Chapter 27: The Gathering Storm

Jin Ye stood alone in the courtyard, his sword resting loosely in his grip. The cold morning air carried the scent of damp stone, the aftermath of last night's light rain still clinging to the earth. He exhaled slowly, his Qi settling, his mind sharpening.

He had taken another step forward, but it wasn't enough.

Flowing Phantom Blade.

It was one of the few techniques he had refined in this life, but it was still incomplete. His footwork had evolved, his movement was nearly flawless—but his blade? His blade was still lacking.

A true sword cultivator didn't just swing a weapon. They imposed their will upon the battlefield.

Jin Ye raised his sword. A technique without intent was just motion. A sword without will was just steel.

That was the difference between a fighter and a true sword cultivator.

The Realms of Sword Intent

Sword Intent wasn't just a measure of skill—it was a cultivator's understanding of the blade, their will, their presence. It separated ordinary sword techniques from divine ones.

"The first step is Sword Intent."

This was the moment a swordsman's strikes became more than just attacks. Even without Qi, a swing imbued with Sword Intent would cut deeper, strike harder, and overwhelm opponents.

"Then comes Sword Heart."

At this level, a cultivator and their sword were no longer separate. The blade followed instinct, responding to will instead of force. A swordsman at this level didn't think about their strikes—they simply happened.

"The third realm is Sword Domain."

Here, a cultivator's intent extended beyond the sword itself. Even before a strike was thrown, the battlefield was already under their control. Opponents would feel their movements slow, their choices narrow, their very breathing affected by the weight of the swordsman's will.

"And beyond that… is the Sword Dao."

Very few reached this stage. At this level, the sword was no longer a weapon—but a law unto itself. A single strike could split mountains, cut space, or sever fate itself.

In his past life, Jin Ye had stood at the threshold of the Sword Dao. If he had reached it they would have never dared to betray him.

But in this life, he had barely touched Sword Intent.

That was unacceptable.

He took a slow breath. He wouldn't perfect his intent in a day, but he could push it further.

The Flowing Phantom Blade wasn't just about deception—it was about inevitability. A strike that couldn't be read, couldn't be blocked, couldn't be escaped.

He moved.

His sword flickered, slicing through the air in impossibly fluid arcs. His afterimages trailed behind each motion, forcing the eye to follow a blade that no longer existed.

The stone tiles beneath him shattered from the sheer pressure.

Again.

Again.

Each strike was faster, sharper—each step more precise. His body blurred, his sword flashing between illusion and reality.

He could feel it.

Sword Intent beginning to take shape.

The air around him shifted—a faint pressure, an unseen force pressing outward. The first signs of a true swordsman's will.

Jin Ye stopped, lowering his blade, his breath steady.

Not perfect. Not yet.

But closer.

The Eternal Night Sutra stirred faintly within him, but he ignored it. He wasn't relying on it, he had a feeling that he could evolve it if he stole more.

His sword came first. Everything else could wait.

One more battle.

Would bring his sword one step closer to the level of intent.

The morning mist had barely begun to lift when word reached the Wang Clan estate.

Jin Ye was still alive.

Not only alive—thriving. The bounty hunters had failed. The assassins had failed. Even Zhen Yan, one of their strongest, had fallen without a trace.

Wang Yiran's fingers clenched around the tea cup in his hand, the porcelain cracking under the pressure. His breath was steady, but his eyes burned with a rage that no longer allowed for restraint.

It wasn't just about revenge anymore. This was humiliation.

"How long before the Azure Sky Sect entrance exam?" he asked, his voice quiet.

A steward bowed. "Four days, young master."

Four days. Too short for another failed attempt. If he wanted Jin Ye gone before the trial, he needed someone stronger, faster, and with no limits.

He turned his gaze toward Zhao Wu.

A guest of the Wang Clan for the past two days, Zhao Wu wasn't just another hired killer. He was a sect member of the Crimson Veil Sect, a 9th-stage Qi Refinement, and a young master from a branch of the Zhao Clan, his sect specialized in assassinations and stealth combat.

Zhao Wu swirled the wine in his cup, his expression bored. "You said he's fast?"

Wang Yiran nodded. "Faster than anyone he's fought so far. He has a strange movement technique—one that lets him vanish and reappear before his enemies can react."

Zhao Wu smiled lazily. "Then it's a good thing my specialty is hunting things that try to run."

Jin Ye's pace was relaxed as he moved through the Merchant Quarter, blending seamlessly into the morning crowd. His new storage ring sat comfortably on his finger, filled with the spoils of his victories—gold, resources, and enough Qi-enhancing elixirs to push himself to the next stage.

But even through the clamor of the market, he could feel it.

A presence. Controlled, patient. Waiting.

He didn't react immediately. If someone was tailing him, they were either hesitant or waiting for an opening.

Fine. He would give them one.

Jin Ye turned down a narrow alleyway, his steps casual, his posture unconcerned. A small, shadowed district sat just beyond, where few travelers passed and fewer still would care about a fight breaking out.

The moment he stepped into the open space, the presence closed in.

Zhao Wu's voice carried through the alley like a blade unsheathing. "You should have kept walking, Jin Ye."

Jin Ye turned, his silver eyes meeting three figures blocking his exit.

Zhao Wu stood at the center, dressed in dark red robes with the insignia of the Zhao Clan, a smirk playing on his lips.

Jin Ye sighed, loosening his shoulders. Another day, another person trying to kill him.

"Let me guess," he said. "The Wang Clan finally ran out of disposable idiots, so they asked for outside help?"

