Chapter Fifty-One: The Purge from Ancient Times

“A broken sword, almost nine-tenths faith,” the middle-aged man gazed at the white-haired youth standing aloft in the sky, broken sword in hand, uttering an ancient appraisal once given to the figure known as the Paragon. It was to the Paragon that Li Ruoyu had entrusted his bone sword in the Abyss of Fallen Demons. Who could have foreseen that he would truly endure those hopeless years and survive?

“There remain a few insects, a handful of remnants,” the middle-aged man remarked, his gaze shifting between the Paragon gripping the broken sword and the ancient demon drenched in blood. This was his second utterance upon arriving at the Desolate Star—words tinged with reminiscence, with hatred, and above all, with a resolute conviction.

In the eyes of the ancient fiend Paragon, there was deep wariness and an even deeper unwillingness to concede. The broken sword in his hand seemed to absorb the chill from his body, gathering a frosty sheen, as if edged with winter’s hoarfrost.

“To root out every last trace, to ensure nothing survives—truly your way.”

For those who walk different paths, even a single word more is wasted breath. The middle-aged man drew his erhu, continuing to murmur an incomprehensible dirge.

A single resonant note from the erhu rang out, echoing across heaven and earth, then fell abruptly into silence. Yet in that instant, the hearts of both the Paragon and the ancient demon convulsed in agony with the ephemeral sound, as if their hearts would rupture and their souls be extinguished.

The Paragon looked at the man playing the erhu, knowing full well: he had survived the divine wars of ancient times, lingering on in the aftermath, but what was fated could not be avoided. The end of despair was merely a deeper abyss. Though he had long anticipated this day, now that it arrived, he could not help but feel reluctant to let go.

Gazing at the world one last time, the broken sword in the Paragon’s hand began to revive, gradually becoming whole again—though still hazy and insubstantial, as if it were a pane of glass through which the eye could see. Yet the might emanating from the sword disturbed the heavens, an unnamable aura stirring between heaven and earth.

A cough. The Paragon spat a mouthful of blood, staining his white robe crimson. He moved his sword hand, cleaving toward the middle-aged man with a blow that carried his soul, his blood, his divine essence—a sword strike as irrevocable and determined as a moth plunging into flame, a strike with no hope of return.

As the Paragon delivered this desperate blow, the ancient demon was not to be outdone. A lake of blood and writhing vines coiled about, forming a blood-red sphere. His black horns, dyed scarlet, swept toward the middle-aged man like blades meant to cleave the sky.

The most beautiful thing is that fleeting brilliance. After the onslaught, the middle-aged man remained unchanged, standing quietly in place, neither retreating nor advancing, continuing to draw his soundless erhu, as if confiding unspeakable loneliness to the wind.

The sword passed; the Paragon sank to his knees in midair, white hair and blood-soaked robes, blood at the corner of his lips.

The blade swept past; the ancient demon’s horns were severed, all traces of blood drained from his form, his face pale as if bled dry.

The middle-aged man looked upon the Paragon and the ancient demon with nothing but cold indifference, an icy detachment born of witnessing too much life and death, too much sorrow and grief—his heart left numb and unmoved.

“Though I die today, the heavens will not collapse; the myriad beings will still cross that chasm of despair,” the Paragon declared, his eyes burning with the same resolve as his words, yet they left the middle-aged man utterly unmoved, his expression as indifferent as before.

As for the ancient demon, he simply stood there, his eyes vacant and lifeless—only then was it clear he had already perished.