Chapter 356: You Sever the Stream, I Cultivate My Intent

Cunning often outwits itself.

Xu Fengnian originally relied on a sinister creature to erase his tracks, then doubled back to the Rou Ran Mountains. Although not a permanent solution, if the Tiptoe Hill sent troops to pursue, they would certainly be led on a wild goose chase by the Yuan Ying in red robes. But who could have guessed that Wu He would be waiting for him like a farmer guarding a tree stump? The most dangerous place is the safest one—what a load of nonsense! As Xu Fengnian stood up, the sinister creature had already clung upside down like a giant crimson bat hanging from a tree. Xu Beizhi had also sensed the danger and, in perfect synchrony, tossed his travel bag to Xu Fengnian. As soon as he completed that motion, Xu Beizhi saw more than ten elite riders galloping toward the lower stream, less than twenty zhang away—less than the range of a weak bow.

Those who rely on the mountains live off the mountains. The Rou Ran Mountains are rich in iron ore, and the five major military garrisons are renowned for their heavy-armored cavalry in the Northern Yan imperial court. Among these riders, except for the leading warrior clad in purple robes, who wore a black-sheathed broadsword different from the typical Northern Yan swords, the rest were clad in heavy armor, man and horse alike. Though the forest offered no clear path for their steeds, these riders galloped swiftly, yet made almost no sound—at least none that reached Xu Beizhi’s ears.

Xu Fengnian’s gaze fixed on a black dove perched on the sword-bearer’s hand, and his brows furrowed slightly.

Xu Fengnian was well aware that the Rou Ran Mountains were known for their messenger doves. The one on this man’s hand was a six-year-old “Nu” dove, affectionately called “Blue-Eyed.” Unlike most carrier pigeons, these birds only reached maturity after three years and peaked at six. They were exceptional in both explosive speed and long-distance endurance, especially renowned for their homing instinct. But Xu Fengnian himself had been a spoiled aristocrat raised among falconry and hound fighting, and was no stranger to pigeons. Not to mention the hardships he suffered when hunted by Tuoba Chunsun on the grasslands—he had learned to be cautious, always watching the skies for hawks or messenger birds before daring to return to the Rou Ran Mountains.

The middle-aged man who commanded both Tiptoe Hill and a military garrison was a typical Northern Yan male in appearance, though dressed more like a refugee from the Southern Dynasties. His hand rested casually on the black-sheathed sword, made of black python skin, with a golden silk tassel at the end of the hilt rope. It was Wu He, the master of Tiptoe Hill, who had been observing Xu Fengnian. Seeing the young man slowly strapping a longsword to his back, Wu He’s lips curled slightly. Understanding the young man’s gaze lingering on the dove, Wu He gently shook his arm. The six-year-old dove flapped its wings and took off. But when it rose to the height of the riders’ heads, it abruptly halted mid-air, then dove downward, hovering just three feet above the ground before vanishing like an arrow into the woods.

Xu Fengnian smiled. Without Wu He needing to explain, he understood the trick—this dove’s specialty was flying low.

Wu He, the legendary figure said to have once saved the Northern Yan Empress’s life, turned to Qingniao and asked, “I already agreed to fight you again. Why leave without a word?” His eyes never left Xu Fengnian.

Xu Fengnian answered for her, “If you can’t win, don’t fight. It’s unseemly for a lady to indulge in bloodshed.”

Faced with such a brazenly disrespectful remark, Wu He did not anger, merely chuckling softly, “The arc-spear technique of the Northern Liang King Xiu was meant for desperate situations, a last-resort martial art. Where else could I find such a perfect target? But to be honest, the reason I didn’t kill you outright the first time was because I knew that the swordswoman Wang Xiu had a daughter in her youth. Unfortunately, the girl only displayed four or five tenths of the arc-spear’s essence. I wanted to see the full technique before deciding her fate. Tiptoe Hill is no tavern or teahouse—do you really think you can just walk out? But now, I’m more curious about which school from the Central Plains sent you across the river. To use your Central jargon, shall we exchange a few moves?”

Xu Fengnian feigned reluctance, “Master, you are the head of Tiptoe Hill, a renowned elder of the martial world. Why stoop to quarrel with a nameless junior like me?”

