I Might Be a Big Shot — Chapter 63

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 Xue Qianjie hadn’t always been called that. When he woke in the Soul-Breaking Gorge, he remembered nothing — not even who he was. Lying naked at the bottom of the gorge, the only clue he had was a scrap of cloth in his hand with the words “Sever the past; in the death tribulation discover life” written upon it, reminding him that he had endured a death tribulation, and so had lost his memories...

Wait — why did that sound strangely familiar?

Though he remembered nothing concrete, hazy impressions of certain things lingered in his mind. For instance, though his clothes were gone, he could at will conjure a robe of blood; within his body was a sword, and with a casual motion he could perform an exquisite sword technique; the gorge bottom seemed sealed by a natural barrier, yet he felt he had the means to leave; and... his empty palm had once been clasping someone else’s.

Lonelier than being alone was not even remembering who was supposed to be by your side.

He tested writing a few words and found his handwriting closely matched that on the cloth. Taking up an iron sword, he carved “Sever the past; in the death tribulation discover life” into the cliff wall; the script was nearly identical to that on the cloth.

It must have been a message from himself to himself — telling him not to dig into the past. Had he, in order to live, forgotten the most important person? If living was paramount, then what was this unquenchable emptiness in his heart?

Who was that person he should have been holding hands with?

He could recall nothing — not what he should or should not do. For three days and nights he sat dazed at the bottom of the gorge, feeling it was too quiet here, as if there should be someone incessantly chattering in his ear.

On the third day, he shattered the cloth with a pulse of sword energy. Whatever his past self had tried to tell him, he would remember that person engraved into his very body.

So he raised his sword and, guided by instinct, unleashed a peerless sword technique, harnessing the might of heaven and earth to tear open the gorge’s barrier. Easily, he stepped out of that place which all cultivators dreaded.

He thought that out in the world there must be people who knew him, from whom he could piece together his past and find the person he had forgotten. Even if that person was no longer alive, he wanted to remember them, to carve them into his heart.

But once he saw the true cultivation world, he discovered he was a blood cultivator — a being even the demonic path shunned as an abomination. Unable yet to conceal his techniques, he found himself hunted across the land. The righteous sought to slay him; the demonic feared his arts and schemed against him.

Branded nearly the public enemy of the cultivation realm, he felt no real anger. He had the sense that he didn’t truly belong to this world at all. Others’ kindness or malice stirred not the slightest ripple in him. He felt no sorrow when betrayed, no guilt when cutting down someone whose face and name he could not remember.

He did not fit here. He could form no bond with any person or thing, moving from place to place in numb search of someone he did not even know.

Fortunately, his cultivation was not low. Though others said he was only at the Soul Transformation stage, even cultivators at the Great Ascension stage fell to him. Many souls perished beneath his sword. He became the nightmare of the realm — once hunted, now avoided. People whispered: to meet him was to meet certain doom.

At some point, the name “Xue Qianjie” attached itself to him. The first time he heard it, he wasn’t pleased — there was even a vague jealousy in him. Yet for some reason, accepting that name made him picture a certain tearful face. He could not recall its features, but he knew it was the most beautiful in the world — and, strangely, that he enjoyed seeing that person cry.

So when called Xue Qianjie, he did not deny it, and in time it became his name in the cultivation world.

Without realizing it, he had unified all the small demonic sects. In truth, he hadn’t sought to. Wandering the land, he cut down any who attacked him. Those who saw reason and ceased fighting, he let live. The demonic cultivators, first bent on killing him, then blindly followed him after he slew their leaders. Some even claimed to be his trusted lieutenants, pestering him daily with schemes to march on Heaven-Shaking Peak, seize the seat of sect master, unify the demonic path, and then destroy the three great righteous sects to rule the cultivation world.

Xue Qianjie thought it foolish. He had no obsession with standing above others. He only wanted to grow stronger. Besides finding the person he could not remember, his sole goal was strength — endless strength. The Great Ascension stage and tribulation crossing were not enough; he needed to be boundlessly powerful.

