My Qing'er Can Break Ten Thousand Spells with One Sword

Her name was Qing'er. Her brother died on a snowy day. Before he died, he put half a steamed bun in her hand, then starved to death himself. She was seven that year. Later, she picked up a rusty sword, killed countless people, cleaved through the Heavenly Dao, tore through the fourth dimension, and fought her way to the very top of the Myriad Worlds. Everyone feared her. They called her a mad dog. A calamity. The chosen one. She didn't care. She only wanted that person to come back to life. Across the myriad heavens and worlds, whoever dared to stop her would be cut down. Later, she was invincible for many years, and lonely for many years. At last, she waited for the young man who had returned through reincarnation. His name was Ye Xuan, and he didn't remember her. Qing'er said, “I'm your little sister.” Ye Xuan said, “I don't have a little sister.” Qing'er said, “You do now.” Ye Xuan: “...” He couldn't help feeling as if he'd known her for a very long time. So long that the feeling had settled into his bones. Later still, people from the fifth dimension arrived. They said, “Your brother's death was written into your fate. Your suffering was required by the plot. Your entire life is a script we wrote.” Qing'er listened in silence for a long time. Then she drew her sword. “...If I tear up the script, does that count as an ending?”