The two mortal enemies who might determine the fate of countless lives in the Liang-Mang conflict—the Northern Mang’s God of War and the young Prince of Liang—both deliberately or inadvertently kept their battlefield far from Jubei City. The former likely feared that Xu Fengnian, whose Northern Liang destiny had not yet been fully exhausted by the heavens, might use Jubei City as a stronghold to counter Tuoba Pusa’s yet-to-be-deployed trump card. The latter, meanwhile, worried that if the two clashed within Jubei City, the hard-won, bloody victory achieved by the eighteen grandmasters defending the city could be completely negated by Tuoba Pusa’s unrestrained destruction. As Xu Fengnian departed gracefully, he cautioned Wei Miao and Chai Qingshan, who still had to face off against thousands of cavalry, to be careful. The current master of Dongyue Sword Pool signaled with his eyes that the young prince need not worry about the battle here. Xu Fengnian clasped his fists solemnly in gratitude toward the two Central Plains grandmasters who had staked their lives on this fight. Chai Qingshan merely smiled, his chest swelling with pride.
Chai Qingshan had a split between his brows and a deep, bone-exposing gash across his chest from Northern Mang’s “One-Cut Willow.” But compared to him, who appeared grievously wounded but had not suffered any critical damage to his vital energy, it was the Southern Zhao’s Wei Miao who was truly on the brink of collapse—both physically and spiritually. Wei Miao, the undisputed top martial artist of the southwestern Jianghu, was first-class in physique, martial prowess, and combat adaptability. However, the joint ambush by the half-faced Buddha, Murong Baoding, and the assassin Li Fengshou had been too vicious and opportunistic. Wei Miao had endured two full-force punches from Murong Baoding, one of which struck his skull, rupturing his eardrums and causing internal bleeding in his brain. If not for Xu Fengnian’s simultaneous suppression of Tuoba Pusa and his aggressive stance of prioritizing Murong Baoding’s death even at the cost of losing the initiative—forcing the hesitant Northern Mang commander to hold back—Wei Miao would not have had even a moment to catch his breath, nor would Chai Qingshan have regained some of his momentum. Otherwise, with four thousand Northern Mang cavalry, including the elite Winter Thunder riders of Juzhou, and the looming threat of Murong Baoding, the two grandmasters would have struggled to turn the tide.
Had Murong Baoding earlier mustered the courage to gamble his life and decisively attacked Wei Miao to secure an advantage for Tuoba Pusa, the young prince might have found himself in dire straits beneath Jubei City—perhaps even facing the premature end of the Second Liang-Mang War. But first, Tuoba Pusa disdained asking for help from this commander; second, the ambitious Murong Baoding, who dreamed of conquering the Central Plains, had just achieved a resounding victory outside Liangzhou by annihilating Lu Dayuan’s Left Cavalry Army—a feat rivaling even Dong Zhuo’s capture of Hutou City in the first war. Why would he risk his life to pave the way for another? Lastly, the new Prince of Liang had slain Hong Jingyan right under Tuoba Pusa’s nose on Longyan’er Plains, forcing Murong Baoding to reconsider his actions carefully.
Murong Baoding did not rush to attack. Instead, he gazed at the two Central Plains martial grandmasters and said in broken Central Plains dialect, leisurely and mockingly:
*”On the battlefield, there was Lu Dayuan; in the Jianghu, there are Wei Miao and Chai Qingshan. The heavens have been harsh to me, Murong Baoding, for over forty years—but now, at last, they have shown me favor. You Central Plains folk have a saying: ‘Mountains and rivers obscure the path, but beyond the willows and flowers lies another village.’ How fitting! Truly fitting.”*
After Tuoba Pusa and the young prince had distanced themselves, Murong Baoding, clad in silver armor, saw his aura surge violently. This Northern Mang royal, once known only for his thick skin in the Jianghu, had always ranked low in past martial rankings because he was widely regarded as a defensive specialist rather than an offensive powerhouse—a stark contrast to the demonic prodigy Zhong Liang, who had leapt from second-rank minor grandmaster directly to the Finger Mystic realm. But Murong Baoding’s two brutal punches that nearly crippled Wei Miao proved he had been hiding his true strength all these years—even during his earlier ambush on Xu Fengnian in Qingcang City alongside Zhong Liang, he had deliberately concealed his abilities. When it came to patience, Murong Baoding had indeed mastered the art.
Wei Miao remained silent, slowly regulating his breathing. Since this Northern Mang commander was content to pontificate, Wei Miao saw no need to rush into battle.
