After leaving Wudi City in haste, the Prince’s entourage witnessed a strange little creature muttering calculations. Suddenly, the creature turned pale, jumped off its horse, rolled on the ground, and cried bitterly, looking utterly pitiful—as if its father, the notorious bandit on horseback, had been slain by righteous martial artists. Xu Fengnian had already learned from Qingyi about the legendary swordsmanship of Deng Ta’ao within the city and the conversation between the Peach Blossom Sword Saint and the little creature. He vaguely guessed the absurd background of this “child.” The little brat rolled around until covered in dust, then stood in the middle of the road, facing the southwest, wiping away tears and snot, and shouted furiously: “That bastard Zhao Huang’gou is acting dishonorably! Why are you targeting Longhushan? Wasn’t it just because the Celestial Master’s Mansion didn’t allow the woman you fancied to come up the mountain to burn incense back then? You, an immortal cultivator for countless lifetimes, why get angry over the quarrels of the younger generation? Don’t think just because you pretend to be Lüzu I won’t dare to speak out! Of course, I’m just reasoning with you—please, for the love of heaven, don’t challenge me to a fight! Nine lotus flowers of fortune! Nine! That was all my savings, and you squandered them all! Do you know how hard I’ve worked to be frugal all my life? Do you?!”
At the end, the child, who kept referring to himself as “this humble Daoist,” began sobbing, his little shoulders trembling, evoking pity and tears from all who heard. Xu Fengnian, amused by the spectacle, glanced toward the bustling crowd at the East Sea, treating it as a momentary diversion. Riding beside Long Yuxuan, he chuckled and asked, “Not going to comfort your son?”
Long Yuxuan, utterly mortified, was at a loss, his face twitching and cold sweat pouring down. What “son” could there be? This fool, whom the new Sword Saint addressed respectfully as an ancient immortal, would be a blessing even if he called him grandfather.
The problem was that the little brat, at this precise moment, turned his head and called out, “Dad!” Long Yuxuan, furious even as a clay statue, snapped back, “Old Ancestor, stop messing with me! I’ll call you my great-grandfather if you want!”
The little creature rolled his eyes and retorted, “Just because I call you dad, you think you really are? Then I’ll go to the capital and call the emperor my grandson—will he really be my grandson? Look at how little ambition you have!”
Long Yuxuan nearly spat blood. If not for the need to maintain his covert identity, he would have dismounted and hung the little brat upside down for a thrashing. Xu Fengnian watched the two bicker like a pair of mismatched companions, his gaze finally settling on the child’s youthful face. He recalled reading in Daoist scriptures about “a hundred years old yet looking like an infant,” a description of the mystical appearance of a true immortal. The Three Talents meeting to form the true infant—this must be what the new Sword Saint Deng Ta’ao meant by returning to simplicity. Sensing the ambiguous gaze from the Prince, the little creature patted his butt, struck a pose of a lofty sage, and instinctively reached to stroke his beard. After a couple of empty strokes, he remembered with a sheepish smile that his current form was that of a child, and thus had no beard to stroke. Unashamed, he swaggered over to Long Yuxuan’s side, climbed back onto the horse, and rode abreast of the Prince, saying, “This humble Daoist is Zhao Xuanyi of Longhushan.”
Though Xu Fengnian had mentally prepared himself, upon hearing the self-introduction of this brat, his heart still quivered. In the current Daoist hierarchy of Longhushan, the four Celestial Masters included the venerable elders Zhao Xi’yi and Zhao Xi’tou of the Xi generation, who were not only exalted in the Zhao family lineage but also held top positions in the Daoist sects across the land. The next generation was the Dan, represented by Zhao Danxia and Zhao Danping. Then came the Jing generation. Apart from Zhao Xi’yi and Zhao Xi’tou, there were still a few old Daoists of the Xi generation in seclusion, though most were not Legitimate Succession (direct disciples), and their abilities were mediocre compared to the two Celestial Masters. But a generation called Xuan, two generations above Xi, had never been heard of outside Longhushan. A person living to seventy was already considered ancient, yet this child before him must be at least a hundred and forty years old. The Prince rode up a hill, seemingly determined to wait here for the old sword saint Li Chungan. The child, claiming to be a Daoist of the Xuan generation, frowned and said, “You’re not leaving? So close to the battlefield, aren’t you afraid that Li Chungan might lose again to Wang Xianzhi? Then you’ll be in serious trouble. Deng Ta’ao killed someone in Wudi City and even gifted a sword—it was clearly a calculated move.”
