Chapter 39: The Sword Heart’s Cracks

The Wind-Riding Skiff, specially crafted by the Qingyun Sect, truly lived up to its reputation as a flagship treasure of a top immortal sect. It flew with unparalleled stability.

However, this comfort held no relevance for Shen Zhaoqing.

Ever since Gu Chang’an had ‘bundled’ her onto the skiff, Shen Zhaoqing found herself confined to a room directly adjacent to the Chief Disciple’s private cabin. Yet, to call it a room felt inaccurate; it was more akin to an impenetrable vault, sealed tight with formidable sword intent.

The doorway, the windows, and even the ventilation shafts were all hermetically sealed by a sword intent barrier—as thin as a cicada’s wing, yet utterly indestructible. This ethereal barrier pulsed with Gu Chang’an’s crisp, frost-like aura. Not to mention people, even a fly attempting to enter would likely need to master the Supreme Forgetfulness Sword Art first.

Shen Zhaoqing had completely lost her personal freedom.

Her movements were strictly confined to this space of less than ten square meters. Her daily life was as regimented as a programmed automaton.

If Shen Zhaoqing dared to lie in bed for more than three breaths, the sword intent, colder than a thousand-year-old glacial iron, would precisely prick a certain acupoint on her lower back. The invigorating effect was exceptional, truly a physical alarm clock.

Such a life was unbearable.

“Senior Sister Shen, are… are you alright?”

That afternoon, a head cautiously poked through the doorway.

It belonged to a plump-faced, somewhat guileless inner disciple named Wang Xiaopang, one of the unfortunate souls dispatched to support the northern front. In his hands, he held a plate of freshly baked spirit grain cakes, still steaming and fragrant.

“I saw you hadn’t come out all day, and Senior Sister Gu is… *cough*, Senior Sister Gu maintains strict discipline. I was worried you might be hungry, so I specially brought you some from the kitchen.” Wang Xiaopang’s smile was earnest, his eyes holding a mix of curiosity for the sect’s gossip-worthy heroine and profound reverence for Gu Chang’an.

Shen Zhaoqing’s eyes lit up, as if she had spotted a savior.

“Good brother! How righteous!” Just as she reached out to take the plate, a white figure appeared silently behind Wang Xiaopang.

Gu Chang’an had finished her meditation at some unknown point. She stood quietly, her gaze sweeping coolly over Wang Xiaopang, then over the spirit grain cakes in his hand.

She said nothing, yet the air temperature around them seemed to plummet to freezing point instantly.

Wang Xiaopang’s smile froze. The hand holding the plate began to tremble slightly, and fine beads of cold sweat appeared on his forehead. He felt as though he wasn’t facing a person, but a peerless, unsheathed killer sword, its sharp intent pressed against his throat, making even breathing difficult.

“Senior… Senior Sister Gu…” Wang Xiaopang stammered, “I… I just saw Senior Sister Shen…”

“I will personally arrange her meals,” Gu Chang’an stated flatly, her voice devoid of emotion. “No need for others to trouble themselves.”

“Yes, yes! This disciple overstepped!”

Wang Xiaopang, as if granted a great pardon, turned around almost robotically, fleeing the contentious spot at the fastest speed of his life, as if a malevolent ghost pursued him.

Shen Zhaoqing watched, heartbroken, as the fragrant spirit grain cakes vanished from her sight.

She cast a resentful gaze at Gu Chang’an. “Senior Sister, I’m hungry.”

Gu Chang’an retrieved a jade bottle from her storage ring and handed it to her. “A Fasting Pill. One pill can ward off hunger for three days.”

Shen Zhaoqing: “…”

‘Thank you so much!’

She stared at the pill, which exuded a faint herbal scent but offered no appeal, then looked at Gu Chang’an’s serene face. A tragic conclusion formed in her mind:

Not only was she to be physically imprisoned, but her stomach was to be tormented as well!

Days passed, and the flying skiff traversed the sea of clouds, drawing ever closer to the northern frontier, a land fabled for its perpetual wind and snow.

Shen Zhaoqing’s spirit, along with her diminishing freedom, was slowly eroded away. From initial protests and struggles, she progressed to passive resistance, and now, to complete resignation. Her entire being exuded the aura of a ‘salted fish’—a feeling of ‘whatever, just let it all end’.

Gu Chang’an remained oblivious to this, steadfastly executing her ‘confinement’ plan.