Unifying the demonic sect was not his aim. Rather than challenge the entrenched old master of the Heaven-Shaking Sect, he preferred to test himself against the legendary divine formations.

The three great sects each guarded a divine formation left by ancient gods, unimaginably powerful. In countless righteous–demonic wars over the ages, the demonic side had never been able to break them. No matter how dominant the demonic path grew, as long as the righteous heirs hid within the three sects, their fire would never be extinguished.

Foremost among them was the Kunlun divine formation. When Xue Qianjie reached the pinnacle of Soul Transformation with no further progress possible, he resolved to challenge it.

Gripping a sword that to the world seemed forged of common iron, he soared alone up Kunlun Mountain. In the midst of the sect’s battle-ready ranks, he charged into the Kunlun divine formation. As in past battles, he planned to use his baleful blood energy to drive away the spiritual energy in the formation, split it open. But the instant he entered, it felt as if someone had seized him in a tight embrace — a warmth filled with the righteous energy of heaven and earth wrapped around him. A drop of blood-tear slid from his eye.

The person he had scoured the world for — their presence was here.

Yet the Kunlun divine formation was not a person. It was an array that had stood for millions of years. The one he sought was not here.

Even knowing this, he stayed his hand. Instead of attacking further, he did something rare: he sat cross-legged in the array to cultivate in peace. Since awakening in the Soul-Breaking Gorge, he had never cultivated calmly; every advance had been forged in battles where he snatched victory from stronger foes. His skill and combat experience were unmatched, but he had never had the quiet to fully integrate his true essence and insights. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to — but he had no home, nowhere he belonged, nowhere he could retreat to.

Here in the Kunlun divine formation, he felt that safety — like a weary bird returning to its nest. Though an intruding blood cultivator in enemy territory, he entrusted himself wholly to the formation.

When Kunlun cultivators realized the protective array had trapped the realm’s great demon, they tried several times to enter and slay him, but the formation barred them. Two thousand years ago, there had been no cultivators in Kunlun who had gained enlightenment through studying formations, and they could not communicate with the array. They had no idea why it kept them from approaching their mortal foe, nor could even the sect master’s order sway it.

This time, Xue Qianjie remained in seclusion for three full years. When he opened his eyes, he had broken through the bottleneck into the Great Ascension stage. Throughout those three years, he constantly tried to commune with the formation, wanting to know why it held a familiar presence. The array seemed to favor him especially, feeding him spiritual energy whenever he sought to attune himself to heaven and earth. The energy it drew in was not only dense but warmly welcoming — ordinarily, drawing in such pure qi was difficult, yet here it seemed to flow into him of its own accord.

It gave him the feeling that the Kunlun divine formation liked him.

After reaching Great Ascension, he did not leave. Instead, he nearly took up residence there. More than a century had passed since he left the Soul-Breaking Gorge; he had been ceaselessly on the move, in battle, never resting, never finding a harbor. Only within the array did he relax fully, feeling as though this were his home.

Life within the formation was pleasant. When he wanted to drink, sweet rain fell from the sky; when he desired food, spirit beasts brought him fruit from the mountains. He didn’t even need to speak — a mere thought, and his wish was fulfilled. It was a wordless rapport with the formation.

Though one was human and the other an artifact, they communicated without barrier, needing no language. The wind carried the formation’s joys and sorrows to him.

On the tenth year, a playful breeze curled around his fingertip, swirled in his palm, and traced a few words:

[Who are you?]

“My name is Xue Qianjie, but I don’t like that name.” In the Kunlun divine formation, the baleful blood energy that once clung to him had nearly dissipated, leaving only a soft aura.

[Xue Qianjie? I think it sounds nice.]

“Me?” Xue Qianjie blinked. “And who are you?”

[I don’t know. Before you entered, I didn’t even have the concept of ‘I.’ It was only when I sensed you — knew there was something other than me in the world — that I realized I existed.] The breeze tickled his palm like a mischievous child.

It was a bit muddled, but Xue Qianjie understood. Before he came, the formation had no clear consciousness. His arrival was like a newborn gaining the ideas of “self” and “other.” Once a spirit was born within an artifact, it could cultivate on its own, and with great fortune, even take human form.

