Those who lamented the exacting cultivation conditions of this swordplay were unaware that the Stonefist Outpost elder who created this "Blink Strike Swordplay" had, in his prime, suffered a devastating blow: his own formidable cultivation was shattered by an adversary during a fierce conflict. From that day forward, he could no longer practice any technique reliant on Source Breath energy.
Fearing that his standing within the outpost would plummet as a consequence, this elder did not divulge the matter. Instead, he thereafter cultivated an aura of even greater advancement, appearing inscrutably profound, successfully deceiving everyone in the outpost, from the highest echelons to the lowest ranks.
But he had irrevocably lost the potent strength required for self-preservation; this was an immutable, brutal truth. From that time onward, he lived in deep seclusion, and by virtue of his exceptional intellect and caution, he astonishingly managed to prevent anyone from discerning anything amiss.
That era marked the zenith of the Stonefist Outpost, when its influence throughout the lands surrounding Silvermere was at its peak, blazing like the sun at high noon.
Upon realizing that his cultivation was indeed irrecoverable, this elder, consumed by despair, leveraged his residual authority and influence. Covertly, unbeknownst to the other powerful figures within the outpost, he dispatched his trusted subordinates to raid numerous obscure, hidden martial art schools and the guardians of ancient, dwindling traditions.
From these schools and guardians, through forceful seizure, he amassed a collection of manuals detailing various peculiar martial techniques—arts seldom seen in the light of day—hoping to unearth a peerless technique that could unleash formidable power without necessitating the use of Source Breath.
Ultimately, after several years of arduous searching and meticulous research, he did indeed unearth many astonishingly unconventional arts. Regrettably, none were perfectly suited to his current predicament or could be employed directly. This left him profoundly disappointed.
However, this elder was also a man of brilliant talent and extraordinary intellect. In his moment of utter despondency, he conceived a startling notion: to synthesize and refine the numerous secret arts he had collected, attempting to forge a unique, supreme discipline tailored specifically to his own needs.
The genesis of this idea thrilled him. To found a singular martial arts school was the lifelong aspiration of every true martial artist. From that point, he became consumed by the endeavor, pouring his entire heart and soul into it, forgoing food and sleep as he researched and experimented with his myriad ingenious concepts. Eventually, fearing entanglement in worldly affairs and the distractions they would bring, he even entered a state akin to secluded cultivation, ceasing all inquiry into the disputes and affairs of the outpost beyond his retreat.
Forging an entirely new martial art was inherently an exceedingly challenging undertaking. Moreover, the discipline he sought to create was burdened by such significant limitations: it had to be usable without reliance on Source Breath, its power had to be sufficiently formidable, and it also needed the capacity to accommodate and integrate numerous secret arts from disparate systems, ultimately coalescing into a profound and peerless martial art.
The creation of this unprecedented technique proved far more arduous than he had ever imagined. But he was also a man of immense perseverance and unwavering determination. After nearly half a lifetime of an endeavor demanding his very heart and soul, spanning several decades of painstaking research and refinement, this "Blink Strike Swordplay"—the culmination of his life's work—finally began to take coherent shape.
The elder was ecstatic. Just as he was excitedly preparing to announce this joyous news to the others in the outpost and showcase the initial成果 of his newly forged martial art, he made a shocking discovery: the Stonefist Outpost had fallen into complete decline. The entire outpost was besieged by a multitude of hostile forces, large and small, along with marauding bandit groups, facing the imminent threat of total annihilation at any moment.
This elder, already in his dotage, was both aghast and enraged by the scene. At this critical juncture of survival, he resolutely stepped forward. Utilizing the "Blink Strike Sword Skill" he had just mastered—an art both bizarre and unpredictable—he displayed his preternatural prowess, moving through the battlefield as if it were an empty realm. He consecutively slew numerous powerful enemy leaders, and his elusive swordplay struck terror into all remaining enemy experts. He single-handedly led the Stonefist Outpost to carve a bloody path out of the heavy encirclement, securing their escape and thereby performing a monumental service for the continuation and legacy of the Stonefist Outpost.
