Chapter Forty-Five: Forging the Five Beasts Amidst a Rain of Swords, Gathering the Sword Pool Within the Womb Breath

Half the mountain mist dispersed, and the spring rain fell in fine threads, growing heavier with each moment. Every drop of rain seemed to carry within it the sword energy rising from the rugged peaks. Though the mountain itself was lifeless stone, the diffused sword aura made it feel alive, like a colossal celestial deity gazing down at the mortal creatures climbing its sacred body.

The sixth of the holy mountains stood like a celestial sword plunged into the mortal realm, transformed into stone. Dense fog covered the upper slopes, but below, peach blossoms bloomed beside clear stone paths. Upon these steps, a solitary figure in white ascended, struggling upward.

At the mountain’s foot, the radiant avenue had long vanished, clouds gathered in the dusk, as if angered by the earlier intrusion, unleashing torrents of rain. Yet the cultivators assembled below paid no heed, their eyes wide and fixed upon the white-clad figure on the stone path, as delicate as a blossom in the storm.

“He’s given up the chance to become the mountain guardian and instead seeks to climb for the Lesser Saint Token?!”

“A reckless youth, daring to defy the mountain lord so?”

“Perhaps... this is the intention of the newly ascended Flower Unfrozen from the Lin Family? Maybe she thinks the boy worthy of the Lesser Saint Token?”

A cacophony of voices echoed, undampened even by the downpour. After passing by An Le, Zhong Shunchao, Ye Chong, and Luo Qingchen did not descend but, hearts aflame, joined the ascent.

An Le climbed for the Lesser Saint Token. Only the mountain lord could grant it, and there were two ways to obtain it: either elders paid the price to secure it from the mountain lord, or one gained the lord’s favor and passed his test. Both paths were arduous—the lord’s temperament unpredictable, his favor elusive.

Thus, when Zhong Shunchao and Ye Chong realized that An Le both had the opportunity and the courage to strive for the token, they felt nothing but admiration. They, too, refused to descend, instead following him up the mountain.

Luo Qingchen, shaken by An Le’s silent prowess, looked troubled. He had considered leaving, but after some thought, he joined Zhong Shunchao and Ye Chong. Their climb was but a slim chance; if they outperformed the young climber, perhaps the mountain lord might favor them instead.

Rain poured, and on the cleansed stone path, water flowed like a short waterfall, endlessly. After the white-clad youth, the three followed.

Seeing Luo Qingchen, Zhong Shunchao, and Ye Chong ascend and not be expelled by the mountain lord, the crowd below grew restless. It seemed there was nothing wrong in climbing these steps; if they could outshine the boy, perhaps they could create their own legend.

Soon, from the carriages halted in the storm, one cultivator after another emerged, oil-paper umbrellas unfurled, blossoming across the landscape like flowers, like boats racing up the emerald stone path.

An Le had no mind for those who followed, hoping to seize this opportunity. Even if he did, he would not care; the mountain lord had not stopped them, thus had tacitly allowed it. Opportunity lay there; if fate tied the thread, it belonged to you—none could take it. If it was taken, then it was not yours to begin with.

To ascend and witness the grandeur of heaven and earth, to cross the vast river that never returns.

The water flowing down the stone steps brimmed with sword energy, like a surging river blocking the path. With his first step, An Le felt the sword aura rising from the mountain, formless yet pressing downward, as though he carried the mountain on his shoulders, each stride a struggle.

His internal energy, perfected in the first stage of body refinement, surged forth but could not suppress the sword energy in the water; his body wavered, nearly swept away. After ten steps, he grew exhausted, movement slowed to a crawl.

Yet An Le was not anxious. His gaze pierced the curtain of rain, fixed on the next step, feeling the sword energy and pressure, mustering each muscle to press onward.

Zhong Shunchao and Ye Chong followed, faces perplexed.

“Why is he so slow?”

“The sword aura at the mountain’s base has only just begun to rise; it’s not so difficult to start. Is he really here to compete for the Lesser Saint Token?”

They exchanged glances, confused but not contemptuous, merely bewildered.

To see a single part is to understand the whole; to glimpse a leaf is to know autumn's depth. Though they could not see through him, they guessed the youth’s cultivation must not be high.

“First stage of body refinement, nascent spirit just forming—no more than that,” Luo Qingchen spoke with hands behind his back, his scholar’s robe fluttering, sword aura swirling about him, untouched by wind or rain.

Zhong Shunchao and Ye Chong were stunned; the umbrella-bearing cultivators around them were likewise shocked.

Such low cultivation... he could have become the mountain guardian, yet refused, choosing instead to vie for the Lesser Saint Token—was he mad? Was it arrogance?

Through the rain, many watched the boy’s stubborn, stumbling ascent. No one mocked him; after all, he had caught the mountain lord’s eye and could have entered the holy mountain, but declined. In seeking the token, his courage along the path of cultivation was not theirs to belittle.

