Chapter 161: The Bestest Master

Chapter 161: The Bestest Master Jorge’s face drained of all color as his frantic telepathic voice transmission tore through his companions’ minds: "Scatter! NOW!" Before the words fully registered— Crimson flames erupted around the Thirst Bull captain’s body, the violent glow of the Blood Burning Technique igniting as he hurled himself backward in a desperate, panicked retreat. Every muscle screamed as he pushed his cultivation to the brink—speed was life now. Rodney barely had time to tighten his grip on Emma’s wrist, ready to drag her into flight— When the lake’s surface shivered. The sword’s reflection twisted in the water—not a mere image, but something alive. The clear ripples darkened, warping like a predator’s grin. Then— The lake’s surface, once still as black glass, shattered into a thousand screaming reflections—each one birthing a sword. One became ten. Ten became a hundred. A hundred became an endless, shifting forest of blades, their edges humming with a hunger that vibrated the very air. In the span of a breath, the trio was encircled—not by steel, but by the incarnate will of slaughter itself. The swords hung suspended, a grotesque lattice of gleaming death, their tips trembling as if aching to drink. Between them, the sword qi seethed like living things, slashing the air into ribbons, each pass sending forth gales thick with the coppery stench of blood. The wind itself choked, a howling vortex of invisible edges that flayed the lake’s surface into frothing ruin. Water churned, not in waves, but in frenzied, minced spirals—the entire expanse now a grand, gnashing meat grinder, swallowing all light, all hope. Rodney’s face twisted in horror as the sword array didn’t strike at once but cage them. Jorge barely managed to skid his fleeing pace to a stop, the razor-edged sword qi from the array slicing the air inches from his throat. A fraction slower, and he would have been reduced to bloody flesh ribbons. The two ninth-layer cultivators locked gazes, their minds screaming for a solution—but before they could react, the still blood sword in the very center of the sword array shuddered. A malice awakened. Twin errie crimson eyes slit open along its bone hilt, glowing with malicious sentience. The pupils dilated, fixating on them with unholy hunger. A naive, childlike voice suddenly bubbled up from the sword—like a toddler’s innocent giggle, but dripping with something threaten. "Uuuh~?" The sword cooed, each syllable sticky-sweet, as if scolding naughty playmate "You’re not Hanz Clan people~! Who said you could come in here? Hmm?" The contrast was horrifying. That cherubic tone, so light and playful—yet beneath it lurked something cold and butcher-sharp. Jorge immediately dropped to his knees, forehead nearly touching the bloodstained ground. "M-mighty Spirit Sword Senior," he stammered, sweat dripping down his neck, "this lowly one begs—" The sword cut his words, its voice sliced through the air, high-pitched and gleeful, like a toddler discovering a new game. A deadly one. "Ooooh, intruders! Naughty, very BAD intruders!" it sang, its tone bouncing between playful and sinister. "You stepped inside the Hanz clan’s treasure house! That’s baaaaad. Very, very baaaad." A giggle, soft and cold, skittered along the blade. "Do you know what happens to bad intruders? Hmm? Do you?" A pause—too long, too deliberate—as if the sword were savoring the moment. Then, with a sudden, shrill excitement: "They DIE! Yes, yes, they DIE! Swoosh! Splat! No more breathing!" Another giggle, this one louder, almost giddy. "But... but... I’m feeling NICE today! Maybe I won’t cut you into itsy-bitsy pieces. Maybe not this hour!" The blade hummed, vibrating with barely contained energy. "I have a NEED. A big, big need! And youuuu..."—the voice dropped to a whisper, sticky-sweet—"you can HELP me! Be my good little helpers, and I won’t have to play choppy-chop with your bones! Doesn’t that sound fun?" The trio stood paralyzed, their spines locked in the icy grip of terror. Cold sweat traced the lines of their backs like the creeping fingers of a corpse. Before them, the malevolent sword hovered, its aura a slow, rhythmic pulse—dark, hungry, savoring their fear like a beast relishing the scent of wounded prey. There was no escape. No negotiation. Only the crushing inevitability of surrender. As one, they bent at the waist, their bows rigid, their fists clenched white-knuckled at their sides. The words clawed up their throats, forced out through gritted teeth in ragged unison: "We unworthy beings await Senior’s instruction." The sword’s eyes glinted—not with wisdom, but with the bright, unblinking delight of a child who’d just broken something precious. "Oooh, you’re LISTENING! Good, good! That means you’re smart little intruders!" Its voice lilted, singsong and sticky-sweet, like little boy pouring milk with venom for playmate. "Let me tell you a STORY! A hero, mighty story... about the bestest master, Krogh Hanz!" It giggled, the sound shrill and uneven, as if still learning how laughter should sound. "He went far, far away—sooo brave!