Zhang Mingyuan stuffed the last piece of snow rabbit meat into his mouth. After swallowing, he said:

  “Cold Crow City lies at the junction of the Northern Domain, the Eastern Wastes, and the Western Desert. It’s the only city in the region governed by a loose alliance of rogue cultivators. Rumor has it that three Golden Core ancestors sit behind it, jointly enforcing the rules. Private combat is strictly forbidden within the city.”

  He paused, then gave a wry smile.

  “To enter the city temporarily, cultivators must pay one low-grade spirit stone per day. Long-term residence costs ten mid-grade spirit stones per month. I’ve skimmed some resources over the years while serving Bai Li—enough to last seven or eight months.”

  Yun Che pondered briefly, then asked, “Are there places to trade inside the city?”

  “Yes,” Zhang Mingyuan nodded. “On the fifth, fifteenth, and twenty-fifth of every month, the Pavilion of Ten Thousand Treasures holds auctions. On regular days, there’s also a free market—rogue cultivators barter goods or sell items of… questionable origin.”

  He glanced at Yun Che. “Looking to trade something?”

  Yun Che smiled faintly. “What—don’t want me tagging along? With the spirit stones I have, I doubt I could even stay three days.”

  “What nonsense,” Zhang Mingyuan waved him off. “If you hadn’t killed Bai Li, I’d still be barely surviving under his restriction. Cold Crow City is expensive, sure—but two people sharing one room cuts the cost in half. If you don’t mind, we’ll make do together.”

  Three days later, two streaks of light skimmed across the vast ice plains, finally halting before a colossal city.

  Cold Crow City.

  Calling it a “city” felt insufficient—it was more like a massive fortress built into the mountainside. The walls rose over thirty zhang high, cast from black iron mixed with obsidian, their surfaces carved with dense defensive runes that gleamed coldly under the sun.

  Within the city, buildings were arranged in layered tiers. At the highest point stood a nine-story black tower, its spire suspending a massive ice-blue crystal. An invisible field radiated from it, enveloping the entire city—the core of the Prohibition of Combat Grand Formation.

  A long queue stretched before the city gates—over a hundred people. Most wore plain clothing, their auras mixed and unstable. Cultivation levels ranged from Qi Condensation Fourth or Fifth Layer up to Twelfth or Thirteenth. Even the occasional Foundation Establishment cultivator waited obediently in line.

  Zhang Mingyuan lowered his voice.

  “The rules set by the three ancestors are absolute. No matter how strong you are, you enter on foot and queue like everyone else. A century ago, a Nascent Soul rogue cultivator tried to force his way in. The three ancestors joined hands, suppressed him, extracted his soul, and hung it at the city gates—for three full years.”

  Yun Che nodded slightly, his gaze sweeping over the gate guards.

  Four cultivators, all above Qi Condensation Tenth Layer, clad in identical black outfits. A cold crow with outspread wings was embroidered on their chests, their eyes sharp as hawks.

  The line advanced slowly. Just as it was nearly their turn—

  A shrill tearing sound split the sky!

  A blood-colored streak shot down from the north at terrifying speed, leaving behind a lingering stench of blood. It halted abruptly before the gates, revealing a middle-aged cultivator with a pale face and a vicious scar slashing across his eye.

  His aura was powerful—mid-stage Foundation Establishment.

  He ignored the queue entirely. With a flick of his sleeve, a gust of bloody wind erupted. The dozen low-level Qi Condensation cultivators at the front were sent flying with screams, the line thrown into chaos.

  Yun Che frowned. The Minor Gravitational Art activated silently, shielding himself and Zhang Mingyuan. Though they were pushed back several steps, neither was injured.

  The scarred cultivator snorted coldly and tossed out a blood-red token. One of the guards examined it, his expression changing immediately.

  “So it is a senior from the Blood Fiend Sect. Please—enter.”

  The scarred man strode straight through the gates, vanishing into the city streets.

  “Blood Fiend Sect…” Zhang Mingyuan said grimly. “One of the three great demonic sects of the Northern Domain. I didn’t expect them to have people here.”

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  Yun Che withdrew his gaze, expression calm. “Let’s go.”

  When their turn came, Zhang Mingyuan paid twenty low-grade spirit stones and received two palm-sized tokens engraved with a cold crow—Temporary Residence Tokens. They felt icy to the touch, faint spiritual fluctuations hinting at tracking or identification restrictions within.

  Inside the city, the scene was utterly different.

  Wide, clean streets. Shops lined both sides—pill halls, artifact pavilions, talisman workshops, material stores. There were even signs reading Spirit Beast Boarding and Cave Dwelling Rentals.

  Cultivators moved constantly through the streets, mostly in haste. Conversations were rare, and when they occurred, voices were kept low.

  The air carried a complex mixture of scents: medicinal fragrances, the stench of monster materials, scorched metal from forges—and a faint trace of blood, clinging to cultivators freshly returned from slaughter beyond the walls.

  Zhang Mingyuan led Yun Che through winding streets to a quiet courtyard in the southern district. A wooden plaque hung above the gate:

  Cold Crow Residence — Unit B17

  “This is a rental courtyard run by the Rogue Cultivator Alliance,” Zhang Mingyuan explained. “Crude, but quiet—and it has basic defensive formations.”

