Volume One: All Things Awaken, Every Season Is Spring Chapter Forty-Seven: Prison of Heaven and Earth, The Sword of Passion Begins to Gather

It felt as though endless ages had passed before Mo Wen slowly awoke, the sound of running water murmuring beside his ears, the fragrance in the air filling his nose. He opened his eyes a sliver, only to be blinded by brilliant sunlight, the sky a boundless blue. Verdant grass spread as far as the eye could see—a true earthly paradise.

“Where am I?” he murmured.

A soft sensation pressed against his back; Mo Wen realized he lay atop the grass. He sprang up abruptly, aching in every limb. Glancing around, he saw himself encircled by sheer cliffs, as though sealed in an iron barrel. The air was alive with the scent of flowers and birdsong; a crystal-clear stream appeared as if conjured from thin air, countless springs gushing from the cliffs to feed the creek, which flowed for dozens of meters before vanishing from sight.

He examined himself inwardly and sighed in resignation. When he had sought to slay Master Wuwo atop Mount Zhuru, he had utterly expended his Buddhist inner energy—yet now, it had replenished itself once more.

Buddhist inner energy was endless and self-renewing, but to Mo Wen, it was like a malignant growth.

“Sword Dog, Coal Ball, come out and take a look,” Mo Wen called to his two companions.

“Damn, kid, you’re still alive! Not bad, not bad!” Sword Dog rolled his eyes in derision, clearly unimpressed. Coal Ball, however, glimmered with soft light, his tone gentle and sweet. “Brother, that person was terrifying. I didn’t dare show myself!”

Yes, that person! Mo Wen vaguely recalled a figure in green intervening, blocking his deathblow to Master Wuwo. Why, then, was he here now?

He stood, brushing grass from his clothes, and began to search the valley.

The valley was not large; in less than half an hour, Mo Wen had explored every corner, but found nothing.

“Thank you, elder, for saving me! Please, reveal yourself!” he cried to the sky, his voice echoing through the empty gorge, but no one replied.

Sword Dog sniffed the air, his eyes fearful. “We’re done for. There’s no way out!”

Mo Wen and Coal Ball waited silently for Sword Dog to continue. Sword Dog sprawled on the grass, utterly dejected. “The air here never changes, as if this isn’t the real world. Some great power has imprisoned us here; we’ll never see the outside again.”

Prompted by Sword Dog’s words, Mo Wen noticed it too—the stream never changed, and the birds seemed to follow the same fixed routes and landing spots.

To test this, Mo Wen watched a few birds closely. After a while, he said bitterly, “In one minute, that green bird will land on the third tree to the east and stay there for five minutes.”

Just as he predicted, the birds’ movements were mechanical, confirming the world’s illusory nature.

Here, time seemed to stand still, perpetual daylight fixed in eternity. Mo Wen’s hope gave way to despair, then to hysteria.

After ten days trapped within, Mo Wen lay on the grass, utterly disheartened, memories flickering through his mind like a lantern show, vivid as ever.

Sword Dog and Coal Ball were both silent. Though the valley looked vibrant and teeming with life, it was as silent as a tomb.

At last, one day, Mo Wen, unwilling to wake from sleep, dreamed of Lin Xi. Her lovely image, like a spring breeze at dawn, melted the eternal ice in his heart.

A sweet smile spread across Mo Wen’s face, but soon Lin Xi’s figure faded, replaced by the scholarly silhouette of Zhao Tiansheng. Now, Zhao Tiansheng’s presence appeared grand and towering, like a sharp sword whose brilliance pierced Mo Wen’s soul.

“Are you willing to sink into oblivion?” a voice echoed from the depths of his heart. Mo Wen was jolted awake, sitting up with a start.

His eyes shone with renewed clarity. “I, Mo Wen, how can I fall here?”

He walked to the creek. His reflection in the water revealed a face roughened and unshaven, marked by the passage of time.

“Coal Ball, Sword Dog!” Mo Wen called with a grin. They answered, quietly watching him.

“I will forge a sword heart, and with it shatter this illusion. If I can’t, then I’ll embrace true freedom!”

For once, Sword Dog did not mock him, and Coal Ball’s glow signaled support.

Looking at his two companions, Mo Wen felt a surge of emotion—his resolve to break free grew even stronger.

He chose a clean spot, sat cross-legged, and let the innate Sword Art fill his mind, as if he’d returned to that little courtyard, watching Zhao Tiansheng’s graceful sword techniques.

The sword art and forms unfolded in his mind, yet something was missing.

Zhao Tiansheng’s style combined elegance with sorrow, sharpness with solitude—a solitary sword, unrestrained and free. Yet whenever Mo Wen approached enlightenment, Lin Xi’s image would return, her every smile tugging at his heart. The union of soul and desire—how could he forget? How dared he forget?

“My path does not lie here!” Mo Wen muttered to himself, and suddenly, enlightenment dawned: the way of the sword must embrace emotion! Just as Sword Dog’s love for Coal Ball was eternal and unchanging.

The Sword of Sentiment!

Mo Wen’s sword heart was first born, running counter to Zhao Tiansheng’s solitary way!

In the mountains, time lost all meaning. His phone had long since died; Mo Wen forgot the days entirely. Coal Ball and Sword Dog kept quiet, afraid to disturb him.

One day, Mo Wen leapt to his feet, threw back his head, and let out a long, exultant cry, his body and soul overflowing with delight.

“I, Mo Wen, enter the sword with emotion, shatter illusion with the sword! Sword Dog, come!”

With a gesture, Sword Dog—who had waited for this day—appeared instantly in Mo Wen’s hand. Sword in hand, Mo Wen gazed at the blade’s shifting glow, then swung it carelessly. A terrifying wave of sword energy surged forth, cleaving trees, raising a spray of water meters high, and striking the cliff, which crumbled under the blow!

Though the cliff quickly restored itself, Mo Wen’s heart soared with exhilaration.

“It’s still not enough,” he murmured, stroking Sword Dog.

He practiced the innate Sword Art again and again, altering the intent behind each move. Gradually, the solitary swordmanship became suffused with feeling—a sword of emotion.

“It’s time to break the illusion!” Mo Wen felt certain the moment had come. The first step—entering the sword through emotion—was complete. Now, he would shatter illusion with the sword!

His sword heart flooded his sea of consciousness, causing great changes. The pale blue spiritual energy began to transform into threads of sword intent. Just as the transformation was about to finish, disaster struck.

Sensing the change, the Buddhist inner energy in his body went berserk, battering his sea of consciousness.

It raged inside him like the molten rivers of hell, blocking his breakthrough.

“Buddhism, even now you won’t let me go! I hate you!”

Agonizing pain erupted from his consciousness, spreading through his body. Unconsciously, Mo Wen dropped his sword, clutching his head and rolling across the grass in torment.

After a long while, the pain faded, and with it, the sword heart he’d struggled to form. His body remained filled with surging Buddhist energy.

He sat in silence for a long time. Each time he tried to gather his sword heart, the Buddhist energy would rise to interfere, leaving him in agony and even pushing him to the edge of madness.

One day, Mo Wen did not attempt to form his sword heart. His mind was clear, and suddenly, a bold idea took shape: What if the Buddhist inner energy and the sword heart fused—what would happen then?