National High Martial: I Use an Intangible Cultural Heritage Museum to Subdue All Clans

In my previous life, I knelt with both knees on the ground, my fingertips digging into the mud, forced to watch her get torn to pieces. This time, the rules are clear: anyone who lays a hand on her dies. Hidden inside me is a museum of intangible cultural heritage. These aren’t dead exhibits. They’re living spirits. Shu brocade wails, looms whisper, and Luban locks have waited three thousand years. They’re calling out, waiting for someone who can understand them. That person isn’t me. It’s my little sister. She can hear them. Foreign races breach our borders, countless tribes run rampant, and gods and Buddhas descend. Looking down on me, they ask what I want. I give them just two answers: I want her to live. I want our roots to endure. They laugh. “What will you offer in exchange?” I draw my blade. It is named Rootkeeper. Its steel reflects a face: a military officer from thirteen hundred years ago, waiting to be beheaded. He is waiting for an heir to carve a path through this chaotic age! In a low voice, I say one word: “I’m here.” The blade rings through the heavens, and every tribe retreats! Heaven and earth fall silent. Only our unbroken bloodline rings out, unyielding! Below the stage, Lin Wan clutches the hem of her clothes. Her eyes are red, but she refuses to let a single tear fall. Softly, she says, “Brother, you won.” I lower my head, smooth her tousled hair, and answer steadily: “Mm. Let’s go home.”