Chapter 447: Tomb of the Sword Saint
âThis path of the swordâŠâ Max muttered under his breath, his voice filled with awe and disbelief as he slowly turned his head, taking in the endless sea of blades stretching out around him. âThis is⊠the burial of swords.â
It was the only way he could describe it. The landscape was a graveyard, a solemn resting place where countless swords stood stabbed into the bloodstained earth, each one weathered by time yet still exuding a powerful, undying presence. But that wasnât all.
As Max focused deeper, he realized something even more shockingâsomething that made his heart pound faster. Each sword wasnât just lying there as a dead relic of battle. Each one was alive, in a way, emanating a distinct aura, a will, a profound truth.
And it wasnât mere sword aura eitherâno, it was more refined, more powerful. It was the trace of concepts. Sword concepts.
Maxâs mind reeled at the realization. Every single sword hereâthousands, maybe millionsâwas resonating with a different sword concept. Some blades thrummed with sharpness so intense it could split mountains; others radiated silent, patient killing intent, like assassins waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
There were swords that spoke of destruction, of death, of defense, of swift, graceful movements, and even swords that carried emotionsârage, sorrow, vengeance, peace.
âEach of these swords contains a concept,â Max thought, stunned. âEach one completely different, but all of them tied to the sword.â He had expected the path of the sword to mirror his earlier experiences with the Concept of Spaceâa gradual understanding of an elementâs mysteries, layer by layer.
But now he realized he had been dead wrong. This wasnât simple. This wasnât a single path. The Concept of Sword was a boundless ocean, a vast and endless domain of countless paths, each unique and sovereign.
It wasnât just one truth to comprehendâit was infinite truths, infinite possibilities. And to master it, he would have to find his own sword, his own truth buried within this sea of infinite wills. It wasnât just a test of strengthâit was a test of identity.
âKid, youâre in luck!â an excited voice suddenly rang out in Maxâs head, making his body tense instinctively before realizing it was just Blob, his ever-reliable companion. âThis place isnât some ordinary realm. Itâs legendary. Itâs called⊠the Tomb of the Sword Saint!â
Maxâs eyes widened, and he unconsciously repeated the words under his breath. âTomb of the Sword SaintâŠâ There was a strange weight to the name, a pull, as if even speaking it aloud stirred something ancient within the world around him.
Blobâs voice was practically buzzing with excitement. âI havenât personally been here before, but Iâm sure of it now! This is the real thingâthe Tomb of the Sword Saint. Itâs one of the great legends whispered among the ancient races and forgotten experts. No one knows who the Sword Saint truly wasâwhere he came from, what clan he belonged to, or even what power backed him. All that remains are the stories left behind, stories so old even the heavens seem to have forgotten.â
Max listened closely, his gaze sweeping once more across the sea of swords embedded into the battlefield. The sight took on a whole new meaning now.
Blob continued, his tone growing solemn. âLegend has it⊠the Sword Saint was unrivaled under the heavens. His swordsmanship transcended concepts, techniques, even the natural laws themselves. Every opponent he defeated, he didnât just killâhe honored them.â
He added. âHe took their swords, no matter how strong or weak, and buried them with his own hands on a vast, ancient battlefield. Victory after victory, duel after duel, the land was slowly covered. Thousands⊠tens of thousands⊠maybe hundreds of thousands of swords. Each blade carried the memory of a life, a battle, a struggle. In time, the entire battlefield turned into a graveyardâno, a sacred groundâoverflowing with the sword wills of fallen warriors. It became known as the Tomb of the Sword Saint.â
Max stood there in awe, the weight of the history surrounding him settling deep into his bones. This wasnât just a place to comprehend the sword. It was a living testament to the pinnacle of swordsmanshipâa final resting place where the wills of countless warriors lingered eternally, imprinting their last struggles, regrets, and dreams into the blades they left behind.
And now, he had stumbled upon it.
âThis is a place where even supreme geniuses could lose themselves,â Blob added in a quieter voice. âThe concepts hidden here arenât taught. Theyâre felt. Understood. If you listen closely, Max⊠if you open your heart to the swords⊠you might just walk a path even the heavens have long abandoned.â
Maxâs hand curled into a fist as he stared at the endless expanse of swords before him. âThe Tomb of the Sword SaintâŠâ he thought, a fire igniting in his chest. âIf thereâs anywhere in the world to forge my sword path⊠itâs here.â
However he didnât rush forward like an excited fool. Instead, he stood still at the edge of the endless field of swords, his eyes half-closed as he gathered his thoughts.
He knew better than to be careless in a place like thisâa place born from the culmination of countless battles, bloodshed, and invincible wills. âWhat type of sword do I want?â he muttered under his breath, pondering deeply.
His heart wasnât moved by glory, nor by the sheer beauty of the swordsmanship he felt pressing down on him from every direction. No, he sought something different. His fists clenched slowly as he whispered to himself, âI want a sword that can kill anything. A sword that can cut through anything. A sword that slaughters all my enemies without mercy.â His voice was low, but the determination behind it was absolute, burning hotter than the surrounding air.
With that resolve burning inside him, Max took his first step into the heart of the Tomb of the Sword Saint. As he walked, each step seemed to sink deeper into the heavy atmosphere, where ancient wills clung to the very air like mist.
Your gift is the motivation for my creation. Give me more motivation!