Chapter 220: Sword Technique

Yang returned to the tomb with a violent jolt as he found himself standing in the chamber once more, as the Senior withdrew his hand from his forehead. 

He gasped, ragged, desperate breaths tearing through his chest. Stumbling backward as his hand flew to his neck, wild-eyed as he frantically patted himself down. He searched for wounds, for blood, for any trace of the horrific wounds he had just endured.

Nothing. Just his pristine white sect robes covering his body. 

There was not a speck of blood on them.

He looked down and saw his leg still completely intact. He stumbled and found out there was no pain. Not even an ache. This was the leg that had just been severed moments ago.

“Senior... What?”  Yang’s voice cracked. 

“What did you do?”

He stared up at the Senior, bewildered, his mind reeling. 

It was beginning to dawn on him that whatever he had experienced with that sword was all in his mind. 

At the time, it was so real. He was so panicked with his leg cut off and his throat slit that he couldn't think rationally. Death had felt inescapable.

But how did I run if my leg was cut off? 

How did I fight when my throat was slit?

It was too realistic. He could still feel the ghost of warm, bubbling blood gushing out of his neck. The warm blood drenching down the front of his robes and clinging to his skin.

He looked down at his hands, clear of any blood, and moved his gaze up to look at the Senior standing patiently, watching Yang come down from his panic. “What happened to me, Senior?”

“This was my boon to you,” Senior replied calmly.

“Being chased down by a bloodthirsty sword?” Yang said incredulously. "That was a gift?"

“Don’t be obtuse, Young Daoist,” Senior said, and Yang could practically hear the eye roll in the tone. He felt furious. If he were stronger, Yang would have attempted to poke out those invisible eyes. As it was, Yang remained silent, just glaring to show his anger.

At Yang’s continued lack of response, Senior let out a tired sigh, as if dealing with a difficult child. "Look within yourself."

Yang stared warily at him before he shifted his perception inward and peered within himself, into his Sea of Consciousness. He didn’t find anything amiss; everything from the webbing to his soul still looked the same. There was also thankfully no psychotic sword out to butcher him inside his own head.

He withdrew, but as soon as the thought of a sword crossed his mind, he felt a pocket of something foreign nestled in his mind. Not in his Sea of Consciousness but in his active mind. 

He diverted his perception towards it, only to find himself inundated with a torrent of detailed instructions. 

A sword technique. 

Profound and intricate, unfurling before his mind's eye like an endless scroll. He tried to read it, got through its contents, but he could only grasp the barest bones of it. The rest was incomprehensibly complex and felt like a blur to him. As he kept trying to look further into it, a splitting headache began throbbing behind his eyes, compelling him to stop and retreat to the present.

He looked up at the Senior. All anger now drained from his gaze, only to be replaced by excitement. “You gave me a Sword Technique?”

“Yes,” Senior stated plainly. “It's an advanced Sword Technique. You would not be able to comprehend it fully yet. Not for a very long time. But if you practice it diligently, it will be amongst the finest sword techniques you will ever come across even after you ascend.” He paused before continuing. “The technique will continue to progressively unlock within your mind as your cultivation advances, until you have mastered its final iteration.”

“Senior, how high is its last iteration?” Yang asked eagerly. He had probably gotten his hands on at least an immortal technique if Senior was saying it would be amongst the best techniques even in an immortal world.

“High enough,” Senior said. “I possess the last iteration made, just before I was created.” His voice turned thoughtful. “Though I am sure my original self must have made even further advancement in it since then.”

“There may be even more stages to it?” Yang asked in a whisper.

The Senior, instead of answering him, posed a question of his own. “Is there an end to knowledge and advancement?”

Yang went quiet. He knew this. There is no end to knowledge or a summit to cultivation.

He asked a final question. “What is the name of this technique?”

“It has no name,” Senior said casually. “I learned it from my Master as a young disciple and kept refining it until it reached its current state.”

Yang nodded slowly and brought both his hands forward and bent down as he gave a deep formal bow.

“Chen Yang thanks Senior for the boon.”

 The Senior watched Yang in his bowed position for a few seconds. “Kneel and prostrate.”

Yang had started rising when he spoke, but quickly stopped in a fraction of a second, his body halfway between bowing and rising as the Senior's words hit home.

He looked up, startled for a second before he went down on his knees, bringing his forehead down to prostrate near the Senior’s feet.

This Senior had taught Yang a precious technique. A teacher for a day is a master for life. No one will fault him for demanding such respect from Yang, and no one will fault Yang for freely giving it to him.

“Thank you. For teaching Chen Yang this sword technique, Senior.”

"Hmmm." The Senior's voice was contemplative. "You may rise."

Yang noticed the Senior’s form looked brighter as he tossed a small solid object at him, which Yang quickly caught as he rose, only to find that it was a silver ring with a flat-cut black square stone engraved with microscopic runes on it and filled in with some kind of multichrome enamel or maybe even metal. He wasn’t familiar with the materials used in artifact refining. Yang turned the ring over in his hand, marveling at its craftsmanship.  

“Senior, is this a storage ring?”

“Yes,” the Senior said plainly, "A meeting gift from an Elder.” 

Yang opened his mouth to thank him, but before he could, the Senior tilted his head to the left, as if listening to something Yang could not hear. 

“You should leave,” Senior said as he straightened and turned his head fully towards Yang.

He nodded and gave a final, deep bow. A farewell carrying all the gratitude and respect he could muster.

When he straightened, he saw white light emanating from the Senior, reaching out in glowing tendrils much like the ones that had drawn him through the gate. 

He watched patiently as he was completely enveloped by the light until all he could see was the brilliant white glow.

And then the world dissolved around him.

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