It was a strange thing. His sword qi bloomed into petals. That meager, dried-up bit of Internal Energy, not even enough to fill a handful, swelled on its own as if a sprout were piercing through stone, and began circulating through his meridians and vessels!
'Ah...'
The amount of Internal Energy did not matter. What mattered more than that was the will of the heart that wanted to bloom. Only then did the swordsman realize it.
On a mountain of rock, a single plum blossom tree did not pierce the stone because it was strong. It pierced the stone because it was desperate. And that was what people called strength.
'If that is so, then in the end strength depends on the heart, so why did we ever try to judge it by the amount of Internal Energy?' The fragrance of plum blossoms deepened. At the same time, blood burst from his seven orifices, but he had not yet reached a dead end, not yet come to death.
He had simply overstrained himself. But he had not touched congenital qi. Nor had he prepared to drag the enemy down with him in mutual destruction.