On the stone cliff, the uninvited young swordsman clapped his scabbard while shaking his head and clicking his tongue. “The Dongyue Sword Pool, which has stood unshaken in the world of swords for centuries—once a glorious sect that could rival the Wu Family Sword Mausoleum—has now fallen so low that a nobody like me can waltz in as if it were unguarded. Pitiable, lamentable, laughable, and pathetic.”
“Steward” Song Ershu remained as still as a clay Buddha, unruffled. He gazed up at the unruly young man and mused to himself, “Like a freshly forged sword, brimming with sharpness and devoid of decay—how splendid.”
Then, shifting his gaze, he asked curiously, “If I’m not mistaken, you must be Meng Qinghua, the swordmaster from Jing’an Dao, once the chief retainer of the Jing’an Prince’s estate. After the deaths of Zhao Heng and Zhao Xun, you vanished. Why retreat to the mountains only to resurface as a guard dog in the Shengqi Tower?”
The old man, with his sword slung casually behind his waist, chuckled and crossed his arms. “Meng Qinghua’s ambition lies in reaching the pinnacle of the sword path. Reputation and disgrace mean nothing. The world is full of so-called masters, but true mentors are rare. Thanks to my master’s guidance, I’m now just a hair’s breadth away from shedding the ‘minor’ in ‘Minor Finger Profound.’”
The young swordsman squatting at the old man’s feet grew impatient. “Enough with the nonsense! Like my master, I can’t stand this kind of talk. It’s as if you can’t fight without wasting half a pound of saliva! Who even taught you this habit?”
The old man, who once dominated Jing’an Dao’s martial world, looked somewhat chagrined but didn’t retort.
A sharp screech of steel against scabbard suddenly pierced the air.
The young man had struck without another word.
No names, no titles—only victory or death.
His figure vanished in a flash.
The next moment, a sword tip glowing with cyan aura appeared inches from Song Ershu’s heart, like a green serpent flicking its tongue. No matter how the middle-aged man dodged, the sword and its aura clung to him like a shadow—sinister and deadly.
The young swordsman from Shengqi Tower fought with precision, his strikes disciplined, always aimed straight at Song Ershu’s heart.
Fortunately, though seemingly on the brink of death, Song Ershu remained calm, his sleeves fluttering like drifting clouds—a sight both elegant and chilling.
The onlookers felt the sword’s energy permeate the air, sending shivers down their spines.
Song Ershu raised two fingers before his chest, his body gliding sideways as if treading on air like an immortal riding clouds.
His fingers struck the sword tip with a resounding *clang*, causing it to tremble violently. Song Ershu smiled. “So it’s the *Golden Cicada Sword*, lost during the Ganlu Southern Crossing. Its essence lies in the phrase, ‘The golden wind has yet to stir, but the cicada senses it first.’ Mastery leads to the profundity of Daoist Finger Profound, excelling in seizing the initiative. But you’ve pushed yourself to the limit. You should transition to *Withered Wood* or *Cicada Molt* now—flexible for offense or defense.”
“*Thunderclap*? That’s no sword technique! It’s clearly a blade style created by that prince!”
Song Ershu clenched his fist, blood seeping between his fingers and dripping to the ground.
His expression remained serene, his heart undisturbed.
“My *Golden Cicada Sword* may only have three or four-tenths of my master’s skill, but he said that combined with *Thunderclap Armor Breaker*, it’s more than enough to handle any martial artist below the first rank. My master never lies, so that means you’re no ordinary foe.”
Song Ershu sighed as if hearing the world’s most absurd joke. “You came all this way to challenge our Song Family Sword Pool for fame, yet you don’t even know who I am?”
The young man blinked, then scoffed. “Why should I care? My master said this so-called ‘Sword Pool’ has only one and a half swordsmen worth noting. The half isn’t your overrated foreign-born leader but some kid named Song Tinglu. As for the one? A rare sword prodigy—a girl. He warned me to either marry her or kill her early, lest she become a threat.”
Song Ershu chuckled. “Harsh but accurate. Your master has good taste.”
The young man smirked. “If not for the fact that half my master’s *Dragon-Binding Nails* remain unremoved, the only swordsman in the world worth his attention would be that guy surnamed Deng…”
The elderly swordsman coughed sharply. “Senior Brother, let’s not air our sect’s secrets.”
The young man’s bravado was dismissed as youthful arrogance.
The swordsman surnamed Deng?
Undoubtedly, Deng Tai’a!
Just as, six decades ago, the name “Sword God” could only mean Li Chungang!
Rumors said Deng Tai’a had slain countless celestial beings, single-handedly barring the Heavenly Gate with his sword. His terrestrial immortal prowess surpassed even the Three Teachings’ sages in lethality—a fact even that prince had acknowledged.
And this young man’s master dared to dismiss all but Deng Tai’a?
“By your martial world’s rules, does this count as my victory, Chen Zhaoxi?”
Without waiting for Song Ershu’s reply, the unknown Shengqi Tower swordsman sighed. “But defeating a small fish in a pond is hardly cause for celebration.”
Xu Baozao muttered mockingly, “This guy’s not right in the head. That ‘Steward Song’—his demeanor, speech, and skills—is clearly no ordinary Song clansman.”
Xu Fengnian teased, “You’re like a sparrow oblivious to the swan’s ambition. That Chen fellow from Shengqi Tower clearly doesn’t consider anyone below the first rank worth his time.”
Chen Zhaoxi scanned the crowd. “My junior brother Meng and I came to Dongyue Sword Pool for one reason: to meet that oddly named girl. Where is she? If she’s as beautiful as they say, we’ll wed today, and I’ll take her home. Consider it your Sword Pool’s fortune to have me as a backer.”
Song Ershu flicked his sleeve and smiled. “Insult me, and I’ll let it slide.”
Hearing this, the seasoned but young Jianghu veteran Wei Gaowei smirked. Such words always preceded a deadly “but.”
Song Ershu declared, “But insult Dongyue Sword Pool—”
Ye Geng, who saw himself as a Sword Pool disciple, couldn’t help but interject, “Uncle Song, teach this frog-in-a-well some humility!”
Song Ershu gave the boy a warm smile, then said breezily, “I’ll let that slide too. We had Elder Chai in the past, and in the future, we’ll have a nephew destined for Finger Profound and a niece likely to become a Sword Immortal. I’m broad-minded. No grudges.”
Liu Wanqing and the others gaped, while Ye Yan’s lips curled, her eyes shimmering with admiration. To this perceptive noblewoman, men like her passionate younger brother Ye Geng or the promising scholar Wang Fumi were like unsealed jars of new wine—intense or mellow, but ultimately shallow.
The young Shengqi Tower swordsman, evidently high-ranking, laughed in exasperation. “If you won’t hold a grudge, then find me someone who will!”
“Skulking around? Show yourself!”
Suddenly, Meng Qinghua—the “Junior Brother Meng”—barked sharply. With a flick of his wrist, his sword shot from its scabbard: “Dragon Emerges!”
The blade, previously slung idly at his waist, soared like a water-bound dragon, arcing toward the cliffs behind the Sword Pool.
This unassuming elder had just demonstrated the Finger Profound art of *Qi*-guided flying swords—a dream for most swordsmen, second only to the fantasy of riding a sword across the skies.
Most flying sword techniques at the Finger Profound level relied on shortcuts. The Wu Family Sword Mausoleum, for instance, had a secret *Qi*-guiding method enabling children to control short blades within inches. Many second-rank experts could barely manage it, and most “flying sword” techniques were either flashy scare tactics or desperate last resorts—effective but costly.
A petty trick bordering on the profound.
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