Ethan stood in the center of the room, the residual chill of the sword-integration still humming in his nerves. "What happened next, Crul? The history—it just stops. Did they reach the pinnacle together?"
The amethyst interface flickered, a somber violet hue washing over the holographic displays. [Compiling the final suppressed logs of the Ancestor's romantic history, Master. Be prepared. The path of the sword is rarely paved with peace.]
The images flooded Ethan's mind. He saw Lord Amethyst and the Sword Saint—the woman whose very breath seemed to sharpen the air around her. Lord Amethyst had reached the mid-tier of the absolute peak, while she stood at the very summit. Their rivalry had transformed into a wildfire of passion. For one hundred days and one hundred nights, they trained without rest. Their bodies moved as one, their souls intertwining in a resonance so perfect it defied the laws of cultivation.
