I Am Loaded with Passive Skills - Chapter 3205

Chapter 3205: Chapter 1629: In Memory of the Majestic Sky and Flowing Hua, Harmoniously At Present I, With My Sword as the Flying Flower_2

All your slaves have abandoned you.

Yet I, your brother, remain by your side.

The Storyteller truly believes that one day, if brother wakes up and calls out “Godfather above,” then it’s only right and deserved!

Even so, the one whose bright moments in memory are nearly all blurred insists that with just one final quenching, brilliance can be reborn.

The Storyteller’s first reaction isn’t joy; instead, what he thinks about is what others call “the last moment of consciousness.”

“Do you know what a life flash before your eyes means?”

“Have you been dreaming about the past when you sleep?”

“Do you sometimes feel down when you look at the moon, starting to fantasize about a beautiful future with big sister Yue, with Wen Ting, with our fellows, with everyone?” the Storyteller asks as if chatting casually.

Bazhun’an has no clue where this person’s thoughts are wandering, reaching out towards the pebble.

The Storyteller firmly says: “Right, you haven’t told me yet, what does quenching have to do with this stone?”

“From here to there.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s that simple.”

“Uh…” the Storyteller is momentarily at a loss for words, staring at the distance a zhang away, then looks back at brother, realizing he doesn’t want to say more and is just prevaricating.

He’s just about to get angry, to forcefully wake this guy up, to stop him from dreaming—From Shengshen Continent to Ran Ming ruins, how could it be that simple?

Yet before he can act,

Bazhun’an has already closed his eyes.

This time, he doesn’t stay silent.

Facing the cool night breeze, facing the desolate woods, with lips and teeth moving slightly, as if drawing out all the energy left in this body, he chants loudly:

“Half a life in solitude, like autumn cicadas longing for summer.

Recalling the past’s lofty heights, as the sky sheds its splendid glow.”

The forest sinks into a dead silence, the chanting voice carried off by the night wind, not reaching far.

No sword cries.

No flowing light.

Only the rustling of tree branches resonates, as if responding, dispelling the slight awkwardness that any outsider present might have felt due to these unexpected words.

The Storyteller presses his trembling lips together, feeling a sting in his nose.

He hears his brother’s nostalgia for the bygone towering years, and the yearning for the Way of the Sword.

Yet…

The moon that belonged to the ancient swordsman has now moved over others’ heads, no longer focused on him alone.

The person who once could shake the heavens with a shout, who could follow the laws with a slash of his sword, didn’t regain his charisma just because he chanted a couple of lines.

Let’s go.

We’re descending the mountain.

What others do doesn’t concern me, let’s go home.

The Storyteller wipes the corner of his eyes and is about to step up and take brother home when Bazhun’an, after a slight pause…

“Boom!”

The whole forest seems to quake.

A nameless force descends from the sky, stripping leaves from branches, petals from the edges of leaves.

Forest beasts that had quietly approached due to the noise now either thump to the ground or shatter their bones and perish in droves.

The Storyteller, just about to step forward, kneels in front of his brother with a loud thud, knocking his forehead and nose until they bleed.

“???”

Completely unprepared, he is stunned.

Struggling to lift his head under the heavy pressure, he hears a sound piercing like a needle to the ear, a melodious sword cry that causes dizziness and confusion!

“The song rises from its sheath, today I am content.

Beneath the moon casting shadows, a sword releases a flying flower.”

Swoosh!

A thought rides the wind, carrying leaves on the branches.

In the blink of an eye, light and shadows cross over valleys and deep greens, becoming a speck of black under the moonlight, then disappearing.

Bang.

Bazhun’an, as if breathless, collapses, his head hitting the ground hard enough to bleed from the back of the skull.

“Ah!”

The Storyteller screams, realizing the force has dissipated, and rushes to help him up:

“Brother, brother, what’s wrong with you! How can you die?”

“Why insist on keeping face in front of others, they might mock you, but I won’t…”

His words trail off, reaching out with slender fingers, checking brother’s breath.

Eh?

Still breathing?

The Storyteller’s eyes light up, thinking of “quenching with intent,” swiftly turning to look behind.

Amidst the night, with the moon and sword cries gone, the wind lifts flowers.

An unknown dark purple petal falls gently, breaks the flowing light, leaving one mesmerized.

“One sword releases a flying flower…”

The Storyteller finally hears an explanation, still unable to understand.

He gazes into the distance, murmuring wordlessly:

“He… he still left…”

…

This night.

People of the Southern Region sleep without noticing the blooming, the fragrance seeping into dreams.

The flower is carried by the wind, starting from the Southern Region and vanishing into the Southern Underworld, soon landing in the Eastern Region, passing through the wilderness, mountains and rivers, homes, sending fragrance to the Burial Sword Tomb.

“Voom!”

Burial Sword Tomb, Sword Washing Pool.

Qingju (Sword) suddenly goes mad-like, shaking violently as if a starved dog had caught the scent of steaming hot pig buns fresh out of the oven.

“Voom! Voom! Voom!”

“Clang! Clang! Clang!”

It struggles desperately.

It cries unstoppable tears.

It tries to break through the Sword Washing Pool’s seal, through ten thousand resentful broken swords of the Sword Tomb, to once again emerge into daylight against this place’s rules.

It fails.

Despite its once glorious past bathed in the flowing brilliance of the sky.

Nowadays, it’s merely a rusted, moss-covered broken sword, long abandoned by others.

“Whimper, whimper, whimper…”

It cries helplessly.

A grand dream, upon awakening, turns to nothing.

This dream, for thirty years, it has had countless times.

…

At the summit of Sky Mountain, beside Sword Hemp.

“What the hell!”

“Did I steal your ancestral treasure or something, why are you chasing me so madly, are you sick?”

Wen Ting is still madly running, desperately fleeing his Body of Consciousness.

All of a sudden, his physical body’s pupils shock, regaining focus, he turns his head incredulously.

A person?

Not an illusion!

At the void of Sky Mountain’s summit, which no one but him has managed to reach in over thirty years, there now stands a surreal, ethereal figure above the mundane world.