Chai Qingshan held his three-foot sword at an angle, his expression calm.
The poem Murong Baoding had quoted was well-known in the Central Plains, though this half-baked Northern Mang prince likely had no idea it originated from the exiled poet-emperor of the late Dafeng Dynasty, who had penned *”Lament of Exile in Liangzhou”* in his sorrowful old age.
*”Mountains and rivers obscure the path, but beyond the willows and flowers lies another village.”*
On the surface, these words evoked the enchanting landscapes of the Jiangnan region—bright spring days, lush grass, singing orioles, and scenery so captivating one could hardly bear to leave.
But here in the desolate northwest, the land was barren, the mountains harsh, the gullies jagged, the sky high, and the clouds low. Standing in this vast expanse, one felt the biting winds slam against their chest, as if demanding outsiders retreat several steps before relenting.
Chai Qingshan walked to Wei Miao’s side and smiled.
*”With Wei Miao’s fists, the world has no need for other fists. Truly deserving!”*
Wei Miao gave a faint, soundless grin.
Xu Fengnian had once remarked that of all the grandmasters he had encountered in his life, three stood out for their awe-inspiring entrances: the red-robed, python-embroidered Human Cat Han Shengxuan; the capital’s top swordsman Qi Jiajie; and the purple-clad Xuanyuan Qingfeng of Huishan.
And three others had seemed the least like grandmasters: Li Chun’gang, Sword Nine Huang, and Wei Miao.
Chai Qingshan continued, smiling:
*”Since the world cannot be without Wei Miao, but the Central Plains’ sword lineage has countless young talents—if one or two old men die, there will always be rising stars to take their place. Dongyue Sword Pool alone has my two disciples, Shan Eryi and Song Tinglu, destined for greatness. So, Wei Miao, in this battle—I go first.”*
His meaning was clear:
*I die first.*
Wei Miao, who desperately needed time to recover, did not refuse the swordsman’s kindness. He said solemnly:
*”I, Wei Miao, have never been one for grand boasts. But I swear this: I will not let Elder Brother Chai walk the lonely road alone.”*
Chai Qingshan hesitated, then sighed.
*”Brother Wei… if you can avoid death, do so. You and I are different—someone in Jubei City is waiting for you.”*
To his surprise, the short-legged, white-cloth-bound Wei Miao smiled faintly, clenched his fists, and said softly, narrowing his eyes:
*”After she married me, all these years wandering the Jianghu… because of my plain looks and my reluctance to show off, I avoided fights whenever possible. And she, so lively and beautiful… never once felt she had married into a respectable family. She always teased me for lacking heroic bearing. So today… as her man, I, Wei Miao, will do one thing for her…”*
He fell silent.
Murong Baoding grinned broadly.
*”Gentlemen, any last words? When I, Murong Baoding, rule the Central Plains and reminisce with its cultured ministers, it would be nice to have some anecdotes to share.”*
Chai Qingshan leveled his sword before him and laughed loudly, shaking his head.
*”A Northern Mang dog’s head is worth little—hardly worthy of my newly forged sword, ‘Green Water’!”*
Murong Baoding’s face darkened.
*”Tsk. They say the world’s sword arts stem from two schools. Since the Withered Sword of the Wu Family Sword Tomb has already been dealt with, let me test Dongyue Sword Pool’s new blade!”*
Chai Qingshan tapped his toes and lunged forward, a brilliant green arc slashing toward Murong Baoding’s chest.
*”A dying struggle! With less than half your peak strength, I’ll let you strike a hundred times, you old dog!”* Murong Baoding sneered, not dodging but raising his arms to block.
The blade sliced through the silver armguard but clanged against Murong Baoding’s sleeve with an unnatural metallic ring.
Frowning, Murong Baoding retreated. He had resolved to whittle away Chai Qingshan’s energy bit by bit. Not only was his physique renowned as the rare “Great Diamond” realm among pure martial artists—said to rival even the unbreakable bodies of the Longshu Monk and Li Dangxin of Liangchan Temple—but his armor was also a priceless treasure from the Northern Mang treasury, forged in the early Ganlu era and once a secret heirloom of the Dafeng imperial family. Rumored to share materials with the Red Armor of one of the Four Great Grandmasters of the Spring and Autumn Era, Murong Baoding had believed that even the killing-first Sword Immortal Deng Tai’a could only scratch him. Yet Chai Qingshan, despite his injuries, had shattered his armguard in one strike—forcing Murong Baoding to reconsider his underestimation of Central Plains grandmasters.