Wu He released the sword hilt, folded his hands on the horse’s back, and lightly tapped his knuckles with one finger, shaking his head, “It’s always the younger generation that surpasses the old. If we judged by age and seniority, everyone could just hide like turtles until they’re a hundred before showing off.”

Xu Fengnian chuckled, “Master, your words are so witty. What a shame we met so late.”

Wu He sighed helplessly, “You say you won’t fight me, but can you at least return those three ancient swords to their sheaths? Their sword qi is quite formidable. If you do intend to fight me, just say so. I’d hate for you to die without even knowing how.”

Xu Fengnian shook his head with a grin, “No fight, no fight.”

Wu He, clearly sensing the sharp sword qi from the three swords, sneered coldly, “You remind me of a man surnamed Dong, the one I despise most in this world. But I only have one daughter to marry off as a safeguard. Your luck is clearly far worse.”

Xu Fengnian still wore that annoying grin, “No worries, Master. Your health seems quite robust. No need to rush into a fight with me. Go back to the mountain and have another pretty daughter. I’ll come find her in eighteen years.”

Qingniao tried not to laugh, but it was difficult. She gripped the end of her spear. Indeed, killing was far more liberating.

Wu He threw his head back and laughed heartily, his eyes turning extremely dark, “Truly, the same mold produced this monkey.”

Suddenly, Wu He’s mount dropped to its knees, its spine snapping in half. A purple blur erupted into the air, instantly hovering before Xu Fengnian, and slashed downward at his head.

The sword was called “Dragon Sinew,” a blade bestowed by the Northern Yan Empress upon her ascension, symbolizing the supreme warrior of the imperial court. Not even the war god Tuoba Boshi had received such an honor.

Xu Fengnian dared not be complacent. His Dahuang Ting cultivation surged to its peak. He raised the Spring Autumn Sword overhead. He had planned to summon the three ancient swords he had obtained from the Qin Emperor’s tomb to stage a clever diversion, but before the three blades, hidden for eight hundred years and now finally revealed, could reach Wu He, the Dragon Sinew’s pressure disrupted Xu Fengnian’s qi, causing the flying swords to falter slightly. Truly unfortunate—to be wielded by a master whose swordsmanship had not yet reached perfection was bad enough; to face such an elite opponent was even worse.

The soil by the stream was soft. With one slash, Xu Fengnian’s feet sank a full foot into the ground. Wu He twisted mid-air, and with a flick of the Dragon Sinew across the Spring Autumn blade’s edge, he sent Xu Fengnian flying sideways.

Xu Fengnian’s feet kicked up dirt as he leapt into the air and stuck to a large tree. While retreating, he did not bother sending the three Qin dynasty swords flying toward Wu He. Instead, with a flick of his fingers, he embedded them into three nearby branches, finally completing the four cardinal directions—east, south, west, and north. Dividing his focus to control multiple swords was out of the question. Xu Fengnian knew that fighting Wu He required undivided attention; any distraction was tantamount to suicide. He merely hoped that when any one sword was thrown, he could quickly switch to another as a weapon. His soft armor would not withstand even one strike from the Dragon Sinew. Even if it didn’t kill him outright, a serious injury would be as good as death.

After the strike, Wu He’s aura surged, a true overlord of the Northern Yan martial world. He intended to play cat and mouse, not rushing to pursue. Standing still, he sneered, “You do have some cunning. Don’t let that be all you have, or I’ll be terribly disappointed.”

Once the battle truly began, life and death hung by a thread. Xu Fengnian had no leisure for idle chatter.

The true martial experts Xu Fengnian truly respected were probably only the old man in sheepskin robes and Lao Huang. Neither were the kind to spout grand theories when they held the advantage, nor did they stubbornly boast when at a disadvantage. They resolved matters with a single sword stroke. To fight fiercely while exchanging idle banter about the weather or philosophizing about life—what kind of indecisive nonsense was that? What had they been waiting for all this time?

