Zanxing (Retranslated)

Chapter 202 - The Weeping Sword Spirit (1)

In the hazy and foggy memories, a sudden beam of light appeared.

This light shone on Chai Sang’s face, like a glimmer of hope in a desperate situation, giving a hint of vitality to the craftsman’s long-dead expression.

Zanxing walked over to him, her gaze falling on the yellowed and tattered scroll.

In his youth, Chai Sang had aspired to become the greatest swordsmith in the Yuezhi Kingdom, just like his ancestors. He often spent a lot of time searching for unique sword forging diagrams. Some were retrieved from discarded items at farmers’ homes, while others were given to him by wandering knights in exchange for weapon funds. These old scrolls carried the dreams of his youth. But as time passed, the worn-out scrolls were put away, piled together with countless other diagrams from previous generations, and left unseen.

After all, making a living was more important.

Among these diagrams, some were genuine, some were fake, and others seemed like random scribbles that were impossible to realize. He had studied these back and forth in his youth, but it had been many years since he last opened this box.

Now, he held the scroll in his hands as if it contained all the hope in the world.

The craftsman knelt on the ground, trembling as he opened the scroll.

Zanxing sat beside him, sharing in the moment.

As the scroll was unrolled, a damp and decayed smell immediately emerged, likely due to being left forgotten for many years. Yet, within that decay was a peculiar, intriguing fragrance.

The text was in vivid red, appearing like bloodstains on the scroll, sending shivers down the spine of anyone who saw it.

Zanxing was momentarily stunned. This was not a sword forging manual.

As she followed Chai Sang’s actions, her shock deepened.

This was a book on sword forging, but unlike ordinary diagrams, it detailed how to cultivate a sword spirit.

A sword spirit forms when a spiritual artifact gains consciousness. Most weapon spirits are either naturally born or come into existence through chance encounters while accompanying their masters. It was impossible for an ordinary craftsman to forge a sword with a spirit using mundane materials; the soul of a divine sword could not be nurtured from common sword forging materials.

However, this scroll recorded a method: if the swordsmith nourished the forged sword with their own blood for three hundred sixty-five days, it might cultivate into an extraordinary sword.

Of course, this alone was not enough.

Without spiritual refinement and awakening of consciousness, an ordinary sword, even if nourished with blood, would remain an empty shell.

As Chai Sang reached the last page of the scroll, Zanxing’s breath caught in her throat, and she couldn’t help but exclaim, “No!”

A mere mortal could not cultivate a sword spirit. There was only one way.

The final step in forging a sword spirit was to sacrifice the swordsmith’s soul, offering oneself to the forged sword and becoming the sword spirit.

This was not sword forging in the traditional sense; in some ways, it was a transaction. One’s soul was exchanged for a sword with a spirit.

How could such a manual exist? The method described in this scroll was bizarre and sinister, clearly a trap. A sword created by a swordsmith sacrificing their own soul and nurturing it with their blood was highly likely to become an evil sword. Once Chai Sang became the sword spirit, who could say whether he would retain his original memories and consciousness or be completely consumed and exploited by the sword, leaving nothing of himself behind.

It certainly seemed that way now.

Zanxing wanted to stop the craftsman from proceeding, but as her hand brushed against his shoulder, it felt like touching nothingness, leaving no mark at all.

She couldn’t change what had already happened.

As a swordsmith, Chai Sang understood this better than anyone. He knew the manual’s strangeness and the ominous method it described, aware that the consequences could very well be the sacrifice of his soul.

But this was his only hope.

What did it matter whether he preserved his soul or not? Perhaps from the moment Wuyou died, he had already become an empty shell.

The sound of clanging returned in the courtyard.

But this time, the little girl who used to sit by the door watching him work was gone.

The clanging of the forge, once vibrant and crisp, had now become chaotic and muffled, each strike resonating like a heartbeat, causing unease. Chai Sang worked around the clock, and neighbors passing by expressed their surprise: “Chai Sang, what has happened to you?”

What had happened to him?

He had originally been short and ugly, but now, as he daily nourished the sword with his own blood, his body rapidly withered. His skin turned yellow, his cheeks hollowed out to the bone, making him look like a soulless zombie at a glance.

The neighbors saw him in such a state. The children, frightened, avoided walking near him. Gossips and busybodies whispered behind his back, pointing fingers and commenting, “What does it matter if his daughter is dead? He’s just a commoner; it seems he’s given up.”

The young master of the general’s residence continued to live in luxury. For the wealthy and powerful, the death of a young girl was insignificant. Occasionally, when it was mentioned, it was met with a dismissive sneer: “Oh, he’s still alive, that useless man.”

These voices fell on Chai Sang’s ears, but he remained unmoved.

He was solely focused on forging the most formidable sword in existence. This sword was to avenge him and seek justice for his daughter.

Chai Sang became increasingly peculiar and reclusive. He no longer went outside, keeping his door tightly shut and avoiding contact with others. The only sound people heard from his courtyard was the relentless clanging of the forge day and night, leading them to believe he had gone mad.

Zanxing thought that Chai Sang was not far from madness.

He meticulously forged the sword.

The blade was a beautiful silver-white, crafted in a delicate shape that looked light and agile. He carefully engraved a small frost flower on the hilt, made of white crystal. He had sold everything he could at home to obtain this white crystal.

Zanxing sat in the courtyard, watching him tenderly carve the translucent stone. The crystal slowly blossomed into a fragile, crystalline flower under his skilled hands, beautiful and delicate.

This sword was identical to the one Wuyou had wanted.

He had developed feelings for this sword.

Chai Sang sometimes spoke to the sword as if conversing with someone, mumbling softly about who knew what. At times, he would cry silently while gazing at the sword, or laugh aloud at it, but more often, he simply stared at the blade for long periods, his gaze gentle and affectionate, as if through the sword, he was looking at something else.

He grew thinner and more emaciated each day. Zanxing sometimes wondered how such a frail body could continue functioning, day after day, as he worked on the task he had not yet completed.