In truth, the assassin Li Fengshou’s near-fatal ambush on Chai Qingshan had been a double-edged sword. It was not that Chai Qingshan was weak—his swordsmanship was genuinely peerless in the southeast, and his coordination with Murong Baoding had been flawless.
If Wei Miao and the female grandmaster Lin Ya of Wudi City were the only true fist grandmasters in the world, then the Central Plains’ sword lineage, as Chai Qingshan had said, was indeed a continuous range of towering peaks—far from being limited to Deng Tai’a or Li Chun’gang’s Two-Sleeved Green Snake.
Now that Murong Baoding had grown overconfident, Chai Qingshan pressed his advantage mercilessly. His next strike descended like a cascading rainbow, flooding the space before Murong Baoding with sword energy—as if a waterfall had been suspended in midair.
Murong Baoding inhaled sharply and finally abandoned his plan to rely solely on his priceless armor and diamond body. Instead, he unleashed a rapid barrage of thunderous punches, shattering the sword-energy waterfall with explosive force.
Chai Qingshan remained unfazed. He advanced swiftly, thrusting his sword straight at Murong Baoding’s brow. Though “Green Water” was only three feet long, over forty sword energies erupted around it, each surging forward with unified intent.
This technique, inspired by a mountain spring in old Dongyue, had been conceived when Chai Qingshan was thirty. The spring, ranked third in the world by the Dafeng Tea Sage, was partially blocked by a protruding rock, causing its waters to scatter into hundreds of delicate streams before reuniting in the pool below. Chai Qingshan had once told his disciples that if perfected, this strike could unleash eighty sword energies in one breath—enough to pulverize even a diamond body.
Alas, here and now, the grandmaster could only muster forty. Yet even that was terrifying enough.
Murong Baoding snarled and, for the first time, considered retreat. As his massive frame hurtled backward, he hooked his fingers and summoned a mounted rider to block the incoming sword rain.
Chai Qingshan’s blade pierced the horse’s skull, and with a flick of his wrist, both mount and rider were torn apart.
Seizing the brief respite, Murong Baoding—one of Northern Mang’s top martial artists—planted one foot firmly, withdrew the other half a step, and gathered his energy to its peak. Anticipating Chai Qingshan’s continued advance, he threw a devastating punch into the air, its shockwave ripping forward.
Chai Qingshan, undeterred, glided onward, merely tilting his body to let the punch blast apart his left shoulder. His sword, swift as lightning, stabbed Murong Baoding’s chest.
Injury for injury. Death for death.
Murong Baoding, realizing he had no counter, chose to defend desperately. His energy surged within, his face glowing faintly yellow as he rooted himself to the ground.
The three-foot blade pierced his armor effortlessly.
When the tip met Murong Baoding’s chest, the sword bent into a crescent—then nearly a full moon!
Chai Qingshan, his shoulder shattered and drenched in blood, roared:
*”Roll away!”*
The massive Murong Baoding was sent flying like a broken kite.
Landing heavily, his face pale, Murong Baoding wiped his chest—his palm came away crimson.
Chai Qingshan, now encircled by Northern Mang cavalry, had no choice but to cut down the swarming riders.
Their line of sight severed, Murong Baoding clambered up, shaken.
*This old man… is tougher than expected!*
Unwilling to engage further, Murong Baoding retreated, snarling:
*”Ride him down!”*
The Northern Mang cavalry charged toward Chai Qingshan in concentric waves, while the outermost riders finally unleashed their deadly mounted archery—under orders to shoot indiscriminately, friend or foe.
Trapped in this death trap, Chai Qingshan’s sword danced like a living dragon. Even as he fought to break free and pursue Murong Baoding, the poison from his wound turned his blood black. He came within a hair’s breadth of escaping the encircling riders—who paid with their lives to stop him.
Murong Baoding, having retreated all the way to the Winter Thunder riders, spat blood viciously. Had it not been for the poison on Li Fengshou’s blade, Chai Qingshan might have chased him here. Not that he would have lost—Murong Baoding still believed he could wear the old man down—but why risk his own life against a dead man walking?
His focus shifted to Wei Miao. If the latter tried to abandon Chai Qingshan and flee to Jubei City, Murong Baoding, despite his injuries, was confident he could stop him.
From Jubei City’s walls or the Winter Thunder riders’ vantage, the scene was clear: layer upon layer of Northern Mang cavalry surged toward the lone old man at the center of a growing circle of corpses.
Then—
A thunderous crash.
A figure plummeted from the sky.
