Chapter 1092:

The flying sword soared through the air with effortless grace.

But if it flew away and never returned, that would be rather awkward.

The sword master Meng Qinghua’s majestic, unstoppable strike had plunged toward the Sword Pool, but after that, there was no further movement.

Chen Zhaoxi, growing impatient, muttered under his breath, “Junior Brother Meng, is your sword out there to kill someone or to find a quiet spot to take a dump?”

Meng Qinghua’s face darkened. He could sense that his flying sword had lost its connection to his will, making it impossible to recall. Just as he was about to dash toward the stone wall of the Sword Pool to investigate, a figure emerged from behind the rocks, holding a longsword. With a casual flick of the wrist, the sword swayed gracefully, like a maiden twirling an apricot blossom branch.

Because she was breathtakingly beautiful.

Chen Zhaoxi cheered, “Aunt Nalan!”

The woman tossed the sword back, which Meng Qinghua, sweating profusely, carefully sheathed. She glared at the young man and scolded, “When we’re outside, call me the Ninth Tower Master!”

Chen Zhaoxi laughed heartily. “This Dongyue Sword Pool will be our backyard sooner or later—it doesn’t count as ‘outside’!”

The woman, her smile faint, stepped forward and turned her gaze toward the dashing “Uncle Song.” Her expression instantly turned cold as she said impassively, “Nalan Huaiyu of the Spring God Lake’s Vitality Tower, greets Master Song.”

The man quickly clasped his fists in return. “Song of the Sword Pool greets Master Nalan.”

For a woman to be addressed as “Master” in the martial world, she must possess extraordinary prowess—especially in a realm of blades and bloodshed.

Nalan Huaiyu suddenly beamed. “This time, I’ve come uninvited. I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion. Might Master Song spare me a meal?”

The sight made several men swallow hard in secret.

Xu Baozao quickly glanced at Xu Fengnian beside her. Oddly enough, he seemed completely unfazed—so normal it was almost abnormal.

The man laughed heartily. “Those who cross swords as friends are always welcome—that’s been the Sword Pool’s rule for centuries. Master Nalan needn’t worry about going hungry. I’ll inform the sect master and the others. The grudges of the martial world can wait until tomorrow—tonight, we drink until we drop!”

Nalan Huaiyu nodded with a smile.

Chen Zhaoxi had already stealthily positioned himself behind her, no longer daring to perch on the rock and look down on the world.

—

At first, no one noticed.

Until they witnessed the scene with their own eyes.

At two tables so close they nearly touched, sat two women from the Rouge Ranking. If word of this spread through the martial world, the commotion would rival two top-tier grandmasters sharing a drink. Though Nalan Huaiyu and Jiang Xiuqing had made their names two decades prior, their charm had not faded—they still carried the grace of noblewomen in their prime, barely past thirty. Without seeing them in person, one might assume that time had dulled their beauty.

Time was a blade. Some cuts were swift as Gu Jiantang’s saber, while others were agonizingly slow, like the clumsy hacks of lowly thugs.

Xu Baozao, born into wealth, was still awestruck today. The tableware alone was exquisite—colorful imperial porcelain dishes, silver-inlaid ivory chopsticks, delicate pink-glazed cups adorned with children fighting roosters, each engraved with a royal poem from the Dongyue imperial family.

A single lacquered wooden bowl, intricately carved in deep crimson, bore the inscription “Shared Vessel of Harmony” in bold gold script—a timeless masterpiece.

Jiang Xiuqing was dignified and poised, while Nalan Huaiyu was naturally alluring—each a peerless beauty in her own right.

At first glance, one might assume Jiang Xiuqing hailed from a noble lineage while Nalan Huaiyu came from humble origins. But the truth was the opposite. Jiang Xiuqing’s background was modest, far from scholarly, while Nalan Huaiyu’s family was a renowned Hanlin dynasty of the Spring and Autumn era, with four generations of imperial scholars. Her father, a man of both letters and martial prowess, had risen to the rank of vice-minister while carving a legendary name in the martial world, earning the title “Sword Vice-Minister.” Nalan Huaiyu had trained under a master swordsman from childhood, her talent unparalleled, her skills advancing by leaps and bounds. She had once been the pride of the Nine Kingdoms—until she entered the Wu Family Sword Mausoleum and vanished without a trace.

When she re-emerged, it was during the Wu Family’s legendary “Hundred Swords, Hundred Riders to Liang” campaign. In the second Liang-Mang War, during the battle of Huaiyang Pass, eighty riders served as scouts, delivering intelligence beyond the city walls. Within half a month, half the Wu swordsmen had fallen, their strength crippled. With another twenty-odd riders having returned to their homeland earlier, the once-mighty force of the Wu Family’s Hundred Swords—comparable to a top-tier sect—was shattered beyond recovery.

