375: Chapter 375 Chen Xiaodao comprehends the sword, and his sword intent reaches a new level.

The night still pressed against the mountain ridge, and the lights in the Artifact Refining Workshop went out one by one.

Chen Xiaodao stood by the crumbling wall of the old Martial Arts Arena, the sword in his hand shimmering with cold, blue-tinged cracks under the moonlight.

He didn't move, just stood there like an iron stake driven into the ground.

"Still not right," he whispered, his voice as dry as sandpaper scraping against stone. "Too fast won't work, and too slow won't work either."

The tip of the sword touched the ground, humming as it kicked up a circle of fine dust.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, slowly drawing Qi from his Dantian. The residual battle Qi in his Meridians felt like iron rust, scraping painfully against him.

In last night's battle, three hundred Sword Cultivators charged the formation. He led the charge to tear through the enemy's right flank, slaying seven generals in a row, leaving his Spiritual Qi severely overdrawn.

Now, every time he moved a sliver of Spiritual Qi, his bones ached.

But he couldn't stop.

Mechs can be upgraded, but a person cannot fall behind.

"The Head of the Chen Family relies on his brains, Uncle Tiezhu relies on his craftsmanship, and I..." He opened his eyes, staring at the cracks on the sword, "I only have this sword."

As he spoke, he suddenly raised his hand and slashed out with his sword!

"Sshhh!"

The air was torn open, and the Sword Qi struck the half-collapsed earthen wall opposite him, blasting a bowl-sized hole with a boom.

Yet he himself staggered a step, his left shoulder went numb, and his entire arm nearly went limp.

"Damn it!" he cursed, shaking his hand, "Are my Meridians jammed?"

He stood still and adjusted his breathing.

He sat cross-legged, straightened his legs, placed his hands on his knees, and began from the most basic breathing technique.

Each inhalation and exhalation was slow and deep, like an old furnace worker pulling a bellows, gradually smoothing out the chaotic battle Qi within his body.

The moonlight shifted, shining on his face. His brow bone was high, his eye sockets deep, his lips tightly pressed, his whole body taut like a fully drawn bow.

Half an hour later, he opened his eyes, his gaze clear.

He stood up, drew his sword, and practiced again.

This time, he didn't rush to strike, only focusing on his footwork—advancing and retreating, moving left and right, the soles of his feet grinding against the ground, making a rustling sound.

The sword followed his body, without a shred of Spiritual Qi, purely relying on muscle memory.

Three laps, five laps, ten laps...

Sweat slid down his temples, gathered at the tip of his chin, and splat hit the dust.

"That's enough," he whispered, suddenly stopping and pulling a rough, palm-sized stone from his bosom.

It was scrap he had picked up from a slag heap, unwanted waste, hard but not brittle, perfect for sharpening weapons.

He crouched down, one hand holding the sword, the other holding the stone, rubbing it little by little along the cracks in the blade.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

The sound was harsh but steady. He didn't need to look; he relied entirely on his tactile sense. Where there was resistance, where it wasn't smooth—his fingers knew better than his eyes.

"I used to think that as long as the sword was fast, it was enough," he muttered to himself while grinding. "Now I realize that speed isn't the goal; smoothness is."

Click—

A small flake of cracked metal fell off.

He blew on it, lightly traced his fingertips over the edge to confirm the curve was correct, and then stopped.

"Again."

He stood up, raised his sword, and faced the moon.

This time, he no longer pursued speed, nor did he deliberately control his strength; he simply—swung.

One sword strike.

Two sword strikes.

Three sword strikes.

Each strike was like a conversation with himself, asking the same question: "How do you truly want to execute this strike?"

At first it was stagnant and awkward, but later, it gradually found a rhythm. The sound of the blade cutting through the air changed from a "ssh" to a "whoosh," like wind passing through a mountain gap.

Suddenly, he paused.

"Wait..."

He squinted at the sky. Beside the moon, a fiery red star was streaking across the night sky, trailing a long tail of flames like a red-hot blade slicing through the firmament.