Murong Baoding barely had time to tilt his head and cross his arms before—
*Boom!*
Wei Miao’s fist hammered him halfway into the ground!
The Southern Zhao grandmaster had vaulted over the cavalry and struck directly, heedless of retreat.
Murong Baoding instinctively shielded his head—just in time for Wei Miao to seize his skull and knee him in the face!
The impact sent Murong Baoding skidding backward, plowing a furrow several yards long.
In the ensuing dust cloud, Wei Miao’s fists became a blur, hammering the silver-armored Murong Baoding relentlessly backward.
His strikes were explosive—like a drawn bow snapping, like thunder detonating! He shattered Murong Baoding’s guard and pummeled him mercilessly.
Finally, Wei Miao’s fists coiled as if cradling an infant—a deceptively gentle name for the most devastating technique in fist arts.
Old Jianghu masters had long decreed that only after practicing this move tens of thousands of times could one master it—channeling force down to the very hairs.
Wei Miao, obsessed with fist arts, had never slacked despite his talent. Since youth, he had practiced daily—shattering trees in the mountains, pounding rivers in the water. Perhaps a million repetitions.
His final punch struck like a shattered bell.
*Boom!*
Already flung back by Chai Qingshan’s sword, Murong Baoding was now sent flying another dozen yards by Wei Miao’s fist—crushing dozens of Winter Thunder riders in his path!
This Southern Zhao grandmaster, who should have shone brightly in the Central Plains Jianghu, now battered Murong Baoding into utter humiliation before thousands of Northern Mang riders outside Jubei City. His priceless armor was dented beyond repair, his energy in disarray!
Staggering, Murong Baoding roared:
*”Again!”*
Wei Miao shadowed him, his left hand cupping Murong Baoding’s temple—seemingly a light tap, yet it lifted the much larger man off his feet. His right fist then detonated against Murong Baoding’s abdomen.
As Murong Baoding flew back, Wei Miao yanked him forward for another punch.
The scene was both absurd and brutal.
Suspended midair, Murong Baoding never touched the ground as Wei Miao advanced step by step, fist after fist hammering his gut.
The final punch—Wei Miao’s last in this life—slammed into Murong Baoding’s mangled abdomen, now exposed through the ruined armor.
Murong Baoding finally crashed down, skidding another seven or eight yards, blood streaming from all seven orifices.
His so-called invincible body, even with divine armor, had become a cosmic joke.
Wei Miao stood proudly, turning slightly to glance at the cavalry formation—unable to see Chai Qingshan through the throng.
Lifting his gaze toward Jubei City, he knew he would never glimpse that graceful figure again.
Blood welled in his eyes, blurring his vision.
Murong Baoding, sprawled on the ground, tried and failed to rise, vomiting blood repeatedly.
He knew: a few more punches, and Wei Miao would have killed him.
In a fair duel, he stood no chance.
At this moment, Murong Baoding abandoned all thoughts of dominating the Central Plains Jianghu.
After three failed attempts to stand, he collapsed, pale and powerless. The once-ambitious Northern Mang commander muttered bitterly:
*”Damn the Central Plains Jianghu…”*
Not far away, Wei Miao stood motionless.
The Southern Zhao grandmaster, his tendons severed, was dead on his feet.
*If the world’s fists belong to Wei Miao, how could I, Wei Miao, ever cower from death?*
*No such logic exists.*
*She is watching.*
—
Before Wei Miao’s heroic death, the Northern Mang cavalry’s encirclement had frozen in eerie stillness. The old man had slaughtered so many that they trembled in fear, and the piled corpses of men and horses had formed a natural barricade, hindering further charges.
The elderly swordsman, pierced by several arrows, spat a mouthful of black blood and knelt on one knee, propping himself up with his sword to avoid collapsing.
Chai Qingshan refused to die on both knees or lying down. In the end, he sat cross-legged, his sword laid across his lap.
“Green Water” lived up to its name—its blade shimmered like Jiangnan’s spring sunlight, its rippling reflections reminiscent of Dongyue Sword Pool’s wind-stirred waters.
Wiping the black blood from his sword with his sleeve, the old man whispered hoarsely with his last breath:
*”Dongyue Sword Pool, founded five hundred years ago, has watched over the Jianghu with sword in hand… Mountains high, waters deep, the sword’s spirit eternal! I, Chai Qingshan… have not shamed this three-foot blade!”*
—
Following the deaths of Central Plains grandmasters Cheng Baishuang and Sui Xiegu…
Chai Qingshan fell heroically.
Wei Miao followed silently into death.
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