Xu Fengnian gazed silently at the sea. The yellow pearwood sword box containing twelve hidden swords was left on the carriage. He dared not take Deng Ta’ao lightly, for the man was known for his eccentric behavior, always mixing truth with deception. If he had laid a trap, Xu Fengnian wouldn’t just charge in blindly and bury himself. Earlier, Prince Jing’an Zhao Heng had given him a martial manual from Wang Xianzhi, which he hadn’t rushed to practice. He would wait until he returned to Beiliang and have the Fox-Faced Lady authenticate it to ensure it was safe. Only then would he dare to proceed. If he started by running a thousand miles a day but ended up with shattered meridians and lost cultivation, who would he complain to?
The battle above the East Sea was like thunder and rain, overturning the sea and sky, swords forming a vast curtain. The spectators at Wudi City were stunned beyond words, never imagining martial artists could fight like this. Dozens of martial cultivators who tried to watch closely were torn apart by the sword qi and Aura of Might (battle auras), leaving no trace of their bodies. Wang Xianzhi, the city lord of Wudi, stood tall and broad on the raging waves, his white hair and beard flowing, clad in a black robe, barefoot and hands behind his back. As one thousand eight hundred swords surged toward him, they all shattered three zhang away, falling into the sea. After eight hundred swords, they finally pushed within two zhang of him. Another six hundred swords brought them within one zhang, where the sword qi clashed violently with his fierce aura, creating lightning and crackling sounds that pierced the ears. After three hundred more swords struck Wang Xianzhi’s body, they shattered without leaving a scratch. The observers thought that after one thousand eight hundred swords failed, the old man in the sheepskin coat would be out of tricks. But then, the old man slowly uttered the words, “Sword formed,” and all the broken swords floating in the sea rose again, gathering into a colossal sword of unparalleled might, suspended between the two.
When the sword was completed, the sky split open, and brilliant golden light poured down.
The unassuming old man laughed aloud: “Li Chungan’s sword opens the heavenly gate—can it slay you, Wang Xianzhi?”
Li Chungan’s sword cleaved open the heavens.
Opening the gate to reveal the mountain—Kunlun Mountain.
The group on the hillside watched, entranced. This was the true power of a land-based immortal.
As Shu Xiu, Yang Qingfeng, and even Qingniao instinctively looked up at the climactic duel over the East Sea, a horse’s anguished cry and the clang of a sword being drawn snapped them back. They turned to see the horse ridden by Long Yuxuan and the little creature cut cleanly in half at the waist. Long Yuxuan, who had been watching the battle with great excitement, sat in a pool of blood, bewildered as to why his horse had snapped in two like a chopstick pinched between two fingers. Stranger still, the little Daoist patriarch from Longhushan, whose seniority was terrifying, stood between the two halves of the horse, his expression grim. Meanwhile, the Prince, who had drawn his sword to kill, was forced back by the impact, even drawing out his second sword, Donglei.
Zhao Xuansu, whose youthful face belied his ancient wisdom, smiled faintly and asked, “Xu Fengnian, how did you know I would strike at you?”