A meteor.

His heart skipped a beat.

Back when the insectoids massacred his village, he had hidden in a pile of corpses, clutching half a wooden sword to his chest. That night, a meteor just like this one had streaked by, and he had thought the sky was collapsing.

Later, the Head of the Chen Family saved him and taught him swordplay, saying: "A sword is like a meteor, flashing and vanishing in an instant, but that instant is enough to sever fate."

He had comprehended the "Meteor Sword Intent."

But now... it was different.

"A meteor doesn't just fly past," he murmured. "When it lands, it explodes."

His mind was violently shaken.

He suddenly raised his sword, no longer imitating a trajectory, but instead—simulating an impact!

With the sword tip pointing down and his entire Spiritual Qi infused into it, it wasn't a horizontal slash or a thrust, but a strike imbued with the force of a "smash," hacking fiercely toward the ground!

BOOM!!!

The Sword Qi exploded, soil flew, a deep trench was plowed into the ground, gravel scattered everywhere, and even the crumbling wall three zhang away was shaken, causing dust to fall in flurries.

But Chen Xiaodao laughed.

"That's it! This is... the true 'break'!"

He swung his sword again, this time a horizontal sweep. The Sword Qi was no longer a thin line, but exploded into a fan-shaped wave of light, blasting over half of the remaining wall with a boom.

"It's not chasing the star, it's breaking the void!" he roared, his voice echoing through the empty Martial Arts Arena. "It's not beauty, it's slaughter!"

The third strike, a direct thrust.

Before the sword arrived, the Qi struck first; the air in front of him cracked like glass with a "crack" sound, forming a spiderweb-like shockwave.

He withdrew his sword, panting heavily, his chest heaving violently, but his eyes were terrifyingly bright.

"It's done." He looked down at his sword; the cracks were still there, but the resonance of the blade was smooth, perfectly synchronized with his aura. "I'll call this new Sword Intent... 'Meteor Burst'."

He tried silently reciting the incantation, and the circulation route of his Spiritual Qi within his body adjusted automatically, shifting from its original smooth and swift style to one of building up and then exploding—each strike was like compressing a spring, releasing completely at the final moment.

"Before, it was a fast sword," he weighed the sword in his hand, "Now, it's... an explosive sword."

The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, finally revealing a hint of a smile.

But this smile didn't last long before he suppressed it.

"Happy too soon," he shook his head. "This is just the beginning; it's still far from actual combat."

He sat cross-legged, closed his eyes, and began to review the three strikes from just now.

The first strike had enough power, but couldn't be reined in; after landing, his feet slipped.

The second strike had a large range but consumed Spiritual Qi too rapidly; he'd need a break after two consecutive uses.

The third strike had strong penetration, but the warning signs were obvious; an expert could dodge it in advance.

"Must change," he opened his eyes. "The rhythm needs to change; I can't explode right from the start, I have to conceal it."

He stood up and swung his sword again, this time not using full strength, but only thirty percent, his movements also slower, breaking down each move and repeatedly practicing the transitions.

Under the moon, one man and one sword, their shadow stretched long.

Time passed bit by bit, and the eastern horizon began to pale with the approach of dawn.

He finally stopped.

He sheathed his sword and lightly brushed the dust off his shoulders.

He looked up toward the Main Peak of the Chen Family, where the lights had already gone out, and the morning mist swirled like a sleeping Dragon.

"Next time on the battlefield..." he whispered, "I will be faster."

He turned and strode away.

The mountain path wound upward, and he walked step by step, his back straight, the long sword on his shoulder swaying gently with his stride. The copper bell on the sword tassel was silent—because it had already been shattered during last night's battle.

But he didn't care.

He knew that the true sound was not on the bell, but within the sword.

His footsteps fell on the gravel path, making a rustling sound.

The mountain breeze blew past, lifting a lock of black hair from his forehead.

He didn't look back, nor did he stop; he walked steadily, quietly, like a sharp blade returning to its sheath.