Walker Of The Worlds

Chapter 2979: A Hundred Steps of Steel

Time meant nothing here.

No sun nor moon rose over the endless sky of the Path of the Sealed Sword.

No shadows marked the hours, and no sound denoted the passing of seconds. Lin Mu walked through voids, across broken stone, through silver fields and blood-red skies, never knowing how long he’d been inside.

A day? A week? Perhaps a year? He stopped counting after the twentieth trial. It didn’t matter. The only measure of time here was progress—and pain.

This was no mere path. This was a forge. And he was the blade.

Trial after trial came, each unlike the last. Each a facet of the sword—and the soul.

In an endless hall of mirrors, Lin Mu came face to face with himself—no, not just himself, but a thousand variations.

Some were twisted by hatred, bearing the blood of friends on their hands. Some were weak and bitter, their eyes empty after choosing safety over justice. Others had walked different paths, wielding fire, poison, or abandoning the sword altogether.

They tried to sway him. "Why persist in hardship?" one sneered. "You’ll never save them," another spat. "Join us," said a third, smiling, "We’ve already succeeded."

But Lin Mu simply stood.

The blade does not argue with the wind—it cuts through it.

One by one, the mirrors shattered.

Next was a ravine where no wind blew, and the air swallowed all sword intent. Lin Mu’s energy was devoured the moment he tried to circulate it. Even the subtlest movement was sluggish. A phantom awaited on the other side, moving like mist and striking without hesitation.

With qi sealed, Lin Mu fought on instinct and raw technique. Every breath was a risk. But it was here he learned a new stillness—a way to let silence guide his sword.

By the end, he had refined his sword enough that he could strike with silence! A strike without warning, without flourish. A strike made of nothing... yet cut through everything.

Then came the Trial of the Broken Sword.

The arena was filled with broken blades. Lin Mu’s own sword shattered the moment he stepped in.

Opponents—each armed with glowing spiritual weapons—descended.

Lin Mu could only grab what remained of his weapon. Three fragments of Afternoon Pine, no longer whole. He used them all—guard, edge, and shard. A dance of shattered steel, a lesson in improvisation.

"The blade may break," he murmured, "but my will won’t."

The last opponent fell not to a perfect strike—but a desperate parry that turned into a reverse grip thrust with a piece no longer than a dagger.

Next was the Trial of the Swordless Path.

He was in an empty void.

No body, no weapon. Just thought.

Here, he realized the true essence of the sword was not in steel but in intention.

He visualized a strike—and it manifested.

He imagined a defensive arc—and it formed around him.

Here, Lin Mu glimpsed the barest edge of something far beyond Sword Heart. Something nascent. A flicker of Sword Domain, the realm where one’s thoughts shaped reality.

When the trial ended, he felt like his very soul had been honed.

Now it was time for the Trial of Burdens.

A desert stretched endlessly ahead. With every step Lin Mu took, the sword on his back grew heavier. But it wasn’t the sword that grew in weight—it was his emotions, memories, fears.

Every moment of failure. Every life he hadn’t saved. Every regret he never voiced.

The sword bent his back and cracked his spine until he finally understood.

He let go.

Not of care, but of guilt.

He walked freely after that. The sword, now weightless, no longer burdened him.

The trial was over and he moved to the next.

In a moonlit field, countless ghostly swords hovered, each representing someone Lin Mu had slain. They whispered.

"You ended me before I reached my peak."

"You didn’t hesitate."

"Did I deserve death, or did you simply want to win?"

They didn’t attack.

They only spoke.

He listened to every single one.

Some he mourned. Some he accepted. Others... he forgave himself for.

Acknowledgment, not denial, was the way through.

After finishing that he found himself in a tomb.

Rows of ancient, rusted blades were embedded in the ground, each humming with a failed path. A voice called to him.

"Take one. Reforge it. Become someone great."

The strongest blades offered quick power—shortcut to transcendence.

Lin Mu walked by all of them.

"I am not here to carry another’s regrets," he whispered. "I will leave my own sword behind someday... but not here."

The world shattered like a illusion, only for a new one to form.

A silver waterfall flowed upward into the sky. Beneath it, Lin Mu sat and meditated. Time fractured. Thoughts echoed in reverse. For every moment of stillness, a memory surfaced. The death of his parents. The first kill. Meng Bai’s laughter. Lady Kang’s beautiful smile. The Saintess’ approving loook.

The cold mountain wind of the Northern Territories.

He embraced them all.

And came out serene.

After the serenity though, it was time for a fight.

A faceless phantom awaited him, wielding perfect swordsmanship. Lin Mu lost again and again. No fancy moves, no overuse of force—just perfection. It was here he learned something he could never have in the outside world: humility in defeat.

When he finally landed a blow, he realized it was because he had stopped trying to be better than the phantom—he simply wanted to be better than his last self.

In the next trial, Lin Mu found himself debating another old swordsman.

No blade, no body.

Just two figures locked in a verbal duel.

"Victory is the path of the sword," said the figure.

"No. Truth is," Lin Mu countered.

"Then truth cuts both ways."

"Only if you wield it blindly."

Each sentence became a strike. Logic and philosophy turned to force. A single wrong word could leave him vulnerable. Lin Mu parried, redirected, and sliced with wisdom.

He left that trial with a deeper understanding:

The sharpest sword is not made of steel—but of conviction.

And so the trials passed...

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