Chương 64: 63. My Nascent Soul Blade Has Severe Abandonment Issues

I return to Wei Zheng's shop while the sun is barely over the rooftops. The eastern district is still half-asleep, with stall stands folded like wooden skeletons as merchants drag baskets into place. Wei Zheng is unlocking his door when I arrive, his key turning in the worn brass lock.

"I haven't even opened."

"Are you surprised I'm punctual?" I ask.

"You're holding my lifeline." He just sighs and pushes the door open, disappearing inside. I follow. The shop is colder than it should be. Frostbite rests on the workbench, wrapped in cloth, with a shallow bowl of water beside it. Thin ice has formed across the surface. Wei Zheng looks worse than yesterday. His face is pale. His eyes are sunken. The exhaustion in his shoulders is not the simple kind that comes from staying awake too late. But there is a flicker in him too.

I have seen it in Ling'er when she finds a problem she cannot solve immediately. He gestures to a stool.

"Sit." Wei Zheng makes tea with slow, precise motions. The cup he hands me is warm. I hold it between both hands. He remains standing for a while beside the workbench, looking down at the wrapped sword.

"The physical damage is significant," he says.

"Cracks through the blade. Old stress in the metal. Some parts have grown brittle." I look at the cloth.

"And the spiritual damage?" Wei Zheng's mouth tightens.

"Worse." He finally sits. For a while, he only turns his cup between his hands.

"It is grieving," he says.

"And it has retreated inward. It resonates with feelings of loss, grief, and abandonment. At some point, that cultivator you spoke of… they discarded this blade. For what reason, I don't know." I think of Frostheart's journal. The final entries. A man dying alone, still lucid enough to leave warnings, regrets, instructions.

"He cared about it," I say quietly. Wei Zheng glances at me.

"The senior who owned it," I continue.

"He was dying, his tribulation was coming. If Frostbite stayed with him, it would have been destroyed with him. I think he discarded it because he wanted it to survive. Because he wanted someone else to inherit it."

"That may be what the man intended," he says.

"But it is not what the sword felt." The implication hangs between us. A parent can leave a child for protection. A master can send a disciple away for survival. A dying man can abandon a sword to preserve it. Intention matters, but pain does not always receive intention in the language it was sent. His voice stays flat, but not empty.

"I have never worked on anything this high-level," he says.

"The materials alone are beyond anything I have handled. The craftsmanship is unlike anything I'd ever seen before. I… do not know if I can fix it." I close my eyes for half a breath.

'I expected this, somewhat.' Expectation does not make disappointment lighter. However, he speaks again.

"But I can try." My eyes open. The words land like stones dropped into still water. Wei Zheng drains his tea and sets the cup down with a small, decisive clink.

"I cannot fully restore Frostbite," he says.

"The physical damage is too severe. I do not have the tools, the materials, or the skill to remake what was lost. Not yet. Maybe not ever." He looks at the sword again.

"But the spiritual damage… that is different. I may be able to help it hear again. Pull it far enough from dormancy that it can begin a path to recovery."

"Then what do you need?"

"Time, and materials connected to the blade. If the cultivator who carried this sword left anything behind, anything that feels like it belongs with it, I need to see it." I think for a moment, and reach into my storage ring. The frost crystals are still there, packed in a wooden box. I used some for formations, but most remain. Two and a half pounds, give or take. Cold gathers around my fingers as I take the box out and set it on the bench. Wei Zheng opens it. The temperature drops.

He unwraps a single crystal and holds it up to the morning light. Pale blue shines through his fingers. Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. For the first time since I entered, his expression shifts into something close to approval.

"This will help."

"And the price?" I ask.

"The price will be seen after I have done what I can."

"That is not how craftsmen usually charge."

"I am not repairing a door hinge." He sets the crystal back into the box and closes the lid.

"I do not know how long this will take. I do not know if I will succeed. I will not charge you for failure." I nod slowly.

"Then I will pay for the attempt." Wei Zheng's eyes narrow.

"... I will send word when there is something worth saying," he says.

"Until then, do not hover outside my shop like a worried husband." I stand, collecting my empty cup and setting it aside. At the door, I glance back once. Wei Zheng has already opened the box of frost crystals again. Frostbite lies before him, wrapped and silent. His hands move around it with the care of a man approaching an animal that might bite if startled. I step outside. The street woke up while I was inside. But I leave with hope, and return to the inn for last-minute preparation before the tournament begins.

The morning of the tournament feels more like a festival than a competition. The streets leading to the Central Arena are choked with bodies; cultivators in fine robes, merchants hawking food and souvenirs, children perched on shoulders, and everywhere, the press of mortals who have saved for months to afford a seat.

