The wind in the mysterious Qi realm shifted. Dao Wei's consciousness, drifting for what felt like an eternity, found focus, drawn into the rhythm of swordsmanship. Before him, the Golden One had spoken of seasons, while the Dark God had described the forces of existence. Together, these two concepts merged into the profound and unfathomable Formless Sword Art.
Dao Wei began his practice, standing alone on a vast, empty plane that stretched out endlessly. In his hand, a virtual sword hummed with latent power, its blade reflecting a myriad of colors as it resonated with the energies around him. This sword art was unlike any he had ever known—it had no fixed movements, no rigid forms. It was fluid, like water, shifting between subtle nuances, each motion containing infinite possibilities.
"The point of the four seasons," the Golden One's voice echoed through his mind. "Spring represents birth, new growth. Summer is vitality and the peak of life. Autumn, the bloom of maturity, where things flourish before decline. Winter is death, the end of all things. Each movement of the sword should embody these transitions."
Dao Wei's body responded instinctively. He drew the sword up slowly, letting the energy of Spring fill his movements. His strikes were light and tentative, like seedlings emerging from the ground. Each slash was delicate but filled with purpose, as though coaxing life into the blade itself.
But as he moved, he found that Spring was merely a starting point, a foundation upon which he needed to build. The seasons did not flow in isolation; they overlapped, intertwined, and merged. His mind whirred as he tried to capture this essence, his sword lagging behind as his thoughts attempted to catch up.
The blade swung wide as he attempted to shift into Summer. The energy surged through him—heat, passion, intensity—but there was an imbalance. The sword felt heavy in his grip, awkward. His form lacked the precision that Summer required, and in an instant, the harmony was broken. The sword's glow flickered and dimmed.
He took a deep breath and reset himself. The Formless Sword Art was not about forcing the transitions, but about letting them flow naturally. The Golden One had said as much: "Up and down, forward and backward—these directions must align with your intent. The sword does not simply strike; it reflects the movement of time itself."
Dao Wei exhaled and relaxed his grip, allowing the sword to become an extension of his body rather than a separate entity. The seasons began to merge more smoothly, his strikes growing in confidence as Spring flowed into Summer, and Summer into Autumn. The concept of direction faded as he began to move effortlessly across the battlefield of his mind.
The blade danced through the air, now a representation of the Autumn Bloom. Each movement was steady and deliberate, yet filled with the weight of maturity. Autumn was where life reached its peak before decline; every strike felt purposeful, yet tinged with a sense of impending change. His sword cleaved through invisible opponents, the energy of life surging through each motion before retreating.
But it wasn't only the seasons that dictated the Formless Sword Art.
"Life and death," the Dark God's voice intruded into his mind. "Yin and Yang, Time and Space. The sword must cut through these dualities. Life without death is incomplete, just as Yin without Yang is meaningless. Every action you take with the sword must acknowledge the balance of all things."
Dao Wei found himself struggling to understand this deeper layer. His body, though moving with grace through the seasons, was still bound by the limitations of the mortal realm. He could feel the faint whisper of death as Winter approached in his movements, but he couldn't fully grasp its significance. How could the sword simultaneously embody both Life and Death? Wasn't the sword, by its very nature, a tool for destruction?
Another year passed in this endless cycle of practice. He repeated the movements countless times, each day bringing new insights but also new frustrations. The Formless Sword Art remained elusive, always just beyond his reach. He felt as though he had scratched only the surface of a vast and unfathomable ocean.
Then, one day, it clicked.
Dao Wei entered the state of enlightenment once more, his sword cutting through the air with precision. But this time, as he moved, he felt a shift—not just within his body, but within his soul. His sword no longer felt like a tool of destruction. Instead, it became a vessel for creation, for the ebb and flow of life itself. With each strike, he could feel the pulse of existence, the rhythm of birth and death intertwined.
