Yan Dao sat up, flexing his shoulder experintally. His eyes widened. "The pain I’ve had since the Shadow Cliff Battle... it’s not there. It’s like my body’s a decade younger."
Lin Mu gave a faint smile. "The sutra purges deeply. The older the wound, the more eager it is to be released."
Yan Dao gave a laugh, throwing his head back. "Marvelous! To think a sword cultivator would heal better than the Healing Hall itself!"
Lin Mu stood up and bowed respectfully. "It was my honor, Elder. Please don’t strain yourself yet. Let your body stabilize."
The elder nodded. "Agreed. Though... I must say, Lin Mu... if the sword path ever fails you, you’d make a fine healing master."
One of the other elders chuckled. "Let’s hope he stays on the sword path. We can’t afford to lose such a monster of a swordsman to the dical halls."
As the laughter filled the Healing Pavilion, Lin Mu stepped outside for a mont of quiet, the sunlight warming his face. He had co to check on a wounded elder. He hadn’t expected to be reminded of the ti he’d spent in the temple, chanting beside still ponds and ditating under trees older than ti.
The path of the sword may be sharp—but the path of balance was never truly far behind.
The breeze was light as Lin Mu wandered the quiet stone paths of the Xian Sword Sect.
The wind carried the faint scent of blooming sword lilies and mountain herbs, mingled with the distant ring of steel upon steel. His robes fluttered softly as he walked without direction, simply basking in the calm atmosphere of the sect.
There was a serenity here—one born not from peace, but from purpose. Disciples moved through the grounds with focused expressions, their swords strapped to their backs or clutched in hand.
So stood atop boulders in deep stances, slashing through the air with discipline; others listened attentively to lectures being held beneath tall sword monunts. Lin Mu paused at one such gathering, his gaze settling on an old inner court instructor speaking about the subtle difference between a sword swing driven by anger and one born of clarity.
"Your sword reflects your will," the old instructor intoned, his voice calm but resolute. "But will without clarity becos chaos. A blade drawn in rage may strike hard, but it cannot strike true."
Lin Mu smiled faintly at the words. He had learned similar lessons through trial and tribulation, though it was good to hear that such foundations were being instilled in the younger generation.
Just as he was about to continue walking, an inner court disciple approached him, slightly hesitant but determined.
"Senior Lin Mu," the young man said, cupping his fists respectfully. "Grand Elder Huo has summoned you to the main hall. He said it was important."
Lin Mu raised an eyebrow. "Did he ntion what it was about?"
The disciple shook his head. "Only that it was urgent."
Lin Mu’s mind imdiately leapt to one possibility—the Sacred Grounds. Could it be that the Formation Spirit had finally responded? Without wasting another mont, he nodded. "Understood. Thank you."
With a light step, Lin Mu soared into the air, flashing across the sect’s sprawling grounds. It wasn’t long before he landed before the Grand Hall nestled at the peak, its massive doors carved with the great battles of the sect’s founder, Daoist Star Slayer.
The door was already open, as if expecting him.
Inside, the Grand Elder stood beside a sword display, seemingly inspecting a half-rusted weapon from an era long past. The mont Lin Mu entered, the old man turned and smiled.
"Lin Mu," he greeted warmly, "So quick on your feet. I didn’t even have to send a second ssage."
"I assud it was about the Sacred Grounds," Lin Mu replied with a hint of curiosity.
Grand Elder Huo chuckled, shaking his head. "Not yet, not yet. Though I suspect it won’t be long now."
"Then...?" Lin Mu trailed off.
"I called you here to thank you," the Grand Elder said, walking over to him with hands clasped behind his back. "Word reached quickly about what you did for Elder Yan Dao."
"It was just sothing I felt I should do," Lin Mu replied earnestly. "He was injured and in pain."
"Indeed," the Grand Elder said, chuckling again. "But by healing him, you spared quite the headache. You’ve no idea how much paperwork and responsibility I would’ve had to deal with if he were bedridden for a month."
Lin Mu gave a small laugh but then paused, his gaze drifting upward—toward the old man’s face. Toward the single, sharp eye that still glead like tempered steel... and the patch that covered the other.
There was a mont of silence before Lin Mu spoke again.
"Grand Elder," he said carefully, "I know it may be presumptuous... but if you wish, I can attempt to heal your eye."
The Grand Elder blinked. Slowly, his hand reached up, touching the edge of the black eyepatch. For a long mont, he remained silent, his gaze turning distant.
Lin Mu watched quietly, not pushing.
"...This eye," the Grand Elder said at last, his voice softer now, "was lost thousands of years ago... during the Twelve Gates of Rebirth Conspiracy."
He chuckled lightly. "A blade from an enemy I underestimated. That sword pierced through bone and soul alike."
Lin Mu frowned slightly. "Then why not heal it? With the resources of the Immortal Court, surely it would’ve been possible."
The old man turned to him with a nostalgic look in his eye—the kind of gaze that had seen centuries of conflict, glory, and regret.
"I could’ve healed it," he admitted. "Countless tis, in fact. The court offered it. Even so transcendent Immortal Grandmaster healers did. But I refused every ti."
"Why?"
The Grand Elder’s voice deepened, and there was a sharp edge in it now. Not anger—conviction.
"Because this," he said, tapping the eyepatch, "is a lesson. A scar I carry not out of stubbornness, but rembrance."
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