Chapter 10: The Dream Encounter
Convinced he was drunk, Zong Ji’s demeanor relaxed. The sensation was rare for him.
Not only was he drunk, but hearing about One Sword to Immortality—it must be a dream.
His constitution rarely succumbed to alcohol, but without consciously using spiritual energy, his mind was hazy, sparking a curious thrill.
“Bring my mask and crane cloak.”
Intrigued, Zong Ji wanted to explore this dream world. Since starting cultivation, he’d diligently meditated each night, never dreaming—let alone one this vivid.
When his subordinate brought the Hall Master’s gear, Zong Ji casually donned the silver ghost mask and raven-feather cloak, leaping back to the eaves. Hooking his toes, he tilted his head upward.
Drunk, unaware if the sky lies in water, a boat of dreams weighed by the starry river.
The dream’s night sky was breathtaking—countless stars, radiant moonlight, and flickering glimmers. Colors wove like gossamer auroras or an immortal’s delicate gauze, nearly enveloping him.
Zong Ji had never seen such a vibrant sky. Regretting he couldn’t record it with a jade slip, he etched it into his divine sense, like preserving a timeless painting.
The silver-masked man reclined on the steep jade tiles, carefree, robes draped elegantly, exuding charm. His outstretched hand seemed to grasp a star, its light reflecting in his rare golden eyes, captivating as if seizing one’s soul.
The swordsman, ascending the tiles, beheld this scene.
Unconcealing his presence, he stepped through the void as if on solid ground, calmly facing the young Dark Hall Master.
He was a solitary, proud sword. His rare black-and-white hair hung neatly, secured by a silver crown, flowing behind him. His posture was near-divine, austere and cold.
The swordsman’s face was moonlike, brows slightly furrowed, black eyes deep as a frigid pool. His white robes were spotless, sweeping away all dust, resembling an untouchable mountain or an immortal treading moonlight, exuding piercing sharpness.
When Zong Ji’s casual glance landed on him, it froze.
No mistake.
Words once penned, descriptors stacked, now transformed from misty text into reality, tangible as a dream made flesh.
Zong Ji had imagined the protagonists of One Sword to Immortality and Carefree countless times. As Carefree’s hero, his face mirrored his pre-transmigration self by seven parts, and growing up watching his reflection in a water mirror dulled the awe.
But One Sword’s protagonist?
Zong Ji could recite his profile: black-and-white hair, black eyes, white robes, sword ever-present. Silver crown, perpetually impassive, stoic, laconic, vengeful, cold, relentless, solitary, obsessive, detached, enduring.
Now, those traits stepped from the fog, embodied before him.
It clicked, a familiar epiphany.
“I solved the chessboard.”
Even his voice matched Zong Ji’s description: clear, aloof, unmoved by worldly things. Seeing it in person rendered his written words colorless, unable to capture a fraction of this presence.
This was One Sword to Immortality’s protagonist.
The Sword Sovereign, Jing Zhe.
Truly drunk.
“What do you want?”
Zong Ji’s tone was unusually gentle. He propped himself up, eyeing the swordsman before him, head tilted, a faint smile beneath his mask.
Perhaps every protagonist carried shades of their author’s aspirations.
Jing Zhe was no exception.
Zong Ji’s pupils were slightly unfocused, his posture lax in the dream, gazing at Jing Zhe with unconcealed fondness, like a parent beholding their child.
“The map of Ten Thousand Devils Sect.”
Ten Thousand Devils Sect’s map?
The plot felt familiar. The dream followed One Sword’s timeline, unlike Carefree’s, which Zong Ji had turned upside down.
“Simple. Come here.”
The masked Dark Hall Master chuckled, beckoning the swordsman. With a surge of spiritual energy, chilling white sword qi burst from his fingertips, leaving faint trails in the air.
Such sword qi—unleashed without a medium!
Jing Zhe, ever stoic, tightened his grip on his sword. The qi ignited his fighting spirit, his deep black eyes sparking with life.
“Look closely, this is the entrance…”
Zong Ji, oblivious to Jing Zhe’s reaction, used his finger as a brush, sword qi as ink, and the night as paper, sketching intricate patterns.
The qi, sharp yet tamed, danced under his control, forming a detailed map in the night sky.
On the creative uses of sword qi.
Carefree’s protagonist excels at all sword-related skills—except wielding one.
As Zong Ji drew, Jing Zhe’s eyes brightened. When he dotted the final mechanism and retracted his qi, the swordsman spoke:
“You’re a swordsman too. Impressive.”
“I request a duel!”
Zong Ji: …Damn, too real, little brother.
In One Sword, Jing Zhe was a battle maniac, relentlessly challenging sword-wielding cultivators. After leaving Tai Shu Sect, he systematically fought every swordmaster on the Mysterious Rankings, culminating in a life-or-death duel with his former master at Tiankou Cliff, ending with the latter’s demise.
Swords were mystical. Mastering sword qi or intent was like a cheat code—cross-tier challenges and epiphanies came easily, a walking bug, the favored weapon of Qidian protagonists.
After battling the Sword Demon, Jing Zhe rose to fame, dubbed “Sword Sovereign,” the unrivaled swordmaster of One Sword.
Though a dream, it was true to form.
The mention of the Ten Thousand Devils Sect map meant the plot had reached Jing Zhe’s quest for vengeance. His cultivation was at Saint-tier, Seventh Star, a step from Immortal-tier.
The problem? Even in a dream, Zong Ji couldn’t wield a sword! And at Saint-tier, Second Star, he’d be outclassed instantly.
Two Qidian cheat protagonists clashing—cross-tier advantages vanished; raw level ruled.
“No fight, you’re not up to it.”
Zong Ji waved dismissively, his lazy expression screaming, What can you do?
“Why not?”
The swordsman’s face chilled, unaccustomed to such dismissal, faintly displeased.
“You—”
Zong Ji began, but accidentally knocked over an unused wine cup, watching it roll down the tiles. Blinking in confusion, he looked utterly lost.
Jing Zhe: …
Only now did the swordsman notice the Dark Hall Master’s slight incoordination.
A drunkard.
What’s the point of arguing with one?