This great river, Qingdu River, runs north to south, its waters roaring and its surface spanning twenty zhang wide. Legend says that ancient Taoist immortals once ferried people across on single green reeds. The young, mad monk’s straight eastward path allowed martial cultivators to anticipate his general route, so a crowd of spectators gathered early along the banks. Initially scattered, they gradually clustered together, fearful of the monk’s unstoppable advance and dreading accidental death. They reasoned that grouping together might increase survival chances, and if they did end up on his deadly path, at least they’d die together, keeping each other company on the Yellow Springs Road.
So, fifty or sixty people huddled close, a mixed crowd of seasoned martial heroes, cautious bandits, fresh newcomers, and young female martial artists whose average skills were still enough to draw attention. Even longtime rivals, who would normally draw swords against each other, refrained from fighting but remained secretly vigilant. Some popular female martial artists either smiled sweetly toward famous heroes or coldly endured the flattery of eager young martial artists. In this era where even those who fought Urban warfare with bricks dared call themselves martial artists, the Yellow River carried both pearls and mud, and one couldn’t expect everyone to be as extraordinary as Li Chungan or Deng Tai’a. Not long ago, a young martial artist with a decent reputation claimed he would emulate ancient heroes and perform a feat similar to crossing the river on a single reed. He actually succeeded, winning thunderous applause. Sadly, within days, fellow martial artists exposed him, revealing he had secretly suspended an iron chain just beneath the river’s surface, allowing him to walk across. He was forced to retreat in shame, lacking even the lightness skills of the third rank, let alone the second.
This is the charm of the martial world—you can never predict what genuine genius might accomplish, nor can you foresee what ridiculous joke will be the next source of amusement.
The young monk, already infamous for his ferocity, suddenly halted, making the spectators who had expected him to cross the river in a straight line shudder in fear. They feared he might be like a passerby who, upon seeing an annoying ant nest, would crush them all underfoot. However, what followed not only relieved their tension but brought a great surprise. Facing the monk, a figure in strange white robes appeared on the opposite shore of Qingdu River. The figure was indistinct, gender unknown, and with a single step, crossed the river. At that moment, the monk, who had just cupped water to his face and regained his senses, lifted his foot and dashed across the river. The two met and instantly parted. The previously invincible mad monk was actually struck sideways by the white-robed figure’s foot onto his bald head. The white-robed figure floated back to the east bank, each step on the ground producing a dull thud. The mad monk was sent reeling back to the west bank, his body swaying like a drunkard or an actor waving his sleeves.
The impact of that single step momentarily stilled the surging river. Only after both had landed did the waters resume their rush.
The young monk, clad in tattered robes, immediately launched a second crossing attempt. The white-robed figure simultaneously intercepted him mid-river, this time striking the monk squarely in the chest. The entire river trembled beneath them. To the onlookers, the white-robed figure was now clearly a heroic and refined immortal, surely centuries old despite his youthful appearance. As for the monk, he was undoubtedly a demonic overlord in saffron robes, a day destined for a clash between evil and righteousness. Both retreated to nearly identical positions as before, so precisely that distant observers could hardly detect the difference.
The celestial white-robed figure remained expressionless, ignoring the old adage that three strikes bring misfortune. The monk, who had once stood beneath the Buddha at Lantuo Mountain, once again swept his wide sleeve and dashed toward the river. This time, the young monk, wearing ragged straw sandals, thrust his palm forward, striking the sole of the white-robed figure’s shoe. This time, their clash sent visible ripples of energy cascading behind them. The monk fell, his straw sandals sliding backward ten zhang across the river surface before drifting back to shore. The white-robed figure retreated slightly slower, but while the monk stood at the river’s edge, the white-robed figure’s landing point exceeded the previous two. This shifting balance made the spectators’ hearts tighten—was it actually the case that righteousness was not enough to overcome evil?
The monk looked down at his hastily woven straw sandals, then unexpectedly fell into thought. In a life-or-death battle between experts, every inch counted. Was this madman, who constantly sang his “Useless Song,” rushing to be reborn? Or did he not even consider the white-robed immortal a true enemy? Was it really as he sang—nothing in heaven or earth could catch his eye? Fortunately, the white-robed figure did not disappoint the onlookers. After three retreats, he showed no sign of fatigue. This time, instead of crossing the river in a single step, he leapt to the river’s center, flicked his foot, and summoned a thick water column as wide as a barrel. The water sword slashed forward fiercely, with the figure following closely behind. The nameless monk, clad in tattered robes and sandals, slowly lifted his head, raised one arm, and covered his hand with his wide sleeve, beneath which his fingers formed a secret mudra. The water sword struck one zhang before the monk, shattering like an egg against a stone, bursting into a shower of droplets. The white-robed figure, rather than retreating, advanced instead, using a demon-subduing mudra to counter the monk’s hidden seal. The two mudras clashed, locked in stalemate, when the white-robed figure suddenly lashed out with a whip-like kick. The monk smiled calmly, allowing the kick to strike his neck. His body spun midair and landed cross-legged, fingers curled into a luminous ring, exuding a wondrous aura.
