Fellow Daoist! That scoundrel has written a new book again.

Chapter 474 The Sword of Ceasefire

In the past year or two, many cultivators have entered the secret realm, but the Spirit Brush hasn't taken a liking to a single one. It seems to dislike these people even more than it dislikes Zhu Wuyao.

Zhu Wuyao simply doesn't like killing people to feed it, but at least he won't mentally harm it.

If he goes out with these people, will he still have a good reputation?

The magic pen doesn't want to be held in someone's hand and hear people chanting things like, "Good magic pen, draw me a marriage line so that my lover and I can be together forever."

……

After much deliberation, it turned out that it was better to let Zhu Wuyao observe mourning for him.

Sometimes it really wants to treat itself to an extra meal.

However, the thoughts of those who die in the secret realm are very likely to merge into this world, which will increase the burden on Zhu Wuyao in sorting out his consciousness, and the state of the will symbiote will become more chaotic.

We can't let anyone die here!

Unfortunately, the Spirit Brush could only send the explorers of the secret realm out unharmed.

It was extremely frustrated and began trying to connect Zhu Wuyao with causal threads again. The spirit pen could even sense that there seemed to be countless causal relationships in this world related to Zhu Wuyao, which were constantly growing while she was asleep.

Lingbi even began to suspect that Zhu Wuyao had planned this all along—to use the enduring storybooks to reconnect the cause-and-effect relationship and bring the dead back to life.

There was a mistake along the way.

It has become like this.

The magic pen sighed deeply, realizing that someone else had entered the secret realm, so it had no choice but to fly out and become its "mysterious senior" at the wishing well.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Within the secret realm, a will almost akin to the Heavenly Dao lingers in this world.

It is all living beings, and it is also order.

I never think about who I really am.

Scattered fragments of memory are like human dreams, floating lightly on the surface of water, like the fruit of an ancient tree, or the spikes of foxtail grass.

Like the tip of countless tentacles, it is only an insignificant part of it, as important as grass and dust.

Of course it remembers those things.

Within this symbiotic entity of will, there are memories of a serious, unsmiling youth who joined the Qingyun Sect with a sword in hand. It can also recall the way the snow on the blade was brushed away. It has long been wielding a sword, playing chess, turning pages of books, and drinking tea. Fallen petals would create ripples when they fell into the teacup.

There are also memories of lurking in the shadows, like a monstrous beast waiting to hunt, its pupils gleaming with cunning calculation, the grass reflecting a shimmering green light in its eyes, and the taste of blood seemingly lingering between its lips and teeth.

It still remembers deliberately flicking the scabbard across the withered yellow grass in front of it, the dry grass blades being torn apart with a shrill sound, someone nearby inhaling it, being choked, sneezing, feeling airflow through their nasal cavity, and its chest vibrating as it chuckled softly.

But that's not all.

It is also a seed.

The soil was damp and humid, and the seed's outer skin slowly peeled off. It drooped its head and looked extremely tired, but boundless vitality was bursting forth from its slender stem. It took out its leaves, as if it were struggling to pull its hands out of a tightly wrapped sleeve.

It is also a stone sculpture.

Nestled in the hot spring, a gentle breeze blows across its body every day, and the water ripples softly brush against it, pushing and shoving it, yet it feels as if time is passing by endlessly.

But it is also water ripples, and also wind.

Therefore, it never thinks about who it is.

But some memories feel out of place; they seem abrupt and inappropriate, like a boulder a python struggles to swallow, some feeling too "sharp"—

For example, the chilling glint of a scalpel.

For example, the nib of a fountain pen has a split in the middle that allows you to insert your fingernail into it, which will cause a slight stinging sensation between your fingers.

It doesn't seem to be a stray hair that fell in from between the keyboard keys.

In the dry autumn, the fuzz on a sweater stands up, all pointing in one direction, making a slight crackling sound. If you touch the charging cable connector at this time, your fingertips will flash white light.

……

Scalpels, pens, stray hairs from the keyboard, charging cables... these "memories" make it feel out of place.

Like a hard candy, it fell down my throat into my stomach.

Such an awkward feeling.

It seems to be an indigestible whole, only able to be placed in a corner of the "stomach" and dissolved little by little, as if it could forget the existence of this hard candy.

But this hard candy also seems to be able to be spat out completely.

These things can only be put on hold.

It continues to exist in this world as "it".

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

This is how Zhu Wuyao, Han Ge, Ning Zhiqi, Elder Qian, Ying Cang, Wu Ya, Liu Huai, and others felt.

This is the feeling of self-awareness being extinguished yet still existing.

Unaware of their own existence, they have no thought of struggling, breaking free, or categorizing.

There was no mirror in front of it.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

In recent years, a cultivator has risen to fame in the martial arts world.

She said she was a sword cultivator.

But no one has ever seen her draw her sword.

Some skeptical cultivators even went to see it, and found that the scabbard was covered in dust, and the blade inside might even be rusted.

This person's name is Fu Yu.

She is the second disciple of Elder Liao of Pinglan Mountain in the Qingyun Sect. She claims to practice the Zhige Sword.

She rose to fame because of her love for exploring secret places and always managed to escape unscathed. It is said that she is obsessed with finding wishing wells, and she can be seen wherever there are rumors of wishing wells.

Some people jokingly say—

"This 'Sword of Ceasefire' is quite fitting for that secret realm; one never draws its sword, and the other never dies."

Some people also said—

"Do you remember Fu Ji from the Seven Killings Stele? Her most famous move was the 'Defeated Strike,' yet it never appeared in any stories, and she was never defeated. This Fu Yu, on the other hand, practices the 'Stop the War Sword,' but she has never actually drawn her sword. She truly has stopped the fighting; she has never actually engaged in any conflict!"

Regardless of what others say, Fu Yu remains consistent and maintains her own style.

No one knows why she went to the wishing well.

No one knows what wish she wanted to make.

"Three years?"

“That’s right. Ever since the wishing well appeared, Fu Yu has been looking for it.”

"It's really strange, isn't it? Those Nascent Soul cultivators who can fight that Bone Killing God have never found the entrance, while those with weaker strength often come up empty-handed!"

……

Of course, the Spirit Brush cannot allow Nascent Soul cultivators to enter!

Although it and the Frost Jade Corpse Puppet can easily defeat a Nascent Soul cultivator when they work together, what if this secret realm, which it painstakingly built and developed, gets affected?

The Nascent Soul stage cultivator only loses a life, but the other one loses a secret realm that they painstakingly built!

Moreover, if things were to escalate to the point of no return, and the consciousness of a Nascent Soul cultivator were to disperse into this realm, Zhu Wuyao would have no chance of being resurrected.

In the blink of an eye, the three-year mourning period has come to an end.

A new adventurer has fallen into a secret realm.

The spirit pen concealed its form, floating in mid-air, observing candidate number 29 who held the pen.

The girl looked around, seemingly bewildered and incredulous.

Like the previous two pen holders, he has black hair, so one point is added.

The pen moved up and down with an air of importance, as if nodding.