The first thing Mo Jian said to Bai Ning upon reaching their new cave residence was, “Congratulations on your nuptials.”

  After his conversation with Jin Rou, he hadn’t lingered long on Blackrock Island. He had quickly gathered Bai Ning, who had been trying to show him the jade slip she’d found in the market below, and flown them here as fast as he could. The entire way, he’d stretched his senses to their limits, straining to detect any signs of pursuit. As far as he could tell, they were alone.

  Bai Ning had asked several times what was going on, but Mo Jian told her to wait until they were inside the cave, under their own protections. This new place was nowhere near as good as his actual residence on Cloud Veil Ridge, which was protected by a Grand Effervescent Formation. That one had taken ten years to activate after he had set it up, and was said to be able to block attacks from even Nascent Soul cultivators – at least, for a while. Still, this temporary cave would do for now.

  Now, safe inside and as certain as he could be that no one was eavesdropping, Mo Jian had opened his mouth, and the first thing that came out was a teasing comment about marriage. It had sprung to mind because of the fake proposal earlier.

  He wasn’t sure what he’d expected; confusion, exasperation, maybe mild annoyance, but Bai Ning’s reaction was completely different.

  She turned toward him with wide eyes, her hand covering her mouth in shock. There was something shining in her expression; disbelief, hope, maybe even a flicker of happiness. She looked at him as though he had just proposed.

  Mo Jian remembered her earlier declaration about becoming his dao companion, how serious she’d been about it, despite his firm refusal, and promptly cursed himself. What in the world had he been thinking? The last thing he needed was to encourage her or, worse, create another misunderstanding.

  Before things could spiral further, he blithely continued on, pretending obliviousness.

  “The son of Blackrock Island’s master made a proposal for your hand. So, how about it?” He tried to waggle his eyebrows, but judging by how his vision crossed, he suspected he only managed a squiggly grimace instead.

  Bai Ning’s expression went flat. Whatever she’d been about to say vanished, replaced by sheer irritation.

  “The who of where did what?” she asked, her grimace plain.

  Mo Jian congratulated himself for dodging that particular misunderstanding. “The son of the Island Master,” he said smoothly. “So, interested?”

  Bai Ning stared at him for a long moment, then smiled sweetly. The look sent a chill down Mo Jian’s spine.

  “Master,” she said pleasantly, “would you prefer I set you on fire here and now, or wait until you’re asleep so I can dump a pail of water on your head?”

  He laughed weakly. She sounded serious. Time for damage control.

  “Neither, disciple. And there’s no need to be angry. The proposal was fake to begin with.”

  “Huh?”

  “It seems the Island Master of Blackrock Island is in some sort of trouble. His son has a powerful binding on him, preventing him from speaking openly. Still, he went out of his way to arrange a meeting between me and his father. The whole marriage proposal was just an excuse. I saw through it at once, of course.”

  Bai Ning rolled her eyes, looking even more annoyed. “And you thought this was the best way to tell me the news, Master?”

  “A taste of your own medicine, disciple,” Mo Jian said, sounding pleased with himself.

  “Ugh.” That seemed to sum up her thoughts nicely. “So, are you going to see what this meeting is about?”

  Mo Jian stroked his chin, striding deeper into the cave before settling into a roughly carved stone chair beside a small wooden table. He sighed. He missed his real furniture, most of which was still back at Cloud Veil Ridge. This cave had enough amenities to live in comfortably, but it was still very much a work in progress.

  “Most likely,” he said finally. “I’d rather not stick my nose where it doesn’t belong, but if we’re planning to stay here for a couple more months like we discussed, it’s best to foster some goodwill. I don’t intend to promise anything, but seeing what’s going on isn’t a bad idea.”

  Bai Ning nodded, not seeming to care much either way. She sat down opposite him on another carved stone chair and pulled a jade slip from her storage pouch.

  “Before you so rudely snatched me away,” she said dryly, “I managed to find this in the market. It’s… odd. I could barely grasp half of what the creator meant, but the sword intent within it is real and heavy. The seller told me it was too confusing for most people. A few tried buying it before, but all ended up returning it. I thought it was worth another look, at least.”

  Mo Jian straightened. “You actually found a sword cultivator’s legacy in the local market? Seriously?”

  Bai Ning shrugged. “I wouldn’t call it a legacy. I’m not sure what I’d call it, actually. Here, take a look, Master, you’ll probably know more than me.”

  She slid the jade slip across the table. Mo Jian picked it up curiously. It was an ordinary piece of rectangular jade, carved like a token, as long as his fingers and roughly three fingers wide. A faint image had been etched on the surface, but it was too worn to make out.

