Baby with Daoist Monarch System

A subtle, indescribable ripple stirred within Xu Ran’s heart.

This ripple was not born from sympathy or compassion, but from a deeper, more complex confusion and contemplation akin to a quest upon a path.

He had witnessed the trial of that nameless swordsman, in the Land of the Dead, enduring through a mortal vessel, day after day, year after year, pouring forth sweat and life.

Though he never truly touched the threshold of the Immortal Dao, he honed a pure and extreme Sword Intent, a tenacity that embraced death to forge life, a mortal’s inquiry into the Heavenly Dao.

And before him stood the butcher, whose beginnings seemed even more humble than that nameless swordsman.

At forty years old, well past the prime age for cultivation, indeed, at an age that could hardly be considered even scraps.

His body had long been molded by a career of grease, blood, and repetitive motions, rigid and lacking in expressiveness.

The sword he held was not for slaughter, nor for guardianship, merely to dissect dead matter.

The surrounding sneers were like the lingering stench of blood in a slaughterhouse, intense and grating.

These butchers, their knives swift, precise, ruthless, far exceeding the efficiency of this odd swordsman.

Their laughter was filled with concessions to reality, and scorn for dreams.

”Old Zhang, what’s the point? Our fate is to grip butcher knives, not those Immortal toys!”

”Exactly! Look at you, you’re taking twice as long with that pig compared to us! You’ll get your pay docked when the overseer comes!”

”A sword? Hahaha, by the time your training yields results, it’ll be too late for anything! Forget your wife running off, even your son would resent you!”

However, the dark-skinned middle-aged man, known as ”Old Zhang,” seemed as if he dwelled in another world.

In his world, there was no ridicule, no urging, nor were there the cries of those once vibrant lives, only the cold corpse before him and the clumsy, even somewhat rusted, iron sword in his hand.

”Squelch!”

Another sword thrust.

This thrust was still so plain, without any arcane trajectory, without any Spiritual Qi fluctuation, merely relying on muscle memory and the repetition of experience, piercing accurately into the heart of the boar’s carcass—though the heart had long ceased to beat.

On his face appeared that strange sense of satisfaction again, as if he had achieved something earth-shattering.

In those muddy eyes flickered a faint, barely noticeable glimmer, which was promptly overshadowed by deep fatigue and life’s pressures.

Xu Ran watched silently.

His Divine Soul, like a ghost floating above the river of time, observed this frozen fragment of life.

He could sense Old Zhang’s arm muscles ache with each sword swing, could sense each breath he took was imbued with the unique stench of the slaughterhouse; more profoundly, he could sense within Old Zhang a tiny flame, weak yet never extinguished.

What was it?

A form of discontent?

Or a delusion?

Xu Ran could not define it.

Day after day, month after month, year after year.

Faces in the slaughterhouse came and went, young butchers matured, and seasoned butchers decayed.

Mockery gradually thinned, turning into indifference, occasionally interspersed with a few pity-laden sighs.

Old Zhang’s back hunched even more.

The white in his temples spread over his entire head, like an autumn frost.

His movements, due to age, became even slower.

But the hand that grasped the sword remained extraordinarily steady, that rust-covered iron sword seemingly an extension of his arm.

He continued to use the sword for slaughter.

Inefficient, scant income.

Though Xu Ran could not see the situation at home firsthand, from the occasional chatter of those around and Old Zhang’s increasingly hobbled figure, as well as the worry sometimes flashing through those deeply sunken eyes, he could guess it well enough.

Perhaps his wife had indeed left him, perhaps his children had long been unable to understand their father’s nearly deranged persistence.

Yet he had never let go of the sword in his hand.

He did not pursue more complex sword techniques, did not chase the so-called Sword Qi or Sword Intent.

He merely repeated, repeated that singular movement—stab.

Stab at flesh long since devoid of life.

Xu Ran’s Sea of Spirit, the golden ocean sealed by the Nine-Layered Giant Tower and golden chains, now even stirred slightly with Old Zhang’s motion.

The rusty iron sword silhouette, representing Old Zhang’s will, hovered quietly, emanating an aura of deathly silence and obstinacy.

This aura was entirely different from the wooden sword silhouette beside it, representing the nameless swordsman’s will.

The wooden sword carried a mortal’s defiance and longing for Dao, a yearning for ”life.”

Whereas that iron sword seemed to contain something purer, more peculiar.

It only stabbed at dead matter.

What kind of Sword Dao was this?

For the first time, Xu Ran felt a hint of doubt towards this seemingly ”wasteful” and ”useless” persistence.

Could there be a deeper meaning behind it?

Time in this trial space seemed to lose its meaning, or perhaps was infinitely elongated.

Xu Ran did not know how long he ”watched.”

Ten years?

Twenty years?

Thirty years?

He only saw the wrinkles on Old Zhang’s face grow deeper, like a dried-up riverbed.

His body grew increasingly frail, as if a gust of wind could topple him.

But the sword in his hand continued to thrust forth.

The motion was now as slow as the faltering brush strokes of an elderly man recalling memories.