  He pressed his token against the door. The gate slid open soundlessly.

  The courtyard was small—three stone rooms arranged around a central well. The furnishings were sparse: a bed, a table, a meditation mat. Yet faint runes shimmered along the walls, providing soundproofing and protection.

  Zhang Mingyuan gave Yun Che one room and took the adjacent one. After settling in, he retrieved the jade box containing the Ice Crystal Ginseng.

  “This ginseng is over three hundred years old,” he said thoughtfully. “At auction, it could fetch at least fifty mid-grade spirit stones. We split it evenly—enough to stay here for over half a year.”

  Yun Che shook his head. “You risked your life for it. Keep it. I have my own plans.”

  Zhang Mingyuan tried to insist, but Yun Che had already turned away.

  “Tomorrow, we visit the market. Tonight, I need to cultivate.”

  Inside his room, Yun Che sealed the door and activated the soundproofing formation. Sitting cross-legged on the mat, he exhaled slowly.

  He retrieved the pitch-black flying sword and its dark scabbard, placing them before him.

  The sword was barely a foot long, its body jet black and etched with dark-golden patterns. Even without control, the patterns pulsed like breathing, radiating a faint, sinister aura.

  The scabbard looked even more ancient—neither metal nor wood. The twisted markings on its surface felt faintly warm to the touch, as if blood flowed within.

  “Senior Li,” Yun Che asked silently, “what exactly is this thing?”

  Li Han’s voice carried rare gravity.

  “Long ago, I encountered records in an ancient ruin—Blood-Refining Soul-Devouring Swords. Standard weapons of the ancient demonic sect Blood God Sect. Forged using Soul-Devouring Gold, fueled by living blood essence. Each kill increases its power. After ten thousand lives, a sword spirit can form—its might approaching that of a true treasure.”

  Yun Che’s pupils contracted.

  “But yours is only an imitation,” Li Han continued. “A true Blood-Refining Soul-Devouring Sword would kill a Foundation Establishment cultivator upon contact. This one, while evil, has no true spirit. At best, it’s a high-grade artifact.”

  “And the scabbard?”

  “That,” Li Han said with interest, “is the real treasure. It’s made of Spirit-Locking Blood Sandalwood, grown beneath ancient battlefields. It suppresses spiritual resonance—and more importantly, it contains a Sword-Nurturing Restriction.”

  Yun Che’s heart stirred.

  He formed a seal and injected a stream of pure ice-aspected spiritual energy into the scabbard.

  Weng—!

  The twisted markings flared to life. A powerful suction erupted from the mouth of the scabbard, actively devouring Yun Che’s spiritual energy!

  He immediately cut the flow. After three breaths, the suction faded. The scabbard returned to stillness—but its patterns gleamed slightly brighter.

  “As expected,” Li Han chuckled. “This scabbard not only suppresses the sword’s evil aura, but slowly nurtures it with spiritual energy. That disciple of the Blood Refinement Venerable was a fool—he only knew how to force power with blood, wasting the true value of this scabbard.”

  Yun Che’s gaze sharpened.

  Suddenly, he flicked his wrist and tossed the flying sword into the air!

  Clang—!

  The sword trembled violently the instant it left his hand. Dark-golden patterns blazed, the blade letting out a piercing shriek as it transformed into a streak of black light and shot toward the window.

  Just before impact, the wall’s defensive runes activated. A translucent ice-blue barrier formed.

  Bang!

  The sword rebounded, instantly redirecting—slamming into the door, the walls, again and again. Each time, it was repelled by the formation.

  The shriek grew sharper.

  The sword suddenly turned and stabbed straight at Yun Che!

  Yun Che remained calm. With a lift of his hand, the Mysterious Frost Strike jade slip hovered before him. Of the six remaining frost sigils on its surface, one glowed faintly.

  The sword froze three feet from him, vibrating violently, as if deeply wary of the jade slip.

  Yun Che exhaled a thread of ice-blue spiritual energy, wrapping it around the sword.

  The blade flickered—

  And vanished.

  The next instant, it reappeared near the door. Its color had shifted from jet black to dark red, its aura noticeably weakened.

  “Spatial shift?” Yun Che’s eyes gleamed.

  He formed another seal. The second sigil on the jade slip lit up, and an ice-blue chain condensed midair, lashing toward the sword!

  The blade flickered again, reappearing by the window—now fully crimson, just as it had been during the battle with the white-robed cultivator.

  Understanding dawned.

  The sword’s teleportation ability was tied to its color. Each shift degraded it by one tier, draining its power. Without a master’s spiritual support, it could teleport no more than three times.

  Seeing it about to flicker once more, Yun Che acted decisively.

  The third sigil ignited.

  Three ice-blue chains wove together into a net, sealing the surrounding space completely. The sword struggled wildly, its shriek weakening—until it finally hung suspended in midair, rotating slowly.

  Yun Che drew a deep breath.

  Hand seals blurred as streams of ice-aspected spiritual energy poured into the sword.

  He would seize this moment—when the sword’s resistance was at its weakest—

  And forcibly refine it.

  but the divergence between path and tool.

  The sword-nurturing path trades patience for the future.

  Yun Che, for the first time, truly saw the scabbard.

  its fate will follow Yun Che’s choices.