Yet under the leadership of Zhu Huang and others, they boldly established the Vitality Tower on Spring God Lake in Qingzhou, the heartland of the realm, a sword-based sect with ambitions that faintly targeted their “parent” Wu Family Mausoleum, as well as the declining Dongyue Sword Pool and the famed sword-forging Youyan Manor. However, with the Wu Family’s “Eight-Hundred-Year First Sword Servant,” the female sword immortal Cui Hua, guarding the mausoleum, outsiders believed only a madman like Zhu would dare challenge them head-on.

At the head table sat Li Yibai, the nominal sect master of the Sword Pool. To his left were Song Zhengxin, eldest son of the late sect master Song Nianqing, his wife Jiang Xiuqing, and Song Zhengyi, the late sect master’s illegitimate son. To his right were the famed sword-forging masters Zheng Jingde and Zheng Jingyang, elders of the same generation as Song Nianqing and Chai Qingshan.

Representing the Vitality Tower were Nalan Huaiyu, Chen Zhaoxi, and Meng Qinghua, seated side by side.

Wei Gaowei and Wang Fumi, invited by Li Yibai, also sat at the table, honored by the privilege.

The atmosphere at the other table was far more relaxed. Song Tinglu and Song Tingyue, the outgoing children of Song Zhengxin and Jiang Xiuqing, along with Liu Wanqing, Ye Yan, Ye Geng, Wei Xiaoshuang, Song Xianhu, and the inconspicuous “master-servant” pair Xu Fengnian and Xu Baozao, ate and drank freely, without a hint of tension.

Chen Zhaoxi was the loudest and the worst drinker. After just two or three cups, he was already spouting nonsense, boasting arrogantly about his status as a proud disciple of the Vitality Tower. Fortunately, perhaps out of gratitude for the meal, he refrained from belittling the Sword Pool this time, focusing instead on singing his own and his master’s praises. Nalan Huaiyu, accustomed to his bluster, seemed unbothered—perhaps surviving the Sword Mausoleum had thickened her skin. Only Meng Qinghua occasionally showed exasperation, still unable to stomach his young senior brother’s habit of exaggeration.

That said, if someone as brash as Chen Zhaoxi could genuinely respect and admire the Vitality Tower’s top swordmaster, Zhu, then the man must have extraordinary qualities.

And of course, if even Meng Qinghua, at his age, willingly bowed to this master, it would be stranger if the man were mediocre.

Chen Zhaoxi poured himself another drink, hiccuped, and thumped his chest. “My master has four disciples. Junior Brother Meng is the strongest and oldest—so why does he still call me senior brother? I’ll tell you why! My master says he’d rather have fewer disciples than compromise on quality, and ranks us by talent alone. And me, Chen Zhaoxi—my talent, my potential—my master says I’m…”

He pointed his thumb at himself. “A once-in-a-century genius!”

Song Zhengyi nearly choked, barely holding back laughter.

Song Zhengxin offered a perfunctory smile, while his wife Jiang Xiuqing remained serene, her posture flawless.

Nalan Huaiyu finally had enough. “Half a pound of liquor, and you’re already spouting nonsense? Once-in-a-century? What do you take Li Chungang, Deng Tai’a, and Cui Hua for?”

Chen Zhaoxi deflated slightly but persisted. “Aunt Nalan, then at least once-in-a-decade, right?”

Nalan Huaiyu scoffed. “What about Chen Tianyuan of the Taibai Sword Sect or the young master of the Nanhai Guanyin Sect? Aren’t they stronger than you?”

Chen Zhaoxi grimaced. “So I’m just a once-every-few-years mediocrity?”

Nalan Huaiyu teased, “A life rarely spans a century. A martial genius appearing every three years means you’d still rank among the top grandmasters of an era. And if the martial world keeps losing masters like it did in the last decade, you might even crack the top twenty. That’s nothing to scoff at.”

Li Yibai’s expression darkened. His master, Chai Qingshan, had died during those tumultuous ten years.

Sensing her misstep, Nalan Huaiyu stood and solemnly raised her cup. “Sect Master Li, my apologies. That was careless of me. The late Sect Master Chai was a true hero.”

Li Yibai rose as well, returning the toast. “This cup is to honor Master Nalan, who once fought alongside my master beyond the Northwest Pass, holding back a million Xiongnu cavalry with a single sword!”

At these words, the elegant Jiang Xiuqing was the first to stand and raise her cup toward the northwest, downing it in one go, her spirit blazing.

