…
At the height of summer, the crow flew into Qing Valley a second time.
From a cliff, he spotted a band of mountain bandits who had drifted in from elsewhere.
The crow circled over Qing Valley, calling loudly.
Caw—
The night watchman, caught between sleep and wakefulness, merely muttered.
“What stray bird is that?”
He turned over and continued to sleep soundly.
The bandits attacked Qing Valley.
Though the crow’s strange cries had awakened several people, and the valley held many who practiced martial arts, they barely managed to drive off the bandits.
Still, several households were ransacked, and Qing Valley was drenched in blood and fire.
Fortunately.
The losses were not severe.
…
Another winter arrived, heavy with snow.
The crow took flight for the third time, braving the bitter cold, and flew into Qing Valley.
At that time, the kingdom of Chu was engulfed in war. Fleeing refugees streamed from every direction, and pestilence spread.
He alighted upon the tree nearest the valley entrance and began to cry out loudly.
“Caw—”
A passing villager, somewhat annoyed, waved him off. “Shoo, shoo! You’re deafening!”
A farm wife even threw a basin of water at him, driving him away.
Several days later, plague erupted.
Among the old and weak in the valley, the dead were too numerous to count.
…
The winter at last passed its bitter course.
By now, the crow was ancient. His feathers had grown sparse, his wings lacked the strength they once possessed.
Yet he mustered every last measure of his strength and flew into Qing Valley a fourth time.
He alighted upon the tree nearest the valley entrance.
“Caw—”
Having learned from the bitter lessons of his previous visits, surely the villagers would believe the great Crow this time.
The villagers gathered around him, assembling before him.
Every face was twisted with malice and hatred.
“It’s that thing…”
A villager pointed at the crow with a trembling hand, his features contorted.
“It brought this calamity upon us!”
…
This time, what awaited the crow was a net.
The great Crow was pinned to the ground by a pitchfork.
He perished in the spring.
Every villager’s face was suffused with joy and celebration at having finally slain the “harbinger of ill fortune.”
That day, several households in the valley even held banquets, rejoicing that the root of disaster had been eliminated.
Not long after, however, a great drought struck the kingdom of Chu.
Qing Valley’s crops failed entirely, and famine followed in its wake.
Starving corpses lay scattered across the fields.
Not many in Qing Valley survived that famine. Those who did survive did not connect the drought or famine to the crow.
After all, he was already dead.
…
The moment the pitchfork pierced through his body, the crow’s soul began to wander.
He was not a demon, nor had he ever cultivated. He had merely accompanied Bai Tao on the immortal mountain, dining on dew and mist, and lived somewhat longer than ordinary birds.
His soul should have dissipated on the spot, yet some wondrous fixation caused his spirit to linger near Qing Valley.
Gradually, he forgot who he was.
Forgot the cold stares and the pitchfork of Qing Valley.
Forgot even the reason for his death.
He remembered only that when calamity was approaching, he must go to Qing Valley and warn the villagers.
In the haze between worlds, he flew toward that desolate, secluded gorge.
A feeling of deepest familiarity drew him onward, and he alighted upon the hilt of the flying sword Crying Moon.
Strands and threads of sword qi seeped from the blade and its edge, slowly intertwining with the crow’s wandering spirit.
Days? Months? Or years?
He did not know how long had passed.
One day, a beam of dark purple sword light shot skyward and took the form of a crow, circling above Qing Valley.
The villagers drove him away, cursed him, performed rituals against him.
He felt no anger, nor any resentment. He merely cried out with stubborn persistence, until the sword qi finally dissipated.
Among the valley’s remaining elders, some remembered that crow.
And so the tale of the demonic crow began to spread once more.
…
The ink before his eyes dissolved into a cascade of scattered black feathers, fading slowly into nothing.
When Song Yan’s awareness returned, his divine sense was already back within the Twin Jade Realm.
The black crow still perched upon the hilt of Crying Moon, tilting its head to gaze at him, as though trying to discern something.
“Senior Bai Tao lived a bitter life, and you, Crow Immortal, fared no better…”
The crow was already dead. By some fortuitous circumstance, it had merged with the remnant natal sword intent of Senior Bai Tao, becoming something akin to a lingering specter.
Now that Song Yan had refined the Crying Moon, the sword qi belonging to Senior Bai Tao would soon dissipate entirely.
And with it, this Crow Immortal would soon fade from this world as well.
“The villagers were ignorant. You have done all that could be asked. Go now, and be reborn.”
Song Yan gently stroked the crow’s head and neck.
At that moment, from within the flying sword Crying Moon, a wisp of dark purple spiritual light drifted forth, circling the Sword Dao Seed before merging with it.
A surge of energy arose.
Song Yan, who had prepared himself for this, was no stranger to the sensation.
It seemed this was the same as with the Lianli Flying Sword before. By refining the senior’s residual sword qi, his cultivation would advance by several measures.
Recalling his experience at the Spirit Flower Valley, he felt a quiet anticipation.
If his cultivation advanced as it had then, he might soon break through to the ninth layer of Qi Refining.
His divine sense departed the Twin Jade Realm.
Song Yan sat cross-legged beneath the dead tree, composed his mind, and placed a Qi Condensing Pill in his mouth.
He began to refine this strand of sword qi.