“You like the name Xue Qianjie?” he asked.

[I like it very much — it sounds dashing, like an important person!] The breeze danced at his fingertip, clearly enamored of the idea.

“You’re already the foremost divine formation in the world, one of the greatest existences under heaven.” He reached out to catch the breeze, but it dodged playfully.

[Is that so? Then I really am an important person!] His praise seemed to delight the formation.

[Someone’s come looking for you again, brandishing their life-bound artifact and full of killing intent. I drove them off.] The breeze slid smugly across his wrist, seeking credit.

For some reason, an image came to him — a white-robed figure standing hands on hips, laughing wildly to the sky. He could not see the face, but he knew that if the formation ever took human form, its personality would be just like that.

“They’re from Kunlun, here to slay a demon like me. They’re of your sect — why help me?”

[Because you’re good-looking. They’re not.] Even written in his palm by the wind, the words carried an easy, offhand tone.

“I am the worst of the worst — a blood cultivator among demon cultivators, who abandoned humanity for power, who has killed countless others. You’re Kunlun’s artifact, the bulwark of the righteous path. You’d help me for a face?”

[You bear no karmic entanglements — you’ve only slain those who deserved it. Though you cultivate the path of blood and your aura is fearsome, your heart is upright. I’m far too clever to misjudge you.] The breeze spun in the air, as if affirming its own words.

Xue Qianjie’s expression softened further. He wanted to reach out and pinch the breeze, as if doing so might let him grasp someone’s soft cheek — but when his fingers closed, they found only empty air.

“I don’t even know if what I’ve done up to now is right or wrong,” he said with a shake of his head. “I don’t even know who I am. I only know I must grow stronger — strong enough to stand alongside someone nearly beyond my reach. And… I must find someone.”

[No one could possibly be stronger than me,] the breeze flicked his palm twice like a wind blade, as if to underscore its words. [But if you tell me who you’re looking for, I can help. All the spirit beasts of Kunlun Mountain listen to me.]

“I don’t know. I lost him.” A blood tear traced down Xue Qianjie’s stark face. He was a man without blood or tears — any tears he shed were carved from blood itself.

The mountain winds howled, as though mourning on his behalf.

“I’ve scoured nearly every demonic sect for him, but there’s been no trace. Only here, in the Kunlun divine formation, have I felt his presence.”

[Is he a Kunlun disciple?]

“No.” Xue Qianjie shook his head. “Let’s not speak of that. These past ten years, thanks to you, I’ve broken through to the Great Ascension stage. You’re a divine formation — I don’t know how to repay you. Is there something you like?”

[Me? I like your face. When I take human form, I’ve decided I must be even better looking than you.] The breeze swirled across features as if sculpted by heaven itself, rubbing against his cheek.

“…Anything else?” he asked, a little speechless, though the brazenness felt oddly familiar.

[I like watching you wield your sword. It’s beautiful.]

“…,” Xue Qianjie said, now entirely certain the Kunlun divine formation had a great fondness for beauty.

“Then I’ll dance the sword for you.”

In the glow of the setting sun, a crimson figure moved like flowing fire, the iron sword in his hand gleaming red as though molten, casting the splendor of life in every arc.

The breeze stirred with him, as though learning his swordplay — or applauding it.

Though it was one man and one sword, it felt like two minds in perfect harmony, a seamless pairing of blades.

“You’re studying my sword technique?” he asked when he stopped.

[…I’m checking for flaws. After my review — it’s perfect.] This time, the breeze didn’t write on his fingertip but used sand blown onto the ground to arrange the words.

“…,” Xue Qianjie thought. Was it avoiding his hand out of guilt?

Inexplicably, he found himself more and more able to read the formation’s moods. Though it was only a playful breeze, unseen and untouchable, he could feel every shade of its emotion — as if a person were truly before him.

Once again, loneliness gnawed at his heart. Was the death tribulation truly so terrible that, to live, one could forget even the one etched deepest into one’s soul? For Xue Qianjie, who knew this emptiness, death would be better than forgetting.

