"Wow, you look so young, but you're already a famous swordsman from Luofu?" March 7th's eyes sparkled with admiration. Secretly, she envied the idea of wielding a sword and becoming a dashing heroine. Maybe she should ask Anming for lessons later?
Stelle propped her chin on her hand, puzzled. "You look barely 18. How'd you get famous so young?"
She wanted to become a Stellaron Sovereign while still in her prime!
Qingque slowly drew her sword, gazing at the hilt with profound sorrow. "A missing mom, an absent dad, a corporate-slave me, and mahjong tiles that refuse to win."
March and Stelle exchanged awed glances. Though they didn't fully understand, it sounded like Qingque had endured great hardship to reach this point.
So this is the price of becoming a Sword Sovereign? March grimaced. Wasn't there an easier path—like waking up one day suddenly enlightened? Maybe she'd just wait for Anming to carry her through battles instead.
Dan Heng knew a bit about Qingque. Her swordsmanship was renowned across Luofu. Though not officially titled "Sword Sovereign," no one else came close.
Her story was legendary: a prodigy from a prestigious lineage, yet it was Anming who'd truly honed her talent.
Slacking was her creed—yet she could never refuse the old man's teachings.
A short-life species mastering such sword arts… If no one remembers him, wouldn't that be too cruel?
Qingque hadn't overthought it at first. But through training, she'd sensed the emotions embedded in his techniques—and vowed to ensure his legacy endured.
At least let the Alliance know what kind of genius they'd overlooked!
"So… this 'Anming' you mentioned—what's he like?" Qingque asked Stelle curiously.
"Succubus novelist!"
"Concrete-pouring expert!"
March and Stelle answered simultaneously, their descriptions clashing violently with Qingque's mental image.
Qingque blinked. Same name, different person? Her grandmaster had nothing to do with succubi or construction work.
Something felt… off.
To her, Anming had been a quiet old man—reserved, yet subtly kind in every gesture.
"You'll see when you meet him," March said, studying Qingque. Anming couldn't possibly be connected to Luofu's swordsmen. He'd just left the space station and stayed on the Express since.
Unless he'd dreamed about it…
Qingque nodded, eyeing the wary Silvermane Guards. "Just pretend I'm a passerby."
Her harmless smile bore no trace of her earlier sharpness—more like a seasoned office worker.
Gepard sighed inwardly. Belobog's attracting too many odd characters lately.
"Follow me. Qliphoth Fort lies ahead."
He dismissed the guards. Stopping this group would be futile anyway.
Though Qingque seemed frail, Gepard sensed towering lethality beneath her guise—a sword aura so dense it felt tangible.
Even Qingque herself didn't realize: her swordplay now mirrored Anming's. Every strike carried the same world-cleaving intent that had once split Yuque.
Perhaps Anming had left traces—tiny seeds now blooming.
As they ascended the fortress steps, Qingque suddenly looked up. A silver-haired girl descended the opposite side.
Time seemed to freeze.
For reasons she couldn't explain, Qingque fixated on the stranger—catching a whiff of something familiar.
But… surely just déjà vu.
Their eyes met briefly in the air before parting.
Qliphoth Fort - Throne Room
Silver Wolf checked her phone—Anming's message pinning a hotel location.
Earlier, he'd sensed impending disaster (read: harem wars) and tactfully sent her ahead to "wait comfortably."
Though it sounded suspicious, Silver Wolf had agreed cheerfully—the epitome of a sweetheart who'd help count cash while being trafficked.
Now, only Anming and Cocolia remained in the hall.
Casually dragging a chair forward, Anming rested Nightless's sheathed form on the carpet—lightly.
Crack. The floor split clean through.
"Repairs will be billed to my companions."
Anming smiled amiably, but without Silver Wolf present, the pretense of harmlessness dropped.
Cocolia stared, her gaze lifting as if tracking an invisible dragon coiling above her—roaring.
A bead of sweat slid down her temple.
Negotiations require parity. Overwhelming disparity eliminates dialogue entirely.
When one side stands atop a mountain, what fairness exists?
"Who… are you?" Cocolia forced out, staring into an abyss that threatened to crush her to dust.
"Me?"
Anming lifted Nightless, grinning.
"Just a Nameless."
Can anyone resist a Stellaron? The doubt flickered in Cocolia before the voice in her mind thundered:
[He's bluffing. Pay no heed.]
"Oh?"
Anming's eyes frosted over. "Who permitted you to speak?"
Nightless flashed—its edge slicing across dimensions to strike the Stellaron inside Cocolia's consciousness.