She seemed to relish the feeling of having everything under her control. Shen Zhaoqing’s eating, dressing, living, and even every breath were under her watchful eye.

As night deepened, the flying skiff glided smoothly beneath a massive moon. The cool moonlight streamed through the windows, casting a silvery sheen over everything in the room.

Shen Zhaoqing sat cross-legged on the meditation cushion, yet she found herself unable to meditate peacefully. Her chest felt heavy, as if a massive stone pressed down on it, and even her breathing carried a scorching, sluggish sensation.

This was no illusion; her state of mind was affecting her vital energy. If this continued, let alone establishing her foundation, she might first suffer a qi deviation.

“Senior Sister.” She finally couldn’t bear it any longer and broke the oppressive silence.

Gu Chang’an, who had been resting with her eyes closed by the window, slowly opened them.

“The cabin is too stuffy,” Shen Zhaoqing offered a clumsy excuse. “I’d like to go to the deck for some fresh air.”

She knew this request would likely be denied.

However, to her surprise, Gu Chang’an simply watched her for a moment before nodding.

“Alright.”

With that, she rose and walked towards the door first.

Shen Zhaoqing paused, then realized—agreement had been given, but the ‘jailer’ would personally escort her.

She gave a self-deprecating tug at the corner of her lips and followed.

The deck was deserted in the dead of night. The fierce winds at high altitude were like blades, causing their robes to flap wildly.

The colossal flying skiff resembled a silent behemoth, carving its way through the boundless sea of clouds. Above them stretched a brilliant galaxy and a bright, clear moon, while below surged rolling waves of clouds. Looking out, the world was vast and desolate.

Such a magnificent sight should have inspired grandeur, yet Shen Zhaoqing felt only a profound, bone-deep loneliness and powerlessness.

She walked to the railing, leaning against it, allowing the icy night wind to caress her cheeks and hair. The wind carried the thin, pure spiritual energy of the high altitudes, bringing a slight calm to her agitated heart.

Gu Chang’an stood a short distance behind her, silent.

Shen Zhaoqing didn’t need to turn around to feel that gaze, solid as a tangible presence, fixed on her back, like an invisible net holding her firmly captive.

She simply closed her eyes, pretending not to feel it.

Time slowly drifted by in this eerie silence.

After an unknown duration, a very soft, almost imperceptible voice suddenly came from behind her—so faint it seemed it could be scattered by the wind at any moment.

“The Supreme Forgetfulness Sword Art requires a heart as still as water to achieve sword heart clarity.”

It was Gu Chang’an.

Shen Zhaoqing neither turned nor spoke, though her ears twitched subtly.

She knew Gu Chang’an wasn’t speaking to her, but rather to herself.

The voice continued, carrying a tremor that even Gu Chang’an herself might not have noticed.

“But as soon as I consider that you might leave… whether taken by the Demonic Venerable, abducted by the demon race, or even… simply choosing to depart on your own…”

“My sword heart develops cracks.”

Shen Zhaoqing’s body stiffened abruptly.

She slowly turned around, looking at Gu Chang’an behind her with disbelief.

In the moonlight, Gu Chang’an’s face was paler than usual. Her eyes, typically as calm as ancient wells, now churned with tempestuous waves.

She resembled a madwoman tormented by inner demons, on the brink of losing control.

“You…” Shen Zhaoqing’s throat felt dry; for a moment, she didn’t know what to say.

Gu Chang’an looked at her, her gaze incredibly complex.

She slowly extended a hand, as if to touch Shen Zhaoqing’s shoulder, to smooth her wind-tousled hair.

Her slender fingers gleamed like jade in the moonlight, yet they stopped mere inches from Shen Zhaoqing.

Her hand trembled slightly.

Finally, that hand sharply retracted, gripping the hilt of the sword at her waist instead.

*Zheng—*

The Innate Magic Tool, Frostbright Sword, emitted a faint hum, as if responding to its master’s emotions.

That surging emotion, fiercely suppressed by the sword art and almost bursting forth, seemed to find an outlet the moment she gripped the hilt, transforming entirely into an even heavier form of confinement.

The turbulence in Gu Chang’an’s eyes gradually subsided, returning to their dead, icy stillness.

“The northern frontier is very safe,” she said to Shen Zhaoqing, enunciating each word. “There, no one will ever be able to take you from my side again.”