Now I finally get why only by mastering three blades—swordcraft, Sword Aura, and Sword Intent—you truly count as a Sword Wielder, like three rivers meeting under one sky.

As Xinuo said, Sword Intent is a Sword Wielder’s will, the blade’s will, a lantern steady in wind; without it, you’re just a swordsman swinging steel.

If someone holds earth‑shaking power but no will, he’s a chain‑bound slave to strength, a walking corpse wandering like a shadow at dusk.

Likewise, a sword without its own will is just cold iron; that’s why I couldn’t awaken the Shattered Light Sword, like a silent string without a bow.

I hadn’t formed Sword Intent, so I couldn’t gift Shattered Light its own spirit, could not make it sing back to me like a tuned bell.

No matter its rank, no matter its force, if my Intent sleeps, Shattered Light is a lake sealed under ice, barely stronger than a common artifact.

You can see how vital Sword Intent is to a Sword Wielder; it’s the keystone among the three blades, the root beneath the tree.

Swordcraft and Sword Aura only reach their peak once that root takes hold, like branches fed by deep water.

Now that Intent has formed, I finally see why my swordcraft and Aura stalled at the second tier, wheels sunk in mud.

Without even a thread toward Intent, how could I grasp deeper swordcraft, or condense higher Sword Aura, like chasing stars with no night?

Sword Intent matters to a Sword Wielder like the power of Laws to a mage, as a mountain gate matters to pilgrims under starlight.

If a mage can’t sense or train the power of Laws, the Sacred Realm stays shut for life, the Divine Realm more distant than the moon.

If a Sword Wielder can’t form Sword Intent, swordcraft and Aura stop at tier two forever, like a river that can’t breach its bank.

Why did my Intent form now? It’s bound to Hill’s injury, blood on fresh snow; Xinuo said my will was born strong yet sealed under frost.

Hill was hurt saving me, and rage surged like a storm; then death brushed close like a cliff’s edge in fog.

So my will erupted like a spring thaw, shaping Intent on its own; Xinuo said I needed a trigger, and water found its path.

Turns out cultivation can’t grow long under shelter; you must step from the eaves and face wind and rain yourself.

Mentors matter like maps at dawn, but you still have to walk; if you hide from risk and lean on others, maps are useless paper.

“That’s probably why Xiao Nuo always spoke half and left half, like mist over a lake; she never told me how to form Intent.”

I stood dazed, feeling Sword Intent’s wonder, like a bell tolling through morning haze.

As for the arrow flying at me, I let it fade like a mote in sunlight—no room in my mind to care.

My Intent had just formed; I was steeped in that mysterious current, a deep pool where thoughts drift like leaves.

But I didn’t ignore danger; as the arrow kissed the edge of my breath, my body moved on instinct, like a startled deer.

“Dance of the Torrent!”

Dozens of raging arcs of Sword Aura leapt from my hands, a storm wall that blocked the arrow and rolled back toward Nareinya.

I drove it with Intent, stoking the fire beneath steel; the force multiplied like a bellows feeding a forge.

“What in the world? This brat just got that much stronger?” She sucked a breath, eyes burning like coals, voice sharp as flint.

Nareinya slipped aside like a cat through grass and dodged a deeper wound, yet the blast’s edge clipped her, a small, stinging cut.

“Oh, you’re hurt again.” I smiled, crescent‑calm, watching dust drift around her like ash.

“So you hid your strength, huh? Cunning,” she snapped, cold as frost, glare cutting like a knife.

“Honestly, thanks,” I said with a half‑laugh, like rain on a parched field. “Without you, who knows when my Intent would arrive.”

Hill was harmed saving me, and that life‑or‑death edge sparked my will; both were your doing, like flint striking tinder.

If you hadn’t hurt Hill, I’d treat you to tea and thanks, steam rising like a gentle cloud.

With Intent formed, confidence surged like spring flood; I felt light and bright, a sun breaking through mist.

“Is that so? What a bargain for you! Divine Bow, Parus—Fourth Arrow: Illusory Dawn!”

Nareinya drew to full moon and loosed a shifting arrow, a mirage rippling like heat over desert stones.

It was a mirage to the eye—real and false in one breath—blurry as dreamlight, heart drifting like a boat in fog.

“No, not pure illusion; it’s mental, a phantasm field, a fog meant to tangle the mind rather than pierce flesh.”

Good thing my Intent had formed; without it, I couldn’t have slipped past whole, like a fish through reeds.

Even knowing it’s mental, it’s thorny as briars; the strike looks gentler than the last two, but speed and agility dance like swallows.

Ordinary sword techniques would miss and flail, blades chasing smoke in wind.

My smugness cooled like embers under rain; Nareinya isn’t easy, not for a blink, not for a breath.

“If it’s a race of speed, then use that move.” I let pride fall like a cloak and sharpened my calm.

I raised the Shattered Light Sword and cast a line of Sword Aura, fast as lightning over a black sea.

“Instant Void Slash!”

The Sword Aura, swift as a teleporting star, flashed before the arrow and slammed into it like iron against thunder.

Boom!

Both burst, a single flower of fire; trees toppled like wheat beneath a storm’s scythe.

“Whew—close.” In the last fraction, I shaped a shield of Aura, a glass dome against the shockwave.

“Ahhh! Damn it, why can’t I hit you?!” Nareinya roared, eyes bloodshot like a wolf on winter snow.

“Who knows,” I teased, tone feather‑light. “Maybe it’s luck. Or maybe you’re just weaker, like a bow with a frayed string.”

“You dare mock me? Hmph, you’ll regret it soon—begging for mercy like rain begging for sky!”

“Mocking? Maybe,” I said, voice cool as shade.

“Anger, anger, anger…” Her breath drummed like warbeats, wordless and raw.

“Uh, what’s that ominous chant? Kind of scary, like thunder grumbling behind the hills.”