Zhao Wu chuckled, shaking his head. "You've made quite a mess for yourself. Killed too many people, took too many things that didn't belong to you." His eyes sharpened slightly. "You're a loose variable. And loose variables get destroyed."

Jin Ye's fingers curled lightly around his sword hilt. "And let me guess—you're here to clean up?"

Zhao Wu grinned. "You could say that."

His Qi surged—a suffocating force, pressing down on the alley like an invisible weight. Unlike Zhen Yan or the bounty hunters, Zhao Wu wasn't playing around.

Jin Ye's own Qi rose to meet it, his eyes sharpening, his stolen fate coiling within him like a waiting beast.

"Good," Jin Ye murmured. "I needed a real opponent."

Zhao Wu moved first.

His form blurred forward, faster than any opponent Jin Ye had faced so far. The air split as his blade sliced through space, a curved arc of Qi following in its wake.

Jin Ye's instincts reacted instantly—Shadow Phantom Step flickered, and his body phased into a seamless retreat, his afterimages shifting in multiple directions.

But Zhao Wu's eyes didn't follow the illusion.

The moment Jin Ye reappeared, Zhao Wu was already there.

A spinning kick crashed into his ribs, sending him skidding backward, dust rising from the impact. His Qi flared, stabilizing himself before he could lose balance, but Zhao Wu was already pressing forward.

This wasn't a rogue cultivator's style. This was a trained fighter—someone who had studied real battle techniques under the guidance of a sect.

Jin Ye smirked. "So you're actually skilled. I was worried this would be another disappointment."

Zhao Wu flipped his sword in his grip, his stance fluid. "And you talk too much."

The two vanished simultaneously.

Steel clashed against steel, sparks flying as their blades met mid-air, twisting, deflecting, countering.

Jin Ye's Flowing Phantom Blade cut through the alley in an unpredictable series of strikes, each movement a deception, a feint leading to a real kill.

Zhao Wu narrowed his eyes, he was reading Jin Ye's patterns, tracking his habits.

Jin Ye's sword flickered left—Zhao Wu countered.

Jin Ye adjusted, striking high—Zhao Wu's blade was already waiting.

For the first time in Dawnroot City, Jin Ye wasn't overwhelming his opponent.

He was being measured.

And he loved it.

Jin Ye exhaled slowly, feeling something snap into place within him.

Zhao Wu had pushed him to refine his own blade technique mid-fight.

And now, it was over.

Jin Ye's stance shifted.

His Qi settled, his focus perfectly honed.

His sword no longer just followed the technique.

The technique followed him.

Zhao Wu's expression hardened, sensing the change. "What are you—"

Jin Ye disappeared.

A single strike cut through the air.

Zhao Wu's eyes widened.

He had no time to react.

Zhao Wu's instincts screamed, but it was already too late.

Jin Ye's Flowing Phantom Blade had transformed into something new. No longer was it a mere deception technique. It was death itself.

His blade blurred through the alley, moving with an effortless fluidity that defied normal combat.

Zhao Wu barely managed to raise his sword, but it was useless.

Jin Ye flickered into his blind spot, his sword carving a clean arc along Zhao Wu's ribs.

Blood sprayed.

Zhao Wu stumbled back, his Qi fluctuating wildly, his breath ragged. That was only the first cut.

The second came a heartbeat later.

Jin Ye's blade slashed across his arm, severing tendons, making his grip falter. His sword, once steady, now shook in his grasp.

The third cut never came.

Because Jin Ye had already moved past him.

Zhao Wu's body locked in place, his stance failing, his legs trembling. He hadn't even realized his Qi was breaking down.

Jin Ye sheathed his blade. A clear, final motion.

The alley was silent.

Zhao Wu gasped, his body swaying. His sword slipped from his fingers. "This… isn't possible."

Jin Ye turned his head slightly, his silver eyes gleaming. "It is. You were just too slow to see it."

Zhao Wu's knees buckled. He crashed onto the stone, his life fading.

The Wang Clan's strongest hope was gone.

And now, nothing stood between Jin Ye and the Azure Sky Sect entrance exam.

If Wang Yiran decided to join the sect trial he would give him his thanks personally.

Golden-red wisps of fate and talent rose from Zhao Wu's lifeless body, swirling above him like embers caught in the wind.

Jin Ye reached out, his Qi pulling them inward.

The knowledge, the refined battle instincts of a cultivator of Crimson Veil Sect, the mastery of footwork, the high-level Qi control—all of it became his.

His meridians trembled, his dantian expanding violently, the power surging through his veins as his body absorbed and refined it all.

A single pulse shook his foundation.

Then another.

Then—his Qi ignited.

The final barrier shattered.

His breath steadied. His vision sharpened.

9th Stage Qi Refinement—Achieved.

Jin Ye exhaled slowly. FIghting truly was the best way to integrate the stolen fate into his own. Regular cultivation was to slow.

He clenched his fist. This power was now fully his.

And he wasn't done yet.

The alley was deathly silent, save for the distant noise of the city beyond.

Jin Ye retrieved Zhao Wu's storage ring, his Qi scanning it for anything useful. Inside, he found a few valuable spirit stones, high-grade Qi recovery pills, and refined weapon materials. He pocketed them without hesitation.

Then, the last item—a sealed letter, marked with the insignia of the Wang Clan.

Jin Ye opened it, scanning the contents.

It was an official recommendation letter for the Azure Sky Sect.

His smirk returned. Zhao Wu wasn't just a hired killer—he had most likely got this to give as a gift to others in his family.

Jin Ye folded the letter and tucked it away.

How generous. The man sent to kill him would now be the very stepping stone that helped him enter the sect.

With one final glance at the corpse, Jin Ye stepped out of the alley and into the night.