Clinging to the familiar aura within the divine formation, he stayed there for twenty years. Rootless as he was, with no one in this world who knew his past, with no ties to bind him, he could have remained there forever if he wished.

Each day they sparred, talked, pondered Heaven’s Order together. Sometimes the formation shared knowledge of array-crafting and breaking. Every day, Xue Qianjie felt joy. Gradually, he yearned less for the person he could not recall — as if, in this place, that person was already beside him.

Each day the breeze brought him news from outside. The formation, it turned out, loved hearing stories. Winds and spirit beasts carried tales from the foot of the mountain, and the formation relayed them to him. It was like a child seeing the world for the first time, curious about everything in the cultivation realm. If it could take human form, it would surely rush down the mountain to explore.

Xue Qianjie even thought that if it could take form, he would love this person, ready to trade kingdoms for a single smile.

“Can I see you?” he asked at last.

The lively wind seemed to falter, then wrote awkwardly: [I can’t move yet. I’m still small, still…]

He suspected the unsaid word was “ugly” — small and ugly were taboos for the formation, which always saw itself as a grand, beautiful being.

“It’s fine. You’ll be beautiful when you take form,” he said.

Perhaps encouraged, the formation opened a path, letting this demon cultivator walk into Kunlun’s most secret place. Passing into a shroud of white mist, Xue Qianjie felt the depth of its trust. He had reached the very heart of the formation; if he tried to steal Kunlun’s artifact now, the sect would face annihilation.

Such trust made him glad.

At last, in the midst of the mist, he found a small stone figure. Though he could not see, he ran his hands over it from head to toe.

The once-cold stone seemed to grow warm — was it blushing? The thought made him smile.

He wanted to keep this little stone figure in his arms and never let go. But he restrained himself, stepping back out of the mist. “You have a nice feel,” he said.

The formation… seemed even shyer.

[I might not last much longer,] the breeze wrote anxiously on his palm. [Maintaining the Kunlun divine formation takes immense spiritual energy. At this rate, in a few thousand years, the spiritual veins of the world will be exhausted by the three divine formations.]

“What happens if they are?”

[I have guarded the entrance to the demon realm for ages. Without spiritual energy, the formation will collapse, the seal will break, the demon realm will spill into the human realm. We three divine artifacts will fight the demonic creatures to the end — either they’re utterly destroyed, or we exhaust our power and are shattered.]

Destroyed? His fingertips twitched uncontrollably, as if his heart clenched in pain.

“What can I do to free you?”

[No… I won’t leave. This is my mission, my reason for being,] the formation answered firmly.

His chest felt weighed down like stone. “Then how can you last longer?”

[All negative emotions in the human realm breed demonic energy. At intervals, that energy attacks the formations, forcing us to draw heavily on the world’s spiritual energy to fight it. If there were less resentment, if righteous and demonic clashed less, the demonic energy would gather more slowly, and I’d have it easier. If one day the demon realm vanished entirely, I could leave the three sects, take human form, and wander the mountains and rivers.]

“I understand.” Picking up his sword, he stepped back into the mist and took the little stone hand. “I’m leaving.”

[Eh? Where are you going? Won’t you stay with me?]

“To unify the demonic path, give the human realm an age of peace. To grow strong enough to enter the demon realm and wipe out the demonic energy. If I’m strong enough, I want to destroy the demon realm myself — and set you free.”

The formation wrote no reply. It seemed moved, yet doubtful he could accomplish such things. More than that, it did not want him to go.

But he left anyway. At the threshold, he asked, “Though it’s unlikely… have you ever taken form and left Kunlun?”

[Never. Must you go?]

“Is that so?” A trace of sorrow crossed his face. “Then why do I feel as though the one I’ve forgotten… is you? Did I love you in a dream?”

With that, he raised his iron sword, split the Kunlun divine formation, and strode out — the only one in history to break it.

After he was gone, the breeze stirred the sand on the ground, scattering the words that had just taken shape: “What is love?”

~ Chapter End ~

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