In and out, Xu Fengnian no longer tried to control multiple swords. His Spring Autumn Sword now radiated a purple aura extending a full foot beyond the blade. Since ancient times, martial arts duels have always followed the rule: the shorter the weapon, the greater the danger. Like Li Chungan’s famed feat of flying thousands of swords on Snowy Terrace, but even the old sword sage had earnestly taught Xu Fengnian, who loved to show off, that such techniques were useful for cultivating sword intent or intimidating novices, but utterly useless against an equal opponent. Li Chungan gave two clear examples: within a zhang’s distance, he was confident that his “Green Snake from Both Sleeves” could kill any expert who had not reached the level of Immortal on Land, not even sparing the reincarnation of the legendary Lü Zu, for even Qi Xuanzhen would not dare let Wang Xianzhi close in for a full-power punch. But once the distance increased, anyone who had reached the First-Rank could engage in dazzling displays. True life-or-death duels usually ended within a few exchanges after closing in.

In his final sword lesson, the old man in sheepskin robes raised his arm and sword, saying that while “Sword Opens Heaven’s Gate” might seem majestic, it was actually just three feet of sword and three feet of qi. Only with such precision could Li Chungan proudly claim, “I open the heavens and slay immortals.”

Xu Fengnian’s decision to advance rather than retreat pleased Wu He. The Tiptoe Hill master had not had a satisfying fight in years and feared that if the boy simply fled in panic, killing him with the Dragon Sinew would be no fun at all. Moreover, the charm of the martial world lay in the fact that even the most exalted experts could continue to learn and evolve, especially those like Wu He, whose skills had nearly solidified. He had long since memorized every secret manual and killed every worthy opponent, and now sought the rare spark of inspiration from brilliant younger generations. Though such prodigies might still be far from martial perfection, they often possessed those elusive, mysterious techniques that could surprise even the most seasoned masters. Wu He was waiting for that unexpected delight, and clearly, this scholarly swordsman had impressed him.

The sword energy and momentum surged like spring thunder.

This youth had entered the hall of swordsmanship, Wu He had determined the moment he saw him control swords with his qi, but he hadn’t expected the swords to complement each other so seamlessly, creating such a magnificent aura. He was genuinely surprised.

Wu He stood still, maintaining the distance of one Dragon Sinew and one Spring Autumn Sword, willingly becoming a target for Xu Fengnian’s sword energy, unmoving as a mountain.

Wu He had never appeared on the martial rankings, and the reason was simple: he preferred to be the head of a chicken rather than the tail of a phoenix. Until he stood alone at the pinnacle, he would not be content to share the list with younger generations—it would be too shameful. After all, Deng Mao, currently ranked ninth in the world, had once broken his spear in Wu He’s hands. Though Deng’s cultivation soared, Wu He had stagnated at the Zhi Xuan realm for a full decade, unable to break through that final barrier to Tian Xiang. How could such a proud man endure it? His beloved daughter, Wu Que, had married that despicable man Dong Zhuo, which had already left him fuming. The deputy leader, Gong Piao, had died at the Hulu Pass. The guest experts and the mighty warriors from Penglai had suffered heavy losses. Now, encountering this young swordsman who had dared to intrude into Tiptoe Hill, it was his misfortune. What did it matter whose protection he enjoyed or how influential his background was?

Wu He parried the sword energy with one hand on the Dragon Sinew, calmly reminding, “Now it’s my turn.”

Xu Fengnian’s sword momentum had already reached perfection, inheriting Li Chungan’s true lineage of one sword stroke following another seamlessly, without a single flaw. Yet when Wu He lightly flicked his blade, Xu Fengnian’s swirling sword energy, forming a dragon wall, cracked slightly. In an instant, the wall collapsed.

True depth required time and accumulation. Naturally, old ginger was spicier than the young shoots. Xu Fengnian showed no fear. He had not expected the sword energy to disrupt Wu He’s composure. In the brief moment between attack and defense, there might be an opportunity. But against such a sly old fox, Xu Fengnian could not afford to feign weakness. He waited for Wu He’s shift from defense to offense. As the Dragon Sinew tore through the dragon wall, Xu Fengnian retaliated with a single breath, biting down hard and summoning another surge of energy. With the “Fuyao” technique, he launched a close-range, spiraling strike, a sword qi as thick as a dragon’s breath, rising from the earth.

Wu He furrowed his brow. For the first time, his sword techniques grew complex. The spiraling whirlwind was shattered by the Dragon Sinew. He stepped forward, extending his left hand to strike Xu Fengnian’s forehead.