Xu Fengnian smiled: “Master Zhao, once I learned of your identity, I wondered—why did the old sword saint Li Chungan merely sense that you were strange, yet fail to detect your immortal-level cultivation? It’s simple: within Wudi City, you had already harbored murderous intent toward me, revealing subtle traces of your energy flow. Originally, you planned to strike while Li Chungan was absent, having me killed by six martial slaves and framing Wang Xianzhi. But you didn’t anticipate that Deng Ta’ao would also conceal his aura and enter the city, exposing your identity. If it had ended there, I would still have held you in high esteem. After all, a Daoist sage descending from Longhushan to adopt Long Yuxuan as a son could be seen as a whimsical journey into the mortal world. Tell me, Master Zhao—was it because of the withered nine lotuses of fortune in the Dragon Pool that you finally decided to kill me without hesitation?”
Zhao Xuansu smiled faintly: “The world outside the mountains says you are all show and no substance, a useless fool. Seeing you in person, I must say I feel a little sympathy for you.”
Xu Fengnian didn’t hide his thoughts and narrowed his eyes: “Moreover, you might not know—before coming to Longhushan, I had dealings with Zhao Huang’gou at Kuanglu Mountain. When you spoke from the heart just now, lamenting on the ground, others might not have understood the gravity, but I listened with cold sweat running down my back.”
Zhao Xuansu smiled, stretched out his arm, and with a single breath, summoned the Qi of the heavens, absorbing the cheap “father” into his young palm. With a bang, the man exploded like a snowball, his body falling to the ground in pieces even more grotesque than the bisected horse. The ancient Daoist, fitting the saying “a thousand-year turtle, ten-thousand-year tortoise,” merely stared at the Prince, not even glancing at the dead Long Yuxuan, and murmured lightly: “Life is impermanent; fortune and misfortune are intertwined.”
Xu Fengnian showed no surprise, nor did he even turn to look at the corpse of the flower-picking rogue who had just become a guest of Beiliang and died so far from home. Not even wiping the blood trickling from his lips, he looked down at the Longhushan ancestor and asked curiously: “I only guessed you would strike, but I still don’t fully understand why you chose to kill. I hope the Master can enlighten me.”
Zhao Xuansu raised both hands and pressed downward. Shu Xiu and Yang Qingfeng, along with their horses, were instantly crushed to the ground as if under an immense weight. The horses were flattened into pulp, and the two Beiliang escorts struggled desperately, blood pouring from their seven orifices, utterly powerless against the Longhushan ancestor.
The Daoist glanced at the East Sea and chuckled: “The Prince wishes to delay time? No matter. I, too, am waiting for the heavenly gate to open. Li Chungan, Li Chungan—you truly are the greatest swordsman in five hundred years since Lüzu.”
Shu Xiu, on the brink of death, spat blood and struggled to crawl forward: “Your Highness, save me!”
Xu Fengnian ignored her and smiled: “So, Master, with such profound skills, you still fear the entanglement of fortune and misfortune, preventing your ascension?”
The Daoist sighed: “How could I not fear? Since matters have come to this, I shall explain. This humble Daoist, Zhao Xuansu, has been on the verge of transcendence for a hundred years. Sixty years ago, it was so. Unfortunately, even after sixty years, it remains so. Just as I struck down Long Yuxuan, I cannot escape the cycle of fortune and misfortune. My Zhao family in the Celestial Master’s Mansion shares the same surname as the imperial Zhao clan. For five hundred years, our fates have been intertwined, like the tortoise and snake of the Black Warrior totem, our fortunes and lifelines already entangled. As the ancients said, even an upright official cannot resolve family matters. Though I understand the origins of fortune, I cannot untangle or cleanse it. When I entered Wudi City and met Deng Ta’ao by chance, I had already abandoned my murderous intent. Your fortune is strong, and your fate unbroken—I would rather play the turtle, hiding in my corner of Longhushan. But when I arrived here, Li Chungan opened the heavenly gate with his sword. If I kill you now, I can ascend. Look—there is the heavenly gate. I once made a wager with Zhao Huang’gou: whoever ascends first loses a seal. If I ascend today, the karmic retribution will fall upon him. If that old bastard dares to keep the seal, he will have to face Zhao Huang’gou. As for you, Xu Fengnian, dying under Wang Xianzhi’s gaze, the Zhao court will use Xu Xiao’s blade to carve away the rot of Wudi City. Evil is best met with evil. This is a small recompense for my old friend Zhao Huang’gou.”