Tragically, just moments after they had secured their precarious safety, the elder—due to his advanced age and declining health, compounded by his old injuries and the utter exhaustion from this final battle—finally breathed his last. He only had time to issue a final decree: that the "Blink Strike Swordplay" manual, the fruit of his life's labor, be placed in the "Hall of Seven Arts" for safekeeping, before he departed this mortal coil.
Even more lamentably, in the long years that followed, among the succeeding generations of Stonefist Outpost disciples, until Elara's arrival, not a single soul had genuinely attempted to cultivate this technique. Thus, this potential gem remained obscured by dust, unseen by the light of day, until the present.
Elara was, naturally, completely oblivious to these hidden sagas of the past. In truth, even had she known, her heart would not have been greatly stirred. For her, the paramount consideration was that this sword skill seemed eminently suitable for her cultivation and might offer her a chance to preserve her life against Physician Morus, perhaps even to resist him. That was sufficient. As for its earth-shattering origins? Or who precisely had created it? Elara possessed no interest whatsoever. She was an eminently practical individual; she would never squander her mental energy on matters that offered her no tangible benefit.
Inside her small hut, Elara lit the oil lamp. She hunched over the simple wooden table, and under the dim, wavering lamplight, she continued to peruse the manuals of varying thickness.
She had no intention of actually transcribing these texts. Instead, she planned to rely on her extraordinary memory to forcibly etch them all into her mind. This approach was both secure against loss and obviated the risk of any information leaking.
It was imperative to remember that she still maintained extreme vigilance towards Physician Morus and would never be so foolish as to believe he wouldn't monitor her at all. If so many transcribed manuals suddenly materialized in her room, it would be tantamount to a confession without duress, arming Physician Morus with deeper suspicions about her prematurely.
In the earthenware oil lamp, the orange-yellow flame sputtered, a small spark detaching with a soft "pop," as if reminding Elara that much time had elapsed and she ought to rest.
But Elara paid this no mind whatsoever; her entire consciousness was immersed in the bizarre, captivating world depicted within those manuals. The incredible techniques and philosophies detailed in the volumes held her attention completely.
As sparks bloomed and silently crackled, one after another, the human silhouette projected onto the rough wall by the swaying lamplight also flickered incessantly—expanding, shrinking, ever-changing. Yet Elara herself sat there, perfectly still. This interplay of motion and stillness created a somewhat eerie contrast, yet it also imparted to an observer an indescribable, peculiar sense of harmony.
Time flowed by in silence, quarter hour by quarter hour. The shadow behind Elara gradually transitioned from distinct to blurred, then slowly dissolved into the faint, nascent light of dawn—the sky outside had already brightened considerably.
Elara had, unwittingly, been obsessively engrossed in her studies for the entire night.
With a final, sharp pop, the last bean-sized spark flared and died, and the oil lamp extinguished completely. Elara was finally startled from the world held within the books.
She raised her head, looked at the long-extinguished oil lamp, then glanced at the already luminous daylight outside her window, and a wry smile touched her lips.
She hadn't anticipated that she, too, would experience such a day, so utterly captivated by the study of these killing techniques. She was truly vastly different from the girl in Quietstream Valley who had once desired only a peaceful, uneventful life.
Elara sighed with a torrent of emotions for a good while before finally standing. She twisted her somewhat stiff neck, flexed her hands and feet, coaxing a series of soft cracks from her joints. Then, she turned, pushed open the door, and stepped outside. She drew a basin of icy water from the nearby deep well and thoroughly washed her face, the chill invigorating her weary spirit. Next, she circulated her "Breath of Eternity," allowing the cool, refreshing energy to complete a full cycle within her body. All traces of the night's fatigue vanished as if they had never been.
After this entire night of reading and preliminary research, Elara had come to a rough understanding: to thoroughly master this "Blink Strike Sword Skill"—so vast in scope and exceedingly intricate—and to achieve a level of practical application in combat, would likely demand no less than eight or ten years of arduous cultivation and profound comprehension. Such a timeframe was utterly out of the question. Even if her innate talent in this area was indeed exceptional, and her comprehension quite keen, it would probably still require at least two or three years to achieve even a minor level of proficiency, a rudimentary, functional form.
But time, alas, waited for no one. The deadline Physician Morus had imposed upon her was a mere year, fleeting and brief.