Chapter Seventy-Five: A Genius to Be Pitied

Which profession among the Beastfolk draws the most attention? Is it the Berserker, famed for explosive power? The Minotaur Totem Warrior, with his unbreakable defense? Or perhaps the mysterious, fearsome Troll Witch Doctor? None of these. The one that truly captivates all is the Sword Saint of the Fireblade Clan.

Aside from the Flame Shamans capable of enchanting weapons, every member of the Fireblade Clan is a swordsman—yes, you heard right, swordsmen. The warriors of this tribe wield only swords. Within the ranks of warriors, there are those who focus on the explosive power of their lineage, like the Berserkers; others who blend martial prowess and magic, such as the knights of various races or the totem warriors of the Beastfolk. And then there are those who devote themselves to martial mastery: the Weapon Masters. Strictly speaking, the swordsmen of the Fireblade Clan belong among the Weapon Masters, yet they shun all weapons but the sword.

According to what Guo Lang has learned from records on Beastfolk clan culture, this tribe is obsessed with the sword. They refine not only their swordsmanship but also something known as the Sword Heart—a secret technique that serves as their professional trial. A warrior without a Sword Heart is merely a Sword Warrior; only those who forge a Sword Heart can be called Sword Saints. Out of a thousand outstanding Sword Warriors, perhaps only one might condense a true Sword Heart. In other words, this profession demands prodigious talent.

Then comes swordsmanship. To be certified as a Sword Saint among the Beastfolk—even at the lowest, Bronze rank—one must master at least ten schools of swordsmanship. It is the hardest class to transition into among all professions. And to be clear, mastery is required, not mere familiarity. These schools of swordsmanship are the creations of famed swordmasters from across the universe, and to master even one would earn you the title of Sword Master elsewhere. But among the Beastfolk, even a Bronze Sword Saint must master ten.

And then there’s the cost. This is, without question, the most resource-consuming profession among all ten races. The time required to master these sword arts necessitates frequent use of high-end training grounds where time flows more slowly—a luxury every race possesses, but one that is prohibitively expensive. To put it simply, the combined resources of ten Silver-ranked players' bases would not suffice to advance a single Bronze Sword Saint to Silver. And even then, there’s no guarantee of success. Just because someone enters for training, does that mean they’ll emerge having mastered their art?

For this reason, many of Guo Lang’s friends in his previous life were Fireblade Clan Sword Saints. Those who, like him, remained stuck at Bronze for millennia, were mostly of this profession. He often saw some who, after twenty years, still hadn’t managed their class change, and most of them just grumbled that Sword Saint was a life-ruining path.

Even so, the profession retains a unique allure. What is it? Power. In the parlance of fantasy novels: invincible within their rank! In the early stages, many Bronze Sword Saints could challenge and even defeat Silver-ranked professionals. This alone draws countless hopefuls into the profession with the highest failure rate.

But were there any truly successful Sword Saints? Sadly, no. In Guo Lang’s previous life, Gold rank was the profession’s peak. Fewer than twenty Sword Saints in the entire Federation ever reached this level. And as for advancing to the Epic rank? Guo Lang could say with certainty: not a single one.

In every other profession, there were Epic-ranked experts—even among support classes. But Sword Saints seemed cursed: not a single one. Again and again, Gold Sword Saints challenged their limits and failed. Among all of them, one drew closest to the Epic threshold—the greatest Sword Saint among the Beastfolk: Ye Zhiqiu.

By then, he had reached the very limits of the Gold rank, mastering over eight thousand schools of swordsmanship. Many other Gold-ranked experts could not last a single exchange against him; he held the top spot among Gold warriors for years. Yet he could not cross that final threshold. To break through, Ye Zhiqiu challenged someone of an even higher tier: the seventh-ranked Epic hero of the Federation, the Lord of Radiance, bearer of the Sword of Redemption—Paladin Michel Gates.

That battle, one of the Federation’s ten most legendary duels, was the most discussed of all. There is an unbridgeable chasm between Epic and Gold. Epics possess their own domain, existing on a wholly different plane. No matter how many Golds you muster, even a thousand could not overwhelm an Epic by sheer numbers. Frankly, no matter how many you send, they all die.

Sword Saints are different. Their capacity to challenge above their rank lies in their explosive power. They possess a technique of focusing force on a single point—finding numerous weak spots in an opponent’s defense in an instant, then channeling all their strength into a pinpoint strike. Against higher-ranked foes, a Sword Saint can often kill with one blow.

Yet between Epic and Gold there is a qualitative difference in power. Even with his skills, Ye Zhiqiu, to succeed, would have needed to land tens of thousands of successful strikes according to calculations of material energy—meaning, he would have to dodge and break through his opponent’s attacks ten thousand times without being hit even once. That is tantamount to suicide—it simply cannot be done, not even once in a billion tries.