Xu Fengnian chuckled: “Master, you’ve calculated well.”
Zhao Xuansu laughed: “I’ve lived a long life. My Dao may be shallow, but my face is thick.”
The Daoist smiled: “I advise you not to hope the two land immortals over there will notice this commotion. I still have some skill.”
A crescent-shaped Chana spear swept down like a moon arc.
Zhao Xuansu did not move. The spear struck his youthful body, but the next moment, Qingniao spat blood and flew backward.
The Daoist sighed: “What a pity for this young girl.”
Then he turned to the Prince, almost mockingly: “Can you still remain calm?”
Qingniao staggered to her feet, the Chana spear still in hand.
Xu Fengnian glanced at Shu Xiu and Yang Qingfeng, both struggling desperately. He waved to stop Qingniao from fighting to the death and asked: “Must everyone here die?”
Zhao Xuansu nodded.
Xu Fengnian chuckled: “Then let me go first?”
Zhao Xuansu wasted no words. In an instant, he closed the distance, rushing to Xu Fengnian’s side, delivering a killing blow before the Prince could even draw his sword.
“Haha.”
Just as the strike was about to land—
A strange hand blade pierced through from an unexpected angle.
Even a cultivator as high-level as Zhao Xuansu was forced back, a crimson gash appearing on his neck.
He looked up and saw a girl with a rigid smile.
Zhao Xuansu frowned. He saw the sword opening the heavenly gate in the distance, the sea and sky split apart. This was clearly the best moment. He twisted his neck, bones cracking like a string of popping beans.
Zhao Xuansu sneered: “Very well, Prince. You’ve forced this humble Daoist to reveal my true form.”
His bones and flesh, like an old tree in spring, began to grow.
Xu Fengnian said calmly: “A true master hides his abilities. So this is what you meant. As for being a ‘high’ master, you’re not even close. Not even half as high as the old sword saint Li Chungan, let alone the new sword saint Deng Ta’ao.”
Zhao Xuansu, furious, threw his head back and laughed.
“Nephew, that flattery was mediocre at best.”
A familiar, deep voice drifted up from the foot of the hill.
“Giving a sword first repaid half the favor. Killing later repaid the other half. Saving you twice—I’m even with your mother Wu Su now.”
“A true master hides his abilities. A visible master is no master at all. You’re not just not high—you’ve lived like a dog. Deng Ta’ao has come to kill a dog.”
“Since Master Li forged his sword at the East Sea, setting a precedent, I must not disgrace it.”
“Swords rise!”
Zhao Xuansu showed his first sign of panic, shouting angrily: “Deng Ta’ao! How did you know of this disturbance here?!”
“Deng Ta’ao nurtures his swords—how could the world know they’ve reached their peak?”
Standing ten zhang away, Deng Ta’ao spread his hands and smiled: “Emei, Zhuque, Huangtong.”
“Pifu, Jinlou.”
“Tai’e.”
Six tiny swords burst from the box.
They pierced Zhao Xuansu’s crown, both temples, and the three dantians.
“The Dao speaks of great immortals who can flatten the earth and shatter mountains. Why don’t you show me how?”
Zhao Xuansu’s body collapsed, but he stubbornly projected his soul outward!
Like a streak of lightning, it darted toward the heavenly gate.
Deng Ta’ao took one step forward, still smiling calmly: “Wish to ascend? You must ask my swords first.”
“Return!”
The six swords had only pierced Zhao Xuansu’s body, yet they cast six reflections on his soul, golden light bursting forth.
They dragged the soul back into the body.
Xu Fengnian said nothing, raised his blade, and split Zhao Xuansu in two, snarling: “Let me help you ascend!”
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