Song Zhengyi and the two sword-forging masters followed suit. Song Zhengxin, lost in thought, seemed to snap back to reality and hastily stood to join the toast.

The momentum spread, and soon the entire second table rose as well. The young Ye Geng and Song Tingyue seized the chance to sneak a drink, exchanging conspiratorial grins.

Xu Fengnian and Xu Baozao had no choice but to follow suit. The girl tried to sneak wine into her teacup but failed.

Chen Zhaoxi, thoroughly drunk, grew even more brazen. He nearly pointed at Li Yibai as he declared, “Sect Master Li, you’re not a bad sort, but let’s be clear—friendship is friendship, business is business, and the martial world is the martial world. Tomorrow, our Vitality Tower will bring four swords to your doorstep—more fearsome than an army of thousands! Think carefully!”

Most at the table reacted with varying degrees of shock, especially the two Sword Pool elders, who nearly erupted in anger before being restrained by their companions.

Nalan Huaiyu ignored it all, sipping her wine in silence—a woman’s thoughts were as deep as the ocean.

Jiang Xiuqing did the same.

—

Under the serene full moon, when clarity of conscience reigns—poets drink alone, scholars reflect, and swordsmen meditate.

Three guests of the Sword Pool strolled leisurely in the moonlight, all bearing swords but discussing anything but the sword path: the still-charming Nalan Huaiyu, the brash Chen Zhaoxi, and the taciturn Meng Qinghua.

Compared to his daytime bravado, the young man now seemed far more restrained, as if aged a decade in a single night. Worried, he asked, “Aunt Nalan, why didn’t you let me press the attack? Strike while the iron’s hot—even if it’s ruthless, our Vitality Tower needs a grand debut. We can worry about morals later, like merchants who only preach virtue after they’re rich. Even if three more Tower Masters arrive tomorrow, facing the ‘Snow Hut Spear Saint’ Li Houzhong one-on-one, none of us stand a chance. If we’re injured or defeated, our first battle will be a disaster. With Master’s… blunt temper, he’d probably cut my tendons without a second thought…”

The Vitality Tower had nine Tower Masters, ranked from first to ninth: Zhu Huang, Mi Fengjie, Helian Jianchi… Nalan Huaiyu was only the ninth, with just two young disciples of unremarkable talent. Strangely, she seemed indifferent, though her disciples trained relentlessly, as if to compensate for their shortcomings.

Nalan Huaiyu had tried to dissuade them twice, offering heartfelt advice, but they persisted. Since she was naturally lazy outside her own training, she let them be.

The entire Vitality Tower had barely fifty members—far fewer than even the notoriously small Snow Hut. Most Tower Masters had to scour the martial world for promising swordsmen. This time, only three—the “Sword Monk” Cui Meigong, the “Half-Sword of Western Shu” Xie Cheng’an, and the former young master of Apricot Sword Furnace, Yue Zhuowu—had been summoned by Zhu Huang’s messenger pigeons. Nalan Huaiyu was the only one who had volunteered to come to the Sword Pool. Even Mi Fengjie, the second Tower Master and a true grandmaster, had asked if she had unfinished business in the martial world, offering his aid. But Nalan Huaiyu, restless and fearing stagnation, had declined.

Mi Fengjie was the only one Zhu Huang treated as an equal, making Nalan Huaiyu’s influence far greater than her rank suggested.

Nalan Huaiyu hesitated, then sighed softly, gazing into the distance. “The late Sect Master Chai died fighting beyond Jubei City. Though the Nanchao champion Wei Miao also fell in that battle, those who survived share an unspoken bond of respect.”

Chen Zhaoxi frowned. “But of the legendary figures still alive, the Prince of Liang is dead, the Peach Blossom Sword God is missing, the Martial Emperor City’s Yu Xinyang has gone west, the Sword-Eating Ancestor Sui Xiegu seems to have ascended with the previous Guanyin Sect Master, and the blind luthier Xue Songguan has retired with a man named Su Su. The only ones definitely still in the martial world are the Violet Thunder of Huishan, Wu Liuding of the Sword Mausoleum, and the female sword immortal Cui Hua. Given Xuanyuan Qingfeng’s eccentricity and the Sword Mausoleum’s rivalry with the Sword Pool, even if the bond from the Northwest still exists, who can help them now? Distant water can’t quench a nearby fire…”

Nalan Huaiyu shook her head. “The martial world is vast—you might part ways and never meet again. But it’s also small—karma tangles and lingers. Chen Zhaoxi, remember this: never assume luck is on your side. The harder you chase something, the further it slips away. The more you dread something, the sooner it arrives.”