An Epic’s basic physical attributes are tens of times higher. Even if you have peerless skill, even if you manage to seize a few opportunities—three, ten, perhaps—but ten thousand? It’s like being asked to collect nine hundred and ninety-nine first-prize lottery tickets as souvenirs. It’s simply impossible.

Yet that battle dazzled the world. Ye Zhiqiu truly attempted it, fighting for ten days and nights, and he nearly won—he had already succeeded over nine thousand times. Throughout the fight, Michel never once managed to touch him.

The whole world held its breath as the fight unfolded. The Federation’s highest authorities, and all the top experts of the ten races, were drawn to witness it. Every professional above Gold attended. It was a perfect demonstration of the supreme art of combat.

But…in the end, he failed. At the final moment, Ye Zhiqiu’s strength was spent. He died quietly, standing tall, sword still in hand. Even in death, Gates did not dare approach within ten meters of him.

That day, this man was immortalized by all. He became a symbol of his era, an idol whom Guo Lang had admired for years. Never did he imagine that he would see him standing before him now—and looking so ugly!

Guo Lang felt dizzy, unable to believe what he was seeing. “Ye… Ye Zhiqiu?” he stammered.

“Uh…” The other scratched his head and smiled sheepishly. “I actually asked to change the name, but my old man wouldn’t let me. Nothing I can do about it.”

“Sword Saint?” Guo Lang asked, his face blank.

Those around them were baffled. Sword Saint? Was that some protagonist’s title from a novel? Xie Lin and Gong Shao exchanged glances, a flicker of puzzlement in their eyes. Sword Saint? Is that a class?

Dahei was momentarily taken aback. Could this guy tell professions just by looking? He recalled how this man had beaten Erhei with Erhei’s own technique and began to suspect there was more to him. He shook his head with a grin. “No…”

Guo Lang let out a silent sigh of relief. So it’s just the same name…

“But I’ve only mastered five sword schools—not there yet,” the other explained, still scratching his head with a simple, honest smile. But Guo Lang stood there frozen.

Good heavens, it’s really him?

Xie Lin stroked his chin thoughtfully. This man’s powers of observation were that sharp? Could he really deduce someone’s class just from appearances? He suddenly remembered how this man had insisted he mix drinks earlier—could it be he’d already seen through his profession? But they weren’t even from the same race. How could he know so much about another race’s classes? Was he just a lore enthusiast?

Watching Guo Lang stare into space, Dahei felt a bit puzzled, but laughed heartily. “So, are we fighting or not?”

Fight or not? Guo Lang hesitated. Should he? To be honest, he felt a little intimidated. Who stood before him? The pinnacle of technique in his previous life, a man called unbeatable among his peers. True, he might not be at that level yet, but his talent was beyond doubt.

But was that a reason not to fight? If he shrank from battle now, Guo Lang felt he might never grow. Could he really change his fate just by relying on his past life’s foresight? Clearly not. In his previous life, he remained a Bronze his whole life—was it only due to talent and luck, or was there something else? Of course there was: he lacked the heart of a true strongman.

If he didn’t change his mindset, if he didn’t take this step forward, how far could he go in this life?

Guo Lang stayed silent for a long time. Dahei frowned; he didn’t like indecisive types and his tone turned impatient. “So, are we fighting or not?”

Guo Lang’s body tensed. He heard the impatience in the other’s voice. If he refused now, at least in this moment, he would be branded a weakling—a fate Guo Lang could not accept. This was a rare opportunity. The other hadn’t advanced to a new class yet; like himself, he was unawakened. Perhaps his royal bloodline gave him an edge in attributes, but their foundations were still close. This would be a truly fair contest between equals.

If he won, his confidence would soar—a qualitative change in his mindset—because he would have defeated the technical pinnacle of his previous life at the same level!

With this thought, a surge of hot blood filled his chest. Why be afraid? There was nothing to lose in defeat, and a lifetime’s worth of bragging rights if he won. Was that a bad bargain?

“Fight!” The uncertainty in Guo Lang’s eyes was replaced by steely resolve and burning light. Dahei sensed it—a powerful fighting spirit. Where he had lost interest before, now he grinned widely.

He half-clenched his fist and thumped it twice against his broad shoulder, bowing slightly. Guo Lang recognized the gesture—it was the Beastfolk warriors’ salute to an honored opponent.

Dahei—no, Ye Zhiqiu—finished his salute, assumed his stance, and with wild battle spirit blazing on his face, grinned. “Good. Come!”