—to get stronger! Wanted to fix his icky, crumbling clan. But then..." A dramatic, exaggerated gasp. "The meany Ju-On TRICKED him! Bad, nasty Ju-On! Now the big, beautiful estate is all..." It made a chaotic whistling noise, like wind through a slaughterhouse. "Messy! And my poor master is stuck!" The blade pulsed, its glow flickering like a restless toddler’s attention. "So HERE’S what you’ll do! You’ll find him. Yes, yes! And then you’ll HELP him chop-chop the Ju-On!" It mimicked a hacking motion in the air, humming gleefully. "Then he can finish his super-duper special... um..." It paused, struggling with the words before triumphantly screeching: "COSMIC PATH FOUNDATION!" The trio stood frozen beneath the blood-red sword’s menacing gaze, its ominous words echoing like a death knell. "Cosmic Path Foundation Establishment Technique?!" Emma Dawson’s voice trembled—equal parts awe and disbelief. The revelation sent a storm of emotions raging inside her. The Cosmic Path... a legendary ascension method, one that had driven countless cultivators to madness in their desperate pursuit of power. Tales spoke of mighty overlords who had risen like blazing stars, their foundations unshakable, all thanks to this very legend technique. Even the most revered sects across the universe coveted it. And now, against all odds, it lay within their grasp—a prize that could rewrite their destinies. Jorge Blue’s gaze sharpened, his thoughts whirling as he carefully pressed for answers. With deliberate deference, he inclined his head slightly and spoke, his voice low and measured: "Then... this humble one presumes the legend opportunity in Vermithys, ten years past, was truly claimed by the mighty Senior Brother Krogh Hanz?" His words were polished, each syllable weighted with cautious respect—yet beneath the formality, his mind calculated risks. The sword’s loyalty to Krogh made it a wellspring of hidden knowledge... and a blade poised at his throat. One misstep, and its childish malice could turn fatal. The sword’s glowing crimson eyes narrowed to slits, its voice taking on a petulant, singsong quality. "No more questions! You know my master’s famous name now, so you have to use my special title!" The blade vibrated with barely-contained energy, like a child working up to a tantrum. "Say it right or I’ll... I’ll get cranky!" The trio exchanged uneasy glances. Their earlier address of "Senior" now felt like a dangerous oversight—like offering a spoiled prince the wrong honorific. Rodney Luther stepped forward, pressing his palms together in formal salute. His voice carried the careful cadence of a scholar addressing an unpredictable noble: "Esteemed Sword Born, this humble one begs your patience." He kept his gaze lowered just enough to show deference without appearing weak. "If your illustrious master walks the world, how might lowly disciples such as ourselves recognize his exalted presence? When Senior Brother Hanz departed our holy sect, we were but unworthy outer sect disciples—never granted the honor of beholding his majesty." The sword’s crimson glow pulsed erratically, flickering between the sickly red of dying embers and the violent scarlet of fresh arterial spray. "Maaaster’s right heeere!" it sang in a lilting, off-key nursery rhyme tone, the blade spinning in frantic circles that painted the air with afterimages of bloodlight. "But the icky-sticky Ju-On is CHEEEEATING!" The sword’s voice pitched up into a shriek that made their eardrums vibrate painfully. "It’s mimicing all of master’s special swordy-will and his yummy-tummy cultivation aura sparkles TOO PERFECTLY!" The weapon suddenly stopped its manic rotation, hovering ominously before Rodney’s face. Up close, they could see the blade wasn’t reflecting light - it was weeping thick, syrupy droplets of something dark that sizzled when they hit the stone floor. "I’m a goooood sword!" it insisted, its voice taking on the petulant tone of a child denied dessert. "I know my master by our suuuper-duper special soul-pinky-promise and his sparkly-sharp swordy will! But now..." The glow dimmed momentarily, the voice dropping to a whisper that slithered into their ears like a worm burrowing into rotten fruit. Then came the abrupt shift - the childish lilt cracking like a porcelain doll’s face hitting concrete. "FUCK." The curse rang out with shocking clarity, the blade vibrating with enough force to blur its edges. "I’m a fucking SWORD, not some squishy meat-puppet with two eyeballs and a flapping mouth-hole. You all look the fucking same to me!" It began pacing back and forth in the air like a caged animal, leaving smoking trails of crimson energy in its wake. "Before, it was easy! Just follow the soul-contract tether and taste that delicious sword-will. But now?" The sword made a wet, choking sound that might have been a sob. "Years. Fucking YEARS of this curse-ghost’s bullshit. The fake smells just as tasty. Feels just as right. What if I... what if I..." The blade started trembling violently, its voice fracturing into multiple tones - some childlike, some demonic, all terrifying. "One wrong chop and I could... could... turn master into little meat cubes by accident!" It let out a high-pitched whine that escalated into glass-shattering frequencies. "I CAN’T MAKE MISTAKES! I’m supposed to be PERFECT!" For the first time, the sword’s glow dimmed slightly. "I can’t make mistakes. But... but I miss my master." The last words came out in a trembling, almost tearful whisper - the sound of a child’s confession after breaking something