Xu Fengnian flew backward like a broken kite, but in the process, he managed to kick Wu He in the chest.

A dusty footprint marred the expensive purple robe. After flicking away a hidden needle, Wu He gently brushed the dust from his chest. The light kick had been a feint; the real attack was the tiny flying sword aimed at his eyes. Calmly, he said, “So, not only can you control long swords from their sheaths, but you also have short swords hidden in your sleeves. But since I am known as the most senior Zhi Xuan expert in Northern Yan, I do have some understanding of the subtleties of Zhi Xuan. Whether it’s the movement of energy or the more hidden intent, I can predict seven or eight tenths of it. If you don’t believe me, if you have more hidden flying swords, go ahead and send them all out. I’ll close my eyes and not draw my sword. How about that?”

Xu Fengnian slid backward on one knee after landing, coming to a stop in the middle of the stream. Rising from the water, his eyes held a hint of mockery he did not bother to hide.

Wu He understood perfectly and found it even more amusing. This youth was clearly no greenhorn. The usual noble disciples from prestigious sects, having learned a few techniques, would rush to make a name for themselves in the martial world. When suddenly facing a far superior opponent, such psychological tactics would easily succeed, causing them to lose half their momentum before the fight even began, leaving them ripe for the slaughter. Wu He had seen too many such young bulls, all cut down by merciless seniors like himself. That was why he trained martial prodigies at Tiptoe Hill with such cold-bloodedness—either throwing them into the frontlines of the army or sending them to assassinate opponents slightly stronger than themselves. He never pampered them like the Chess and Sword Music Bureau did.

Wu He advanced slowly, the Dragon Sinew’s blade glow even more subdued. “I promise—if you can leave this stream, I’ll let you go.”

Once you start thinking about escape, the fight is already over.

Xu Fengnian exhaled a breath of stale air and directly addressed him by name, “Wu He, you’re a genuine Zhi Xuan expert. Must you keep playing mind games with a junior like me again and again?”

Wu He shook his head, “Killing someone with one strike—that’s something I did long ago. I’ve finally caught a fish in the net. I just don’t feel like killing it quickly…”

As he spoke, Wu He slashed again, his arm swinging wider than any previous move, the force far greater than the initial strike that had snapped the horse’s back.

Xu Fengnian’s internal energy surged, his meridian points like blooming golden lotuses.

He leapt from the water, meeting the slash head-on.

He infused the sword move “Shaking Kunlun” into his technique.

His body barely rose before it fell, sinking into the water. Then, the entire stream, with Wu He and Xu Fengnian as its central axis, exploded outward in both upstream and downstream directions. The final sound reached ears miles away. The axis had already split the stream’s banks, carving deep into the forest.

This slash was no longer the kind of slow kill.

A few days ago, a heavy rainstorm had swept the Rou Ran Mountains, making the stream slightly deeper than usual. After being forced underwater by the slash, Xu Fengnian vanished from sight.

Wu He skimmed lightly over the water’s surface, occasionally slicing downward with his blade.

The once tranquil stream, like a quiet girl washing silk, now churned violently, drenching the banks, carving deep grooves that spread upward, a terrifying sight.

Wu He was patient, slowly slicing through the stream, waiting for the moment the boy, cornered and desperate, would leap from the water.

He was also waiting for the next surprise. He believed this young swordsman still had some secret techniques, like hidden talismans kept for life-or-death situations.

But Wu He began to feel a strange impatience.

At the mature level of Zhi Xuan, there were many arcane techniques—like scooping water with a bamboo basket or gazing at the moon in a mirror. Wu He furrowed his brow.

Nineteen more slashes.

The stream turned murky and chaotic.

Finally, Wu He decided he would not wait any longer.

Xu Fengnian, fleeing like a panicked fish, seemed to be on the brink of death, yet his heart remained as calm as still water.

He borrowed intent to nourish intent.

Sheathing the sword to nourish intent—this was Li Chungan’s unique innovation that had amazed countless sword disciples.

Xu Fengnian had taken it even further, cultivating sword intent to nourish blade intent.

Now he had an even more precise saying: nourishing one’s own intent with another’s.

Old bastard, you slash the stream—I nourish my intent!