All right.

Before long, the attendant stopped at the door to a cabin and said, “Sir, this is your room—Cabin Geng-Twelve. Here is your key, please keep it safe.” With that, he handed him an iron key.

Li Miao nodded and replied, “Thank you, you may go about your duties.” Taking the key, he unlocked the door and was about to step inside.

At that moment, footsteps echoed from deeper down the corridor, and a figure approached at a measured pace.

Glancing over, Li Miao saw by the light spilling through the carved lattice window that it was a man dressed in coarse brown clothes with a bamboo hat pulled low over his face, hiding most of his features except for a chin covered in a thick beard.

Is that him? Li Miao was startled. This was none other than the mysterious cultivator who had blocked his and Lady Qi’s path the previous day, the one who had spoken to him of the “Purple Jun” and “Azure Profound” swords and their intertwined fates.

The man in the bamboo hat drew near. He had seemed to be heading for the main cabin, but upon seeing Li Miao, he halted, raised his head slightly, and said, “So it’s you—the new master of Purple Jun.”

“Li Miao greets the senior,” Li Miao replied deferentially, aware of the man’s formidable strength and not daring to be disrespectful.

The man in the bamboo hat gave a slight nod by way of acknowledgement and asked, “Where are you headed on this ship?”

“To the prefectural city,” Li Miao answered honestly, revealing his destination without reservation. Then he added, “What about you, senior? Where are you bound? Oh, I almost forgot—I don’t know what to call you.”

The man replied coolly, “I have neither name nor surname. You may call me Butcher. Since you’re bound for the prefectural city, it seems fate has brought us together. We may as well travel as companions.”

Butcher? Li Miao rolled the name over in his mind, strange thoughts arising. Ordinary people wouldn’t choose such a moniker. Either this man had once been a literal butcher, or he was a fearsome killer, a slaughterer whose hands were stained with blood.

Yet, judging by his demeanor and bearing, neither possibility seemed to fit him precisely.

Li Miao mused for a moment. Then Butcher asked, “Boy, do you drink?”

Li Miao nodded. “When not at war, I’ll have a drink now and then.”

“Good. Come, drink a few cups with me,” Butcher said, the corners of his mouth twitching with satisfaction beneath the brim of his hat as he beckoned Li Miao.

To share wine with such a master was a rare honor. Li Miao did not refuse; he shut his door and followed Butcher to the main cabin.

The main cabin was, in truth, a large hall, much like a tavern’s common room, with seven or eight tables crammed close together due to the ship’s narrow space. A burly man would have to turn sideways to squeeze between them.

A dozen or so merchant-like passengers occupied several tables, engaged in loud conversation about who knew what. When Li Miao and Butcher arrived, one table remained empty, and they sat there.

“Lad, bring two large jars of your strongest wine!” Butcher called to a nearby attendant as soon as he sat down.

“Right away, sirs, just a moment!” the attendant replied cheerfully, and disappeared into a small storeroom to return with two hefty ten-jin jars of liquor.

“Five-year-old Fireblade spirit—fiery and bold, it’ll ignite if you set it near flame. Should be to your liking,” the attendant said, placing the jars on the table with a grin.

Butcher hefted a jar, broke the clay seal, and instantly the rich aroma of pure, undiluted liquor filled the air.

“Not bad, not bad. For commoners’ wine, this is strong enough,” he said, quite pleased, tossing a heavy silver ingot to the attendant.

“Enjoy your drinks, gentlemen!” the attendant beamed, tucking away the silver as he took his leave.

“Come, try it,” Butcher said, pouring himself a brimming bowl and gesturing for Li Miao to do the same.

Li Miao hadn’t tasted wine in two or three years, not since his last military campaign. Tempted, he took the other jar and filled his bowl to the brim.

The instant the wine hit the bowl, its heady scent rose up. He took a sip and felt as if he’d swallowed a handful of tiny blades; his mouth burned as if it were being slashed apart. If not for his physique, far superior to an ordinary man’s, just that one mouthful would have had him coughing up tears.