Yet the sword qi was not as abundant as he had imagined. The spiritual energy replenished by the Qi Condensing Pill seemed to leave a considerable surplus.
His Dantian and meridians felt no discomfort, only a slight sense of distention.
The sword qi that had flown forth from Crying Moon this time was comparable to what he would have gained from a single Qi Condensing Pill.
Moreover, the refinement concluded quickly, leaving him somewhat disappointed. His cultivation had not advanced greatly.
“Perhaps it is because the Crow Immortal drew upon the sword qi to manifest a physical form, consuming much of it over the years.”
He quickly adjusted his mood.
This trip had been unexpected after all. To have obtained a superior-grade magical artifact like Crying Moon was already quite a bounty.
Hmm…
In addition, he had acquired the carcass of a demon beast equivalent to a cultivator at the peak of Qi Refining.
Song Yan pondered that the body refinement technique inherited from Senior Nie Chao’s memories might be worth trying again, this time with the tiger demon’s blood.
Though the body refinement effect might not rival the Qilin blood, it could still enhance his physical strength to some degree.
The demon core’s use remained uncertain for now. He would ask Xiao He first, to see if it held any great value for her.
If not, he could simply sell it at a market.
As he contemplated this, at the edge of his vision, a dark shadow rose and fell in rhythm with his breathing.
“…?”
Song Yan turned his head.
He discovered a black crow had, at some point, settled silently upon his shoulder, gazing at him with quiet attention.
His shoulder did not even register a trace of weight.
“Hm?”
“What is going on here…”
Song Yan was somewhat puzzled. Within Crying Moon, the sword qi belonging to Senior Bai Tao had already been refined by him. The crow’s specter should have become water with no source.
By all reason, it should have dissipated by now.
Then, as though realizing something, a faint look of delight surfaced on his face.
“Could it be…”
“A masterless sword spirit?”
Sword spirits were sentient entities born within a sword, born of the resonance between a sword cultivator’s natal flying sword, the sword body, and the spiritual qi of heaven and earth.
There were many origins and methods by which sword spirits came into being. Some flying swords that naturally possessed potent spiritual qi could, over the passage of time, gestate a spirit of their own accord.
Or the swordsmith, in the act of forging the flying sword, could employ secret arts to draw a soul or spiritual essence into the blade, forcibly birthing a sword spirit.
The crow before him clearly belonged to neither of these categories.
Yet Song Yan could piece together seven or eight parts of the truth from the scattered descriptions in the Spirit Transformation Chapter.
Perhaps it was because Senior Bai Tao had died young, and many fixations remained unresolved within his sword intent.
What weighed upon him most were the sect he had lost all contact with, and this crow that had accompanied him for half a lifetime.
And the crow, too, upon being slain, harbored unfinished obsessions.
Having known Bai Tao in life, his wandering spirit had naturally merged with the sword intent left within Crying Moon.
But Senior Bai Tao had already passed on.
Thus, this crow had become a naturally born, masterless spirit!
Song Yan’s heart surged with elation.
A sword spirit was not something one could obtain at will.
An ordinary sword cultivator would need to reach, at minimum, the Foundation Establishment realm, and possess a sufficiently deep understanding and comprehension of sword intent, before having the chance to condense the embryonic form of a sword spirit.
For a sword cultivator, the benefits of a sword spirit were innumerable.
The most fundamental benefit was that it shared a mental connection with the sword cultivator, and being condensed from sword qi itself, it could wield the natal flying sword without consuming the cultivator’s mental effort or spiritual energy.
Moreover, as the sword cultivator’s cultivation advanced, the spirit would gradually grow, becoming a true entity of sentience and autonomous will—a true spirit of the Sword Dao.
Beyond this, there were also numerous secret techniques that could only be performed with a sword spirit at their core.
“To think there would be such an unexpected delight.”
With excitement churning within him, Song Yan rose to his feet, eager to return to his lodgings quickly.
This crow was not yet truly his sword spirit. It had merely followed him out of instinct, since he had refined the flying sword Crying Moon.
He still needed to refine it together with his own natal flying sword, condensing it into the embryonic form of his own sword spirit.
Yet he had never before employed the method for refining a masterless spirit. He did not know how long the entire process would require, and performing it here in these remote mountains would be somewhat reckless.
If the protective formation failed and a few cultivators happened to pass by, his life would truly be forfeit.
Better to return to the City Lord’s manor and perform the refinement there. That would be more prudent.
Song Yan stepped forward to leave the secluded gorge, but then, as though recalling something, he turned back to gaze upon the nameless gravestone he had erected.
Slowly, he raised his hand and extended a thread of sword qi from afar.
Upon the nameless stone, he inscribed several characters.
Bai Tao. Crying Moon.
He regarded his work with a satisfied nod, then turned and departed.
…
Senior Bai Tao and this crow had met and kept each other company for more than a decade, until his passing parted them forever.
Yet he had never given the crow a name, calling it only “foolish bird, foolish bird.”
He seemed a careless sort.
But those memories of the past were all from the crow’s perspective. What Senior Bai Tao truly thought, no one could ever know.
How could a flying sword cry to the moon?
After much thought, Song Yan realized this was perhaps the name Senior Bai Tao had bestowed upon the great Crow.
Had he felt it was too sentimental for a grown man to say aloud, and so held his tongue?
Now, the great Crow of those years had also perished here…
He would leave the name Crying Moon here as well.