Chapter Forty-Four: The Hall of Cleansed Hearts

In front of the pavilion at the Bamboo Peak, Wang Can stood, occasionally gazing into the distance. When he learned that Shen Qingyun had been taken to the Discipline Hall, he was truly shocked. It had clearly been a clandestine affair between him and Shen Qingyun. How could it possibly involve the Discipline Hall?

Suddenly, a gleam of delight appeared in Wang Can’s eyes; he had spotted Wang Peike’s flying artifact. Wang Peike, of course, saw him as well and descended, controlling the artifact with ease.

“Grandfather, how did it go?” Wang Can’s expression remained calm, but anticipation shone in his eyes.

“He’s been confined,” Wang Peike replied, stowing away his flying artifact.

“What?” Wang Can uttered in surprise, disappointment flickering across his face. This was entirely different from what he had expected; how could mere confinement be the outcome?

Perhaps sensing Wang Can’s thoughts, Wang Peike chuckled and comforted him, “Can’er, don’t worry. Do you know who’s at the Heart Cleansing Hall?”

“Who?” Wang Can asked distractedly.

“The Sword Madman!”

“Hm?” Wang Can immediately perked up, clearly sensitive to the name. “Grandfather, you mean that lunatic?”

“Exactly!” Wang Peike nodded, stroking his beard.

“That’s perfect!” A trace of satisfaction surfaced in Wang Can’s eyes. Shen Qingyun, now you’re really finished!

At Bamboo Peak, the most renowned figure was the Madman—a strikingly unique presence. Though a disciple of Bamboo Peak, he had also apprenticed under Hong Feng of the Discipline Hall, thus possessing a dual identity.

But that was not the most terrifying aspect. The most frightening thing about him was that he could draw his sword at any time, anywhere. If you happened to be present, you’d surely be caught in the crossfire and receive compensation from the Discipline Hall.

Now, with the Madman in the Heart Cleansing Hall, who knew when he might suddenly draw his sword? If no one was there to spar with him, he’d surely seek out Shen Qingyun. Then, escape would be impossible!

...

The Heart Cleansing Hall was situated atop a barren mountain within the Cangyun Sect. Ordinarily, such a place—a wasteland devoid of life—should not exist in a celestial sect like Cangyun.

Rumor had it that the mountain was not always like this. It was said that someone once cultivated here and incurred the wrath of the heavens. Divine punishment descended, stripping the mountain of all life and suppressing the rebellious cultivator beneath its peak.

Of course, these tales were conjured from thin air, and after several centuries, their credibility was dubious. But the fact remained: the mountain had withered overnight centuries ago, becoming desolate in an instant.

The Heart Cleansing Hall sat atop this mountain. With no life, there was no spiritual energy. For a cultivator, being here was a torment—like thirsting for water with an empty flask, only to see a pool just ahead while shackled in place, forced to gaze at it in vain.

Thus, disciples punished with confinement to Heart Cleansing Hall immediately pondered how to escape. And the only way out? Reflection. Once one recognized their wrongdoing, they could leave.

...

The entire mountain belonged to the hall. Those with broad minds could treat it as a place to stroll and admire its peculiar landscape.

Shen Qingyun was precisely such a person. He cared little for cultivating spiritual energy; after all, he had his own spiritual stones.

By day, the hall was bleak, overgrown with weeds, the rooftops riddled with holes. The once-mighty trees had withered, yet strangely, their yellowed leaves still clung to the branches, refusing to fall.

“I wonder if it’ll be haunted at night,” Shen Qingyun mused as he walked into the ruined hall, far from complaining about the environment. Instead, he joked to himself.

In the world of cultivation, belief in ghosts and spirits was not entirely unfounded, for cultivation itself defied normal understanding.

Suddenly, Shen Qingyun paused, his ears twitching. A faint sound—a sword’s cry—wafted to him.

“Someone’s here?” He raised an eyebrow and followed the sound.

As he drew nearer, the trembling sword’s song grew clearer. Rounding a corner of the hall, he spied a figure in the rear courtyard—likely a man—wielding a sword with fluid grace. Each sweep caused the grass and trees ahead to quiver.

“So there really is someone,” Shen Qingyun observed, folding his arms and leaning against the wall, watching the figure with interest.

The swordsman seemed aware of Shen Qingyun’s presence and, rather than shying away, grew even more absorbed in his swordplay. The sword’s cry and aura became sharper, more powerful.

Shen Qingyun paused, his expression turning playful as spiritual energy quietly flowed within him.

The swordsman’s pace quickened, his movements ever more ethereal, inching closer to Shen Qingyun.

Suddenly, the man thrust his sword at Shen Qingyun with astonishing speed!

Facing him, Shen Qingyun wore a mocking smile. The swordsman frowned, increasing the force behind his blade.

Clang—

A shower of sparks burst forth, leaving a straight sword mark on the wall where Shen Qingyun had leaned moments before.

The man withdrew his sword and turned, alert. “Where is he?”

A breeze swept through, and Shen Qingyun’s voice drifted in with the wind, “A fine sword—very fast!”

The man spun and stabbed again, only to strike empty air.

Shen Qingyun appeared behind him, smiling faintly. “But against me, it’s still far too slow.”

Even as he spoke, the sound of a blade slicing through the air came rushing in.

“Got you.”

The man’s expression was indifferent, as if he’d done something ordinary. Yet soon he realized something was amiss—why was there no blood?

Indeed, there was none.

To his eyes, Shen Qingyun had not moved, standing there as he was struck. Then, Shen Qingyun’s form began to fade away, bit by bit.

The man tensed, recognizing that this was merely a shadow, a residual image.

“You can’t touch me,” Shen Qingyun reappeared behind him, speaking slowly. “Why not stop and take a rest?”

“Enough nonsense!” The man spun and slashed, sending a wave of sword energy through the air, its trail lingering long after.

“Stubborn,” Shen Qingyun shook his head with a disdainful smile. The aura he emanated shifted abruptly, as if he were a peerless sword unsheathed, radiating boundless sharpness, or a mighty spear capable of shattering the heavens.

A withered branch rose from the ground into his hand. He raised it and swung toward the sword energy.

“Courting death,” the man sneered. To think a mere branch could deflect his sword energy? Absurd!

What happened next left him dumbfounded. The sword energy collided with the branch and dissolved like water before its nemesis.

“Catch this!” Shen Qingyun’s mocking voice echoed, and the man saw him rushing forward with the branch.

The man dared not underestimate him now and immediately raised his sword to block.

“Sword God, intimidation!”

A deep voice issued from Shen Qingyun’s throat. The man’s sword began to tremble in his grip. Alarmed, he knew instantly what was happening—the sword, bonded to him through mind and spirit, was overcome.

Fear, dread, and above all, submission...

The sword broke free from his grasp, fell to the ground, and dared not face Shen Qingyun.

No time to pick up the sword, no time for shock, the branch in Shen Qingyun’s hand loomed ever larger in his vision.

Resigned, the man closed his eyes. Suddenly, a crisp sound rang out.

Crack...