“What a potent drink!” Li Miao exclaimed in astonishment.

Butcher glanced up, noticing Li Miao’s struggle with the burning liquor, and chuckled. “It seems your tolerance is wanting.”

Li Miao smiled awkwardly. “In the army, we weren’t allowed to drink much. When I did, it was always milder stuff. This is the first time I’ve encountered something so strong.”

Butcher shook his head. “That won’t do. As a swordsman, learning to drink is important. Without understanding the spirit of wine, you cannot grasp the essence of swordplay; without that, you cannot nurture the heart of the sword; and without the sword heart, you cannot comprehend the way of the sword. Those who only practice technique are not worthy of being called swordsmen.”

His words rang out with conviction.

Yet Li Miao didn’t entirely agree. In the Silver Alliance, he had heard tales of several master swordsmen: some loved their drink, but others were models of self-restraint and never touched a drop. Drinking or not was not the crux—the true key was a swordsman’s understanding of the world’s workings.

Of course, he would never contradict such a senior to his face.

Li Miao simply replied, “You may be mistaken, senior. Although I possess Purple Jun, I am not a swordsman. What I excel at is actually the blade.”

“The blade?” Butcher’s tone rose, and the brim of his hat lifted slightly; his hand, holding the bowl, froze mid-air.

“Yes, the blade. Is there something wrong with that?” Li Miao was puzzled.

Butcher fell silent, pondering deeply. After a moment, he drained his bowl, set it down, and plucked two chopsticks from a holder, tossing one to Li Miao. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a proper blade master. Come, let me see your technique.”

Li Miao caught the chopstick, a bit bemused, but obeyed. He infused it with the barest trace of primal energy, wielding it as a blade and slashing obliquely at Butcher.

Butcher’s eyes, cold under the hat, watched impassively. As the chopstick swept in, he responded with his own, tapping Li Miao’s with just the right amount of force.

No true essence or magical power was used—just an ordinary, human-level move. Yet he struck precisely at the weakest point of Li Miao’s “blade momentum,” instantly dispelling the force behind his attack.

It all happened swiftly—just two blinks from the exchange of words, to picking up the chopsticks, to nullifying the strike.

Li Miao was briefly stunned by the dissolution of his attack.

Before he could gather his thoughts, Butcher remarked disdainfully, “Too crude. You call that blade technique? Try again.”

Li Miao changed his approach, launching another “strike” with the force of splitting mountains.

Butcher’s response was the same—he raised his hand, moved his chopstick, and tapped lightly.

With a crisp sound, the chopsticks met above the table; Li Miao’s was flicked from his grasp, spinning through the air to lodge in the wooden wall.

“Too reckless. All advance and no retreat—such is the path to destruction. Again,” Butcher’s voice grew more impatient, his brow furrowing beneath the hat.

He tossed over another chopstick.

Li Miao, grasping the second chopstick, felt a tremor of shock.

He had honed his combat skills through countless battles—perhaps not flawless, but certainly sharp and practiced. Yet to Butcher, it was as childish as make-believe, without a redeeming feature.

Those deft, precise taps targeted his weakest points, like a serpent striking the heart or a horse stumbling at the forehoof. Each time his weakness was exposed, his formidable momentum collapsed like a punctured bladder, vanishing in an instant.

This was a supremely refined technique—attacking weaknesses with minimal effort to defeat the strongest foe.

Both shocked and elated to have met a true master, Li Miao gripped the chopstick and unleashed his blade force a third time.

This time, he used the Devouring Blade’s energy-annihilating trait; the very air seemed to twist in its path.

Seeing this, Butcher finally nodded in approval. Even so, he dealt with the “strike” just as deftly, tapping Li Miao’s right thumb.

Impeccably accurate, he struck the “fish border” acupoint. A tingling numbness shot through Li Miao’s hand, forcing him to drop the chopstick, which clattered onto the table.

With a dull thud, the energy-infused chopstick embedded itself straight through the tabletop.

Butcher said, “Your technique is adequate, but your grip is far too careless. If you can’t even hold the blade firmly, how can you call yourself a blade master?”