Yet their hearts burned, for his struggle meant their own chance for the token grew greater.

Amid the roaring rain, the cultivators climbed in silence.

Luo Qingchen watched An Le’s back; after repeated blows to his confidence, his face was devoid of its usual smile. After a long scrutiny, he exhaled, and cautiously stepped ahead, surpassing An Le.

Nothing changed.

Luo Qingchen then broke through wind and rain, ascending lightly. Zhong Shunchao and Ye Chong, too, did not linger behind An Le, but strode past the white figure in the storm.

Rain poured, merciless as time.

One by one, cultivators overtook An Le, climbing the rain-slick steps. Unknowingly, he fell behind. Yet he was not last; behind him, another figure followed, holding an oil-paper umbrella, clad in simple robes with a veil obscuring her face.

The girl watched An Le quietly, noting the bamboo sword at his waist, eyes narrowing, observing his laborious climb.

She watched—what gave this youth the right to strive for the Lesser Saint Token?

Step by step, An Le ascended, the pressure mounting. Each raindrop carried sword energy, pinning him to the steps. He cared nothing for others, his thoughts fixed solely on climbing; his internal energy was battered by the cold spring rain, unable to circulate—a shackle upon his body, each step a torment.

This was his own choice; he did not regret it.

His mind conjured the Sword Waterfall Diagram; millions of spring raindrops fell from the sky, transforming into countless streams of sword energy, like waterfalls, like the Milky Way.

In this moment, the scene matched the diagram perfectly.

Without hesitation, An Le channeled all the Time Qi he had gathered that day into the Sword Waterfall Diagram, increasing its threads from four to eleven.

A thought entered the nascent breath; his spirit explored his body, breathing calm and steady.

The Innate Swordsman Dao Fruit awakened, greedily absorbing the sword energy within the cold spring rain. The Talent of the Ages Dao Fruit trembled softly.

In his visualization, An Le’s spirit grew stronger; within the Mud Pill Palace, a sword floated quietly, surrounded by threads of sword energy, weaving together like a pool of blades.

He recalled scenes from his past, watching as a youth trained the Five Beasts beneath a waterfall.

An Le’s eyes shone; he looked up at the sky, rain pouring like a waterfall, and wished to temper his body beneath the storm.

Behind him, the girl’s eyes widened beneath her veil.

For the youth began to practice the Five Beasts right there on the stone steps—Tiger, Bear, Monkey, Deer, Bird—tempering his body in that small space!

The shackles that had bound him shattered; his blood boiled beneath his skin, rushing through his body. The spiritual energy of heaven and earth, like a spring breeze, mingled with the sword energy in the rain, slowly merging with his blood, seeping into his limbs and bones.

At this moment, An Le entered the second stage of body refinement—forging sword-energy-infused spiritual bones!

Refining spirit and body simultaneously; nascent breath condensed a sword pool, forging bones of sword energy!

What kind of talent was this?

The umbrella-bearing girl behind him watched in awe. Any ordinary cultivator at the first stage would have been crushed like a young flower by this mountain’s rain of sword energy. Yet the youth pressed upward, channeling sword energy to forge his bones, gathering sword rain to fill his sword pool.

Such boldness!

No wonder he dared to strive for the Lesser Saint Token.

The mountain path fell silent.

An Le opened his eyes, a smile on his lips. Having entered the second stage and broken his shackles, the sword energy flowing from the steps had become gentle, the pressure as soft as spring breeze. He lifted his foot and stepped onto the next stone.

Step by step, fluid as water, no more obstacles.

Luo Qingchen reached the two hundred eighty steps, unable to maintain his composure; rain soaked his face and scholar’s robe. He tried to lift his foot to the next step but could not. Sword energy surged, pressure like a mountain.

On the three hundredth step, a black-blue sword stuck in a peach tree sang with a clear, jubilant note.

But Luo Qingchen could only gaze at it from afar, unable to reach. Rain slid down his cheeks, mingled with frustration.

Zhong Shunchao and Ye Chong were the same; they sighed, knowing the token was not theirs.

On the mountain path, oil-paper umbrellas lay scattered, and the cultivators lost their ease, each encountering insurmountable barriers.

Some faces twisted, some gave up, some sighed…

Indeed, seizing opportunity was not so simple.

Suddenly—

Clear footsteps rang out, splashing through the rain, rhythmic and steady.

Pay no mind to the sound of rain in the woods; sing and stride at leisure.

The boy who had lagged behind, bamboo sword at his waist, now ascended with calm assurance, no longer hindered.

He surpassed one after another of those stalled on the stone path.

He passed Zhong Shunchao and Ye Chong.

He passed the halted Luo Qingchen.

Climbing three hundred steps, he reached the peach tree, and even the mountain seemed to smile.

An Le reached out, and before all eyes, grasped the Ink Pool.

He drew it forth, as if by destiny.