Chapter Twelve: The Strange Branches

"No danger should ever be overlooked, no matter how small or weak it may seem," Xiaoshan murmured to himself as he watched Haoyun’s departing figure, considering the depth of that statement.

He turned to look back—the severed branches of the man-eating tree oozed green sap, trembling as if in fear, as though they were shuddering.

"Xiaoshan, Xiaoshan! What are you standing there spacing out for?" Ruoxi, seeing him staring blankly, hurriedly waved her hand before his eyes.

"He must be frightened by Haopo’s strength! Traumatized! Scarred for life!" Haotian remarked coolly.

"You’ve only been practicing martial arts for a single afternoon! Don’t lose heart! Besides, Haopo had a sword," Ruoxi said, worried by Xiaoshan’s blank face, afraid he might be traumatized by being twice ensnared by the carnivorous tree.

But then she recalled that he never appeared so shaken even when facing her father.

"You talk too much. Would it kill you to keep quiet?" Ruoxi snapped at Haotian, curling her lip in irritation.

Was it really Haopo’s words that had gotten to him? Ruoxi glanced at Haoyun’s fading silhouette, a strange thought crossing her mind.

But it passed quickly. Her gaze returned to Xiaoshan—could it be he’d throw himself into relentless training, spurred by humiliation?

"Are you alright?" Ruoxi asked with concern.

"I’m fine," Xiaoshan replied, shaking his head at Haotian and the others, pressing his lips together without another word.

"Normally, a man-eating tree takes a hundred and fifty years to mature, but the more creatures it devours, the faster it grows. On the other hand, if it feeds rarely, maturation can take two hundred, five hundred, even a thousand years," Haoyun explained, adjusting his glasses like a little encyclopedist.

As Haoyun spoke, a white rabbit bounded gaily through the forest to Xiaoshan’s left. Before long, an accident occurred—the rabbit stepped on a branch of a man-eating tree, and its nightmare began.

In an instant, all the branches quivered and lashed out, ensnaring the defenseless rabbit. The writhing branches covered its eyes, then fell still.

A few drops of blood trickled from the tangled branches, but more branches soon shifted to block the gap so that no more red seeped through.

Moments later, the branches slackened, dropping a few bones to the earth below. The soil loosened, and the bones were buried, as though nothing had ever happened.

"A fully grown man-eating tree can consume a martial artist without inner force. The one before you has been growing for four or five centuries—it’s strong enough to make a meal of you if you’re not careful."

"Do you still dare to go forward?" Haotian challenged.

"If you’re afraid, just leave. We won’t mock you," Haopo said coldly, his expression unreadable.

"I need a weapon," Xiaoshan said after a moment’s pause.

He had watched Haopo slice through the branches so effortlessly with his sword and couldn’t help but feel a touch of envy.

He was grateful—but the biting words made it hard to voice his thanks.

Ruoxi’s hand rested on her own sword as she glanced at Haotian and the others, her gaze lingering on Haopo, who stood a bit further off with his back to them. He bore two swords across his back, their hilts and scabbards identical—clearly a pair of twin swords.

The twin swords complemented each other—together, their power was far greater than the sum of their parts. Separated, their effectiveness was greatly diminished; only when wielded by one person could their true might be unleashed.

Haopo gripped one sword with his left hand, his fingers trembling slightly, as though reluctant to lend it to Xiaoshan.

Just then, another rabbit appeared from the same direction as before—larger than the last, likely the mother of the one lost.

The mother rabbit halted on the ground not far from the man-eating tree that had devoured her young. She stretched out her tongue, extended and retracted her front legs, hesitating, as though fearful of sharing her child’s fate.

A tear seemed to glimmer at the corner of her mouth. She turned away, took a few steps, looked back one last time, and left that sorrowful place.

"These are twin swords. The child sword is swift as lightning, the mother sword heavy as Mount Tai. Which one do you want?" Haoyun’s voice was slow and grave, drifting to Xiaoshan’s ears.

Xiaoshan’s eyes flickered. "Either is fine," he replied.

Haopo’s brow furrowed, and his grip tightened on the sword. With a shout, he called, "Catch!"

Sword and scabbard together flew from his back with a resonant hum, spinning rapidly through the air. The scabbard struck the ground, embedding itself before Xiaoshan.

"Is that the heavy sword?" Ruoxi asked.

As the sword flew, it never left its scabbard, appearing as a single entity. The blade was broad and long, distinctly larger than an ordinary sword, prompting Ruoxi’s question.

"You wanted a weapon—this is the heavy sword. When wielded, it’s as weighty as Mount Tai, delivering the force of a thousand catties. Can you even lift it?" Haopo challenged.

"My life now depends on this sword—on whether I can wield it to protect myself," Xiaoshan declared. With this sword in hand, his fate would be his own to command.

He wondered privately if he could even lift it—it was so heavy.

Stepping forward, he reached out with his right hand to grasp the sword, attempting to draw it from the earth.

His body lurched forward unexpectedly; the sword’s weight was far greater than he’d anticipated, and he failed to steady himself.

"I refuse to believe I can’t even lift a sword," he thought, rallying himself.

He summoned all the strength in his arm, channeling a unique energy from within. His veins bulged, his right arm swelling with power.

In that instant, he felt a surge of strength, as if he’d become mighty.

He exerted himself, and the sword hilt began to tremble. A famed sword possessed a spirit—if its wielder was not strong enough, it would not reveal its edge, offering only its basic sharpness and nothing more.

"My word, it’s heavy," Xiaoshan muttered, gripping the hilt.

Ruoxi watched as the scabbard shook more and more violently. She silently willed him to succeed.

The more the hilt quivered, the more Xiaoshan felt the sword might slip from his grasp at any moment, beyond his control.

His lips pressed into a tight line as he felt the sword inch upward, ever so slowly.

When the blade had risen a centimeter or two from the scabbard, a murderous aura surged from it, flooding Xiaoshan’s mind.

In that instant, he saw before him an army locked in a bloody, desperate battle, slaughter raging across the field.

A lone warrior on horseback, spear in hand, charged through the melee. A single thrust felled an enemy soldier before he could react—a scream, a spray of blood, and the enemy collapsed, lifeless.

The warrior did not slow, cutting down foes in droves as easily as plucking something from a sack.

Blood flowed everywhere; bodies fell; horses screamed—the air was filled with agony and death, the carnage unending.

The slaughter dragged on; the number of fighters dwindled. Dusk crept in, the sky stained red as if with blood, the sun stubbornly refusing to set.

The spearman halted, blocked by another. This man wielded a sword, and behind him stood fewer men—almost half as many as his opponent.

The sword-bearer’s forces surged forward. He drew his blade and charged.

Each sweep of his sword felled an enemy, yet no blood flowed.

He faced the spearman at close quarters, the armies clashing behind them. Their duel seemed almost conversational, though the tension mounted rapidly.

Swords and spears clashed, the air thick with killing intent.

Xiaoshan faltered, overwhelmed—he felt as though he stood alone on this field of death.

The spear’s point suddenly turned toward Xiaoshan’s face. Terrified, he instinctively drew his sword.

The vision vanished. Before him was only the sword, now fully unsheathed.

The blade was not sharp—this was a blunt sword, a sword without an edge.