Li Miao’s face flushed with excitement.

Three times rebuked, three times challenged—yet far from discouraged, he was overjoyed.

He knew this was a rare opportunity, a stroke of fortune.

This Butcher’s strength far surpassed even Li Miao’s previous estimations. To receive instruction from such a master was a blessing others could only dream of.

“Senior, please teach me!” Li Miao said earnestly, unable to mask his excitement.

Butcher glanced at him, then lowered his head and sipped his wine, saying coolly, “Why should I teach you?”

Li Miao was taken aback, momentarily at a loss for words.

They had only just met, shared no ties of kinship or interest; he could find no reason compelling enough for Butcher to impart his skills.

“Would Purple Jun suffice as a reason?” he asked, somewhat uncertain.

Butcher shook his head. “If it were for Purple Jun, I’d teach you swordplay, not blade technique.”

Swordplay. If Butcher’s skills in swordsmanship matched the mastery he’d just displayed, they would be formidable indeed.

Yet it was only after learning Li Miao specialized in the blade that Butcher had tested him, suggesting he valued “the blade” even more than “the sword.”

Clearly, his blade technique must be even finer than his swordplay.

“I want to learn the blade. I want to become truly strong,” Li Miao declared.

He couldn’t offer a better reason, so he spoke plainly from the heart.

Before meeting Butcher, he’d only thought himself limited in means—too reliant on a single style, his moves easily anticipated in battle.

Now he realized that the techniques he’d honed in the “virtual arena of life and death” were mere child’s play before a true master—useful only for slaughtering the weak in chaotic melees. When faced with an equal, he found himself powerless, outmatched. Just as he had yesterday against Lu Yan.

Butcher drank a few more fiery mouthfuls, lost in thought.

After a while, he asked, “Countless people in this world wish for strength. Why should I choose you over someone with better foundations?”

Li Miao replied, “There may be many whose foundations are superior, but as for inner methods stronger than mine—there are few in all the world.”

He spoke with confidence.

In other matters, he would not boast before such a master. But the Heart of the Cosmos was different.

That guiding art was created by the grand leader of the Galactic Transcendents, who could shatter stars as easily as coal. If such a method wasn’t peerless, then this world of cultivation was truly unimaginable.

Li Miao’s self-assurance surprised Butcher.

Butcher set his wine bowl down and said, “Bold words. Show me—let me see what’s so exceptional.”

Without hesitation, Li Miao sat on the bench, closed his eyes, and began to circulate the Heart of the Cosmos.

Instantly, the primal energies of the universe within and without the cabin stirred, and invisible currents of cosmic origin rushed into him from every limb and bone.

At first, Butcher sensed nothing amiss. Within his perception, the spiritual energy of heaven and earth remained still, undisturbed.

But soon, he noticed something different. The spiritual energy remained unmoved, but another, more elusive force had begun to flow.

What is this cultivation art? Even I have never seen its like!

Astonished, Butcher’s tiger eyes widened beneath the hat.

“That’s enough,” he said, breaking off Li Miao’s meditation.

Li Miao, half his awareness still anchored in the external world, had not truly entered a deep state. At the words, he opened his eyes at once.

“How was that, senior?” he asked.

Butcher did not answer immediately. Instead, he said, “Pass a thread of your power to me.”

Li Miao obliged, sending a wisp of primal energy to Butcher’s hand.

Sensing the immense creative force within that energy, Butcher was shaken to his core. With his experience, it was clear that this energy had miraculous effects on living beings.

Inwardly, he thought, This power is akin to primordial immortal qi, yet even purer—almost identical to the legendary source energy of creation. When did such a wondrous cultivation art appear in this world? This boy’s origins must be extraordinary.

He lowered his head, voice hushed, and asked, “Where did you obtain this method?”

Where did it come from? Li Miao was momentarily at a loss. The Heart of the Cosmos had been placed in the Expeditionary Army’s merit vault by the Grand Leader; anyone with enough merit could exchange for it.