"Master," she says, looking at a stall where a man is frying spiral cakes in oil, "are those good?"

"Probably terrible for you." She looks at me. I sigh and buy two. One for her. One for me, because leadership requires sacrifice. We find Shen Qiao near the corner where the street widens toward the arena. He stands beneath a red banner, ledger tucked under one arm, eyes moving constantly. He spots me and approaches, then slows when he sees Ling'er. For one awkward heartbeat, I realize this is the first time they have actually met properly. Shen Qiao knows of her, of course. The "girl" who made deliveries.

The small servant attached to a Foundation Establishment cultivator. Ling'er knows of him too. The mortal clerk with the sharp mind. The one who helped me sell meat. But knowing of someone is not the same as meeting them.

"Shen Qiao," I say, "this is Ling'er. My disciple." Shen Qiao's eyes flicker. He bows, respectful but careful. His gaze flicks once to her hands. I surmise he's connected the supplier who skipped town with her already.

"Miss Ling'er." Ling'er smiles at him.

"Hello," she says.

"Master says you are very good with numbers."

"He exaggerates."

"No," I say.

"I usually understate useful things so people do not try to steal them." Ling'er studies him with open curiosity. Before the silence becomes awkward, I ask him a question.

"Any problems getting here?"

"None. Crowds are thick, but the Silver Hall entrance should be manageable if I go in separately."

"Let's get there early, shall we?" The line snakes around the block. We join it, Ling'er beside me, Shen Qiao a few paces behind, his ledger tucked under his arm and his eyes already counting heads. The crowd presses forward in waves. People clutch their tokens as the verification gates move quickly. Cultivators in matching crimson-trimmed uniforms inspect tokens, their spiritual senses brushing against each person in line. The touch is light, but present.

A reminder that the Crimson Dragon Alliance is not relying on paper, trust, or goodwill. A man ahead of us is pulled aside. His token is fake. He protests immediately.

"My cousin bought it from an official vendor!"

"Your cousin lied." The man keeps protesting until two guards escort him away from the line. We pass through. Inside, the arena swallows us. The warmth of bodies hits us first. Thousands of them, milling about the concourse. The space is impossibly large, the interior folded in ways that should not fit within the exterior walls. I have felt this before, when I first entered. But Ling'er staggers, just slightly, her hand brushing my sleeve.

"Master," she murmurs.

"The space—""I know. It's a formation. Stay close." She recovers. Her eyes go distant as she begins adjusting to the folded geometry. As we head to the seats, we see where the early rounds will take place. The arena floor is vast. Sixteen raised platforms arranged in a grid, each one surrounded by protective formations. Above them, enormous viewing crystals project the action for those seated too far to see clearly.

Sect banners hang from the upper tiers; Violet Sky, Crimson Sun, Golden Lotus, Crimson Dragon Alliance. Their colors dominate the arena, their emblems everywhere. Near the main entrance, two massive booths have been erected. Silver Hall on the left, its counters staffed by clerks with abacuses, its queues thick with mortals clutching coin pouches. Jade Hall on the right, its counters polished jade, its clerks cultivators, its queues shorter but the stakes visibly higher. Between them, a wall of noise and chatter.

"Did you see Li's boy? Can't believe he's actually here."

"With Elder Zhang mentoring him, he's a dark horse."

"The Crimson Sun disciple… her fire techniques are something else." I tune them out. The rules I set for myself resonate in my mind with each step. Never win too much from one hall. Never visit the same clerk twice. Never bet all the correct picks. Never bleed the same sect repeatedly. Never touch a match where the crowd and the Gaze agree. Stop after three wins. Leave before excitement forms around us. And above all: if something looks like free money, find the hook.

Shen Qiao has his own rules for the Silver Hall. We devised a simple code to communicate from afar between all three of us. He will watch from the Silver Hall. Ling'er will watch from our seats. I will move between them, my Gaze sweeping the fighters, the odds, the crowd. The tournament begins with spectacle. Fireworks erupt from the arena floor, their colors spelling out the names of the sponsoring sects. A roar rises from the crowd, so loud it vibrates in my chest. Banners wave. Voices chant.

The announcer's voice amplifies across the arena, a Core Formation cultivator whose spiritual sense projects his words into every corner of the space.

"Welcome to the Celestial Ascension Tournament! Today, the Qi Condensation bracket begins. One hundred twenty-eight matches. Sixteen platforms. The strongest cultivators from across the continent will compete for glory, for resources, and for a chance to enter the inheritance site of the Jade Sovereign!" The crowd roars again.

"Let the tournament begin!"