The realization struck him like a bolt of lightning: Life and Death were not opposites—they were two sides of the same coin. As his sword sliced through the air, he understood that the point of Autumn Bloom was not the decay of life, but its transformation into something new. Every movement was filled with purpose as if the sword itself breathed with the cycles of nature.
The Formless Sword Art had no levels and no defined stages. It was an art that existed beyond the constraints of the mortal world, something Dao Wei could now glimpse but not yet fully control. And yet, he had achieved something. He had reached the Small Realm of Success in the Autumn Bloom Sword Art, the first season of the Formless Sword Art. It was but a drop in the ocean, but to Dao Wei, it felt like a revelation.
As Dao Wei's consciousness danced through the profound mysteries of the Formless Sword Art, another process was unfolding deeper within him—one less visible, but no less significant. Tian was undergoing its own transformation.
Unseen by Dao Wei's conscious mind, Tian hovered in the void, surrounded by the artifacts that Dao Wei had offered up for its growth. These artifacts, once treasures in the mortal realm, had been devoured by Tian, their essences consumed and repurposed. What was once a formidable weapon was evolving, becoming something far more terrifying—something ancient, yet new.
Tian was the Weapon Devourer, a being of its own will. Its history stretched back to the Old Ones, the very gods who now watched over Dao Wei's journey. Though the Golden One and Dark God had long relinquished their hold on these swords, Tian still carried within it the remnants of their power—a blend of void and shadow, death and destruction.
Now, as it absorbed the essence of the artifacts, those powers began to stir. Tian's blade pulsed with dark energy, its edges warping and shifting as it absorbed the qualities of each treasure. It was no longer just a sword—it was a force of nature, a weapon that could bend the laws of the world to its will.
As Dao Wei trained, completely engrossed in his cultivation, his Sword Soul had begun to fracture. But this was no sign of weakness—quite the opposite. His Sword Soul split into a thousand identical copies of himself, each one wielding the sword with deadly precision. Each virtual Dao Wei executed different sword techniques, pushing the limits of his understanding of the Formless Sword Art.
In this state, Dao Wei was unaware of the world around him. His body moved on instinct, his sword following the flow of the seasons, the rhythm of life and death. He had become one with the sword, his movements no longer conscious but a part of the natural order. It was as if the sword itself had become an extension of his very soul.
In this state, time ceased to exist. Days, months, even years passed without Dao Wei's knowledge. His mind was absorbed in the practice, and his body responded without hesitation, perfecting the Autumn Bloom Sword Art. Each step forward brought him closer to mastering the intricate balance of life and death, of creation and destruction.
Meanwhile, Tian continued its own transformation, refining itself with each passing moment. The sword was becoming something more, something terrifyingly powerful. The Golden One and the Dark God watched in silence, their gazes fixed on Dao Wei as they observed his progress.
"He's advancing far faster than we anticipated," the Golden One said, his tone laced with a mix of awe and concern.
The Dark God's expression was unreadable, his eyes gleaming with interest. "He has always been different. But even so… to reach the Small Realm of Success in the Autumn Bloom Sword Art within a year… that's unheard of."
The Golden One nodded, his gaze never leaving Dao Wei's form as he continued to practice. "No one in history has ever perfected the Formless Sword Art. And yet, this younger version of us has achieved something remarkable. He's tapped into the essence of Life, the first season. If he continues at this pace…"
The Dark God's lips curled into a faint smile. "Perhaps the boy will achieve what even we could not. But let us not get ahead of ourselves. There are still many trials ahead."
The two gods fell silent as they watched Dao Wei, their thoughts heavy with anticipation and uncertainty. For though Dao Wei's progress was astounding, the path he walked was one filled with uncertainty. And the mysteries of the Formless Sword Art, though now within his grasp, were still far from being fully understood.
The air grew thick with tension as Dao Wei's sword sliced through the void, the energies of life swirling around him. The Autumn Bloom Sword Art had come to life, and with it, the seeds of something far greater had been planted.
But where would this path lead?