The Sword That Subdues the Eight Wastelands

The mountains are lush and green, and the clouds drift like gauzy veils.

An ancient sect stands quietly atop a verdant peak. Its halls are scattered across the mountainside, half-hidden among the trees. The mountain breeze sweeps through the valleys, birds sing brightly, and the air is suffused with spiritual beauty. One glance is enough to tell that this is an ideal place for quiet cultivation.

But at this moment, the summit of Qingyun Peak is anything but peaceful.

“Lin Qingxuan, it’s been three years, and you still can’t master even the most basic sword technique. How dare you call yourself a sword cultivator?”

The furious shout sent the surrounding cranes flapping into the distance. The elder, his hair and beard bristling, pointed at the youth below, his face full of exasperation.

Lin Qingxuan stood there, stunned, his mind a blank.

Was that old man calling me?

He instinctively raised his hands. Before his eyes was a pair of slender, sharply jointed hands, rough and lightly calloused, nothing like the hands he had used for years of craftsman’s work.

The unfamiliar ancient-style robes, the towering mountain sect, and the elder before him, glaring with his beard and mustache bristling.

Countless fragments of unfamiliar memories flooded his mind: Qingyun Sect, outer sect disciple, Lin Qingxuan, born with blocked meridians, unable to manage a single sword strike after three years of practice, the laughingstock of the entire sect.

Had he transmigrated?