  He pressed it to his forehead and sent a strand of spiritual sense inside.

  …………………..

  Proper swordsmanship etiquette mattered only to swordmen. How to stand, how to draw your blade, how to hold it, how to position yourself, and a thousand other small details that an average person wouldn’t even notice because they did not have the knowledge necessary to know it was important, all of that and more made up a dizzying tapestry of formal and informal rules that governed interactions between swordsmen. An absurd one I had heard of decreed that if the sheaths of two swordsmen even brushed against each other accidentally, then they had to duel to the death.

  Even leaving the absurd behind, there were a lot of rules that governed interactions between swordsmen. There was an entire mythos built around it, like a romanticized image of two stalwart warriors meeting on opposing mountain peaks, blades drawn, saying more with their posture than words ever could. There was a koan I had heard from a dojo: To end a fight, a swordsman should cut the sunrise. I had a feeling it was not quite so metaphorical as I had first assumed.

  All that to say, I was almost certainly trampling over centuries of customs and traditions with my uncouth actions. My opponent was in a stance, right foot forward, left foot back, facing a little to the side, his blade held parallel to the ground, perfectly steady. His other hand was held up, fingers curling around the hilt but not quite touching, as if he was ready to use both hands but not starting out with them. There was probably a wealth of information and context that a proper swordsman could have derived just from that stance, from his steely eyes and rigid expression to the almost statue like tranquility his body exuded as he stood, sword bared and ready.

  I, the mudfoot urchin that I was, was not in a stance opposite him. For one, they didn’t matter to me. For another, I didn’t actually know any. Trying to imitate him would probably end up with me falling flat on my back, ruining whatever little dignity I still had.

  I didn’t even know what we were waiting for. Was there a specific amount of time we had to wait before the fight started? Were we waiting for a signal, like a leaf spinning down between us from the sky or for a tumbleweed to roll past us, carried away by the wind? Was the onus on one of us to start, and if so, which one? I kind of wished that I could just ask, but that would achieve nothing except give offense. To someone like my opponent, Jia Fou, second circle swordman from the Molten River Dojo, not knowing such basics would be enough to consider the fight over with before it started.

  I was confident in winning when it came to a clash of blades, but not so confident that I could maneuver around a political loss here. Better to wait and see; patience was one thing I had in abundance. In its sheath at my belt, The Dragon Saber rattled faintly in protest. I ignored it – it always mocked me in moments like this. No wonder so many had tried to kill its last owner; the blade had a nasty personality.

  The saber rattled even more at that thought, clearly protesting. ‘Well,’ I thought, ‘you should have considered that before mocking me.’

  Back when I had been young and foolish – or at least younger and even more foolish – I had dreamed of owning a magic sword and being a great hero renowned all over the land. The passing of the years had not brought wisdom to replace that naivete so much as simply eroded my innocent dreams, until even the magic sword I did own felt more like an irritating presence leading to a headache rather than a blessing. The dragon saber was the secret to my confidence, the skill and soul of its previous owner embedded within the blade, capable of making even a village boy like me a master swordsman, even without the slightest whiff of training. In Namgong, I had cut apart a dozen men in the Lei Tai set up by the White Tiger, winning a momentary burst of fame, and when on the road to Jingyiang, the bandits I had met had fallen like grass before a scythe to me, cut down before they could even understand what was wrong.

  Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

  In the world of murim, having such a blade was a great boon. It was just that the soul attached to it was… a lot. Miyamoto Sumihara had been a legendary swordsman in his time, a lord of the murim, and an elder of the Red Dust Pavilion, the organization overseeing all of murim for the Imperial Court, but he had been an equally famous lecher and glutton. He could be vain, proud, greedy, lustful, and wrathful, sometimes all at once, and the price to pay for wielding his saber and having access to his abilities was putting up with his less than gentlemanly proclivities and thoughts. Not to mention exacting revenge on his behalf – but of course, that went without saying for a magic sword.

  Opposite me, Jia Fou shifted, his expression as calm and unmoving as before, but now finally taking action. He brought his sword in, still parallel to the ground, as if he was drawing it in with an inhale, and then, in a sudden flash of motion, like a great exhale, he shot forward, the tip of the blade aimed at my heart. The magic in the Dragon Saber reacted, and my hands closed around its hilt before thought could catch up, drawing it in a single motion and deflecting Jia Fou’s lunge as if I was flicking off ink from a brush.