precious. Emma, her mind sharp despite the horror gripping her heart, ventured another question. "Esteemed Sword Born. What is Senior Brother Hanz’s temperament? Does he have any particular habits or charming trait quirks that might help us identify him?" The beauty’s voice was steady, though her blood-streaked face betrayed the toll of their ordeal. The crimson sword emitted a wet, giggling sound that bubbled up from its blade like blood from a slit throat. "Oooh, let me tell you about my bestest master!" Its voice dripped with saccharine adoration, each word sticky-sweet like congealing honey. "My master is the epitome of kindness, gentle and compassionate, with a heart that pities the weak. When I first gained sentience, I was frail, barely clinging to existence. It was my master who, heedless of danger, slaughtered three towns in a single night, offering the blood and souls of tens of thousands to sustain me. Without his dedication and sacrifice, I would have faded like the other Weapon Souls forged alongside me, doomed to wither for lack of nourishment." "Like when I was just a wittle baby Artifact Soul, all weak, wobbly, barely clinging to existence..." The blade’s glow pulsed rhythmically, mimicking a heartbeat. "Master knew just what I needed! He went playtime in three whole towns! Heedless of danger, he slaughtered every single soul in a single night, offering so so many blood and souls, hundreds of thousands maybe, to sustain me. Chop-chop-splash!" It made happy slicing noises, spinning in the air with glee. "So many juicy souls to drink! So much tasty blood to swim in! The screaming made such pretty music for my first birthday!" A shudder ran through its length, the metal vibrating with remembered ecstasy. "There was this meanie town with nasty cultivators who didn’t want to share their yummy insides. Every single one of these bad guys was as strong as my master in the cultivation realm! But guess what? My master didn’t even blink! Master got all ouchy and broken—his clothes went squish-squish with all the red paint he was wearing!" The sword’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "But he never stopped cutting, slahing the flesh and cracking every last soul with me. Not until every single breathy thing stopped moving! Then he cuddled me close retreat to a hidden cave and... and... collapsed only when he knew I was safe." For a moment, the sword sounded almost tearful. "He only fell asleep when he was sure I was full and happy. That’s how wonderful he is!" Its glow intensified to a painful crimson. "All those boring Hanz clan humans keep saying ’oh Krogh you work too hard’ and ’oh Krogh you should rest more’, but I know the truth! He loves me best! He’d never let me go hungry!" The light dimmed suddenly. "But then... then the icky Ju-On came." The sword’s voice became small and trembling. "It’s playing dress-up as my master and now... now I can’t tell which cuddles are real." The blade let out a sound like a child sucking its thumb. "Master must be so lonely without me... and cold... and maybe even... heartbreak. As a sword cultivator, his strength is diminished without my sharpness, and I fear he faces untold hardships." It perked up suddenly with manic energy. "That’s why you have to help! Master gets all grumpy when he’s hungry, and when he’s grumpy he... he..." The sword broke into hysterical giggles. "Well, let’s just say more playtime happens! Teeheehee!" The crimson glow focused on the trio with terrifying intensity. The sword paused, then added with unwavering conviction, "As for habits, my master’s greatest passion is ensuring my well-being. He cherishes me above all else." The trio stood frozen in horror as the sword spirit recounted its gruesome tale of slaughter. Its twisted definition of "kindness" sent a wave of panic through them, their minds reeling at the dissonance between Krogh Hanz’s portrayal as a benevolent figure and the monstrous reality of a man who had massacred hundreds of thousands to sate his blade’s hunger. Emma’s fists clenched, her nails digging into her palms to steady her trembling hands. Jorge’s face was rigid, sweat tracing a cold path down his temple, while Rodney’s eyes darted with unease—every pore prickling under the suffocating weight of the sword’s unveiled killing intent. Jorge exhaled slowly, forcing his voice into calm neutrality. "We... understand Senior Brother Hanz’s unparalleled benevolence and kindness." He bowed slightly, the gesture deliberate, masking the dread coiling in his gut. "Esteemed Sword Born, if your highness would deign to withdraw the sword array, we will set out at once to find the mighty Krogh Hanz." "Bad, bad meatsacks!" The Sword of Red Run let out a scornful huff, its blade vibrating in the air. "Do I look like a dumb-dumb baby sword soul who just popped out of the forge yesterday? If I dismantle this formation, what’s to stop you sneaky little roaches from fleeing? And we can’t have that, can we? No no no!" The weapon spun in lazy circles, leaving afterimages of crimson light that hung in the air like arterial spray. "There are three of you—two will remain as hostages, and one will search. I don’t need your strength, only your eyes to confirm my true master’s identity." The sword dipped slightly, its crimson eyes sweeping over them. "Decide now: who stays, and who goes?"