  He went spinning to the side, before righting himself, and then followed up with a slash. I was on comfortable ground now. I parried, twisted, and deflected, easily one step ahead of all his attempts, barely making a move to cause harm. It is said that the greatest victory a swordsman can achieve is to defeat his opponent without even drawing his blade. The second greatest? Without drawing blood. Victory might have been inevitable for me, simply by virtue of what I wielded, but the manner of that victory mattered just as much, if not more, than the outcome itself.

  We locked blades, the edges of our swords grinding against each other, which was considered a novice mistake by swordsmen, but which all swordsmen ended up committing regardless simply due to how dramatic it made them look, and pushed against each other. Of course, I was bolstered in strength by the Dragon Saber, so even an elephant on the other end would not have moved me, but Jia Fou grunted and shoved, trying his best to unbalance me. I let him struggle for a while, before neatly stepping aside, brushing his blade away, and letting his momentum carry him forward in a stagger. To his credit, he managed to stop himself, but it was too late: the blade of my sword rested on his shoulder, its keen inner edge almost kissing his throat. He stilled.

  “Yield,” I requested, hoping he would actually comply.

  He didn’t have to. Like with all things to do with swordsmanship, there was an equally complex and tangled web of actions and counter responses here, ranging from ignoring me to accepting, but making it clear that I had won due to cheating and thus my honor was forever tarnished. The basics were supposed to be simple: any opponent forced into a corner could chose to continue the fight twice, for a total of three bouts, if they felt they had yet to show their skills properly. The fighter with the upper hand was expected to allow this, though that depended on another host of factors and considerations. At the same time, if the fight was seen as being interfered with, or if it appeared that one person was somehow taking advantage or cheating, then there were specific answers and responses as well, like curses on the duel, accusations of dishonor, declarations of a tainted match.

  Simply put, a blade to the throat did not mean an end to the fight.

  …………………..

  Mo Jian pulled the jade slip away from his forehead, blinking as the world returned. The echo of another’s life faded slowly, leaving his heart still racing. The memory jade was powerful, and its recollection was vivid, rich, and immersive enough that he had nearly lost himself in it. Even the short length he had experienced was enough to keep weaker cultivators trapped inside for ages.

  More importantly, the thoughts and imagery within it were unmistakable. This memory… was not from this world.

  Stunned, he looked up at Bai Ning. “How did you find this? Where?”

  He must have looked truly rattled, because Bai Ning’s expression shifted from curiosity to concern. “At the local market, as I said, Master. The seller was a cultivator at the third stage of Qi Condensation. The jade was interesting, so I picked it up, but it didn’t feel dangerous. Why? What is it?”

  Mo Jian stood abruptly, too restless to sit. He began pacing before her, his thoughts spinning out of control.

  How could such a memory exist here, in this world?

  He recognized it, barely, from the book. There had been a fleeting mention of murim, and, more importantly, of the Red Dust Pavilion, during the final battle between Ye Chen and the Immortal of Slaughter.

  The two had been world-hopping by then, having left Tianxia, this world, long behind. That sequence had always stood out to him, especially the part where they emerged into a science fiction world. He still remembered that passage: they had appeared beside a spaceship that opened fire on them when they failed to respond to its identification query. The Immortal of Slaughter had conjured a blood bubble around himself, and Ye Chen, irritated, had cleaved the spaceship clean in half with a single swing of his sword.

  The murim world had come next. The Red Dust Pavilion, the same sect mentioned in this jade’s memory, had been destroyed by a stray blast from their duel.

  So how could a memory from that world be here?

  He turned toward Bai Ning, who was still watching him with a mixture of worry and confusion. Could this somehow be because she was the heroine of the story? Was that why such impossible things kept happening around her?

  No matter how he tried to reason it out, there was no answer that made sense.

  Giving up, Mo Jian sank back into his chair, tapping his leg against the stone floor in agitation.

  “Master?” Bai Ning prompted again gently. “Is this thing really so dangerous?”

  He took a deep breath, forcing himself to set aside disbelief. “It’s not dangerous, per se. Just… difficult to believe. This memory came from another world.”

  Bai Ning’s brow furrowed. “Another world? As in a secluded realm, or an immortal’s domain?”

  Mo Jian shook his head. “That’s-” He stopped, exhaled, and stood once more, pacing with his hands clasped behind his back. “Alright. From the start, then. Do you recall how people say immortals can ascend to a higher world?”

  “To heaven,” Bai Ning corrected. “At least, that’s how everyone puts it.”

  Mo Jian nodded. “Not entirely wrong, but not entirely right either. What you need to understand is that most of the time, it's to a higher-world, and that a so-called ‘higher world’ simply refers to a realm with a far denser concentration of qi. Much higher than ours. There are said to be exactly three thousand such worlds, collectively called the Three Thousandfold World System.

  “But that’s not the part that matters right now. For each of those higher worlds, there exist countless smaller ones, basically minor realms with far thinner qi, some with almost none at all. We live in one of those, which is named Tianxia. It has just enough qi to support cultivation, but not enough for anyone to reach its true heights.”

  Bai Ning absorbed that in silence. Her eyes flicked with unasked questions, but Mo Jian continued before she could interrupt.

  “Immortals, especially those at higher levels, or what we call Wandering Immortals, can travel freely between worlds, even among the higher ones. That’s what people truly mean when they speak of ‘ascending to heaven,’ though actual ascension is far rarer and immeasurably harder. Regardless, the memory jade you found… it came from one of those lesser worlds. A small realm with barely any qi; imagine the spiritual energy of a single novice cultivator spread across an entire world. That is the world of murim.

  “Their rules are different. Within them, they’ve found unique ways to survive and cultivate with what little they have.”

  Silence settled again. Finally, Bai Ning spoke, and what she asked wasn’t what he’d expected. “That’s… honestly, Master, I need some time to digest that. But how do you know all this? I’ve never heard even a hint about other worlds in any of my scrolls or sect records. I don’t mean to doubt you, but it sounds… fantastical.”

  Mo Jian waved a hand dismissively. “It’s not that big of a secret, just a forgotten one. Before the Shattering, this knowledge was common enough. Even now, the major clans and sects know fragments of it, but they hoard it like priceless treasure.

  “Travel between small worlds was actually somewhat common in those days. Impossible now, of course, but still.” He gave a soft, humorless chuckle. “To stumble across something like this… Bai Ning, your luck is truly terrifying.”

  She looked faintly insulted. “It’s not just my luck, Master. It’s ours.” Then, hesitating, she asked, “Should I hide the memory, then? If it’s so rare and priceless?”

  He was already shaking his head. “It’s strong, yes, but stronger and more complete memories probably exist, even here in the Thousand Shattered Islands. What makes this one unique is its source. It’s not as though possessing it grants you any advantage, or the ability to travel to that world. Think of it more like a collector’s piece. There are people who would pay a fortune for something like this, simply because they collect such curiosities.”

  He thought of the Six-Eared General but didn’t voice the name aloud. With that man, there was never any guarantee he wouldn’t hear it, no matter where in the world it was spoken.

  “But it’s not dangerous,” Mo Jian continued. “In fact, you should make full use of it. If it helps you refine your swordsmanship, then it’s worthwhile. Who knows – perhaps one day you’ll have the chance to sell it for a mountain of spirit stones and retire as a wealthy lady.”

  Bai Ning chuckled softly, clearly entertained by the image. “As you say, Master.” Then her tone shifted, curious again. “I’ve never heard of Wandering Immortals before. Are there entire realms of cultivation in the immortal stages, like there are for mortal cultivation?”

  Mo Jian paused, about to answer, but then thought better of it. “It’s best if you don’t concern yourself with that for now. Knowing too much at your realm can actually hinder advancement, and even in the best-case scenario, might end up distracting you. I’ll tell you when you reach Core Formation. There are… not exactly secrets, but certain truths best understood only once you’ve reached that level.”

  He meant it sincerely, even as Bai Ning pouted in protest. Teaching her about the realms of immortal cultivation, or say, about about divine treasures, or the distinctions between Shen and Gui wouldn’t help her now. Those were lessons for later, when her foundation was strong enough to bear them.

  Bai Ning accepted his words with a reluctant nod, though her expression still carried a trace of curiosity that no doubt would resurface later.

  Mo Jian exhaled softly, letting the tension drain from his shoulders. The flickering qi light in the cave cast long shadows across the stone walls, and for a while, neither of them spoke.

  He looked down at the jade slip resting on the table between them, the faint lines on its surface catching the light. A relic from another world, fallen somehow into theirs. Kind of like him.

  Even after all his explanations, the reality of it still felt unreal.

  He pushed that thought aside for now. There would be time to worry later.

  “Get some rest,” he said finally, his tone gentle but firm. “We’ll be travelling to Blackrock Island again tomorrow. Try not to spend the entire night staring into that jade slip.”

  Bai Ning smiled faintly. “I make no promises, Master.”

  Mo Jian sighed in mock resignation, but the corner of his mouth twitched. As she gathered her things and retreated toward her chambers, he remained seated for a while longer. It was reminder that things were progressing on; that the plot of the story was unfolding bit by bit, out of his sight.

  “Let’s hope,” he murmured under his breath, “that the ending stays the same.”

  The cave fell silent once more, the wards humming softly against the distant wind.