The white-robed figure finally showed true anger, speaking coldly for the first time, “Five-Character Great Seal!”
The monk once again endured the strike, remaining cross-legged, his body spinning into the river’s surface, where he sat unmoving as the waters surged southward. The white-robed figure retreated one zhang east of where the monk sat, raised his right hand, and forcibly pulled a water sword from the river. The woman who had once dueled Deng Tai’a in Dunhuang now swung the water blade down upon the monk, the so-called “Immovable Buddha of the World.” The water sword shattered, and whether it was the holy monk of Lantuo or Liu Songtao, the madman of the Devil Sect, half his body sank into the water. He lay down facing south, resting his head on his right hand, exuding a serene and blissful aura. Though he had attained great freedom, the river’s surface erupted into countless droplets. Perhaps annoyed by the noisy spectators watching from the shore, shouting in alarm, the woman known as Luoyang, who had slaughtered her way to the Northern Liang Empress and Tuoba Pusa, casually flicked her wrist. The rain flew like arrows, and all fifty or sixty spectators were destined to perish without exception.
Just then, a young Taoist priest in Wudang robes arrived after a long journey, barely in time to intercept the deadly rain. Standing between the spectators and the flying droplets, he drew a circle with both hands, gathering all the water droplets into a large orb between his palms, nearly as tall as himself, before pushing it into the flowing river.
Luoyang frowned slightly.
The young Taoist priest did not speak to the white-robed figure but instead addressed the mad monk, who had used the moment to slowly rise. He said, “A breeze is useful—it turns my book pages. Kunlun Mountain is useful—I go to the mountains. Green grass is useful—I know its growth and decay. Zen is useful—I seek peace of mind. A great river is useful—one ladle quenches thirst. Sun and moon are useful—they illuminate my true heart. I am here, I go where I must…”
Seemingly nonsense, the Wudang priest had given his own interpretation of the mad monk’s “Useless Song.” Unexpectedly, as the monk rose, his eyes no longer clouded but clear as a spring, his hands clasped behind his back. In the brief moment between sitting and standing, his appearance changed rapidly, his youth vanishing in an instant. The young monk transformed into a middle-aged man, his previous confusion and haze replaced by a mighty, commanding aura. At this moment, Liu Songtao was the true ninth master of the Devil Sect in his prime. Standing on the river’s surface, he glanced at the young Taoist priest, then turned to face the white-robed Luoyang, smiling lightly, “The martial world today is truly a sight to behold. I remember when Wei Cao, the sword immortal who once stood alone among all swordsmen, foolishly flew his sword to Zhulu Mountain and stabbed me in the abdomen. I returned the favor with a sword through his mouth, leaving his corpse hanging on the mountaintop. The enemies I made back then were countless. But when I last walked the martial world, I rarely met an opponent even remotely my equal. That martial world was dull and lifeless. Now, it’s different.”
Luoyang merely responded with a cold snort.
Liu Songtao looked down at his robe, lost in thought.
Shaking his head, Liu Songtao raised his head and laughed, “It doesn’t matter if I can’t figure it out. Since I truly remember who I am, I can’t waste this visit. I don’t care who you are. Since you insist on blocking me, and I don’t know when I might lose my clarity, how about we make a bet? Let’s see if I can reach three hundred li east. If I win, I’ll go to Zhulu Mountain. If I lose, you’ll be the next Devil Sect master after Liu Songtao.”
Luoyang replied calmly, “If you hide and dodge, you won’t make it thirty li, let alone three hundred.”
Behind her, a massive red fish appeared in the distance, with a carp’s body and dragon whiskers.
Liu Songtao burst into laughter, raised his hand, and borrowed a sword from a spectator’s waist. He held the sword across his chest, flicked it with his finger, and the sound did not echo nearby but came from the heavens above, “The world only knows Liu Songtao as a bloodthirsty demon who prefers to kill with his bare hands. Only one person knows the difference between Liu Songtao with a sword and Liu Songtao without. Funny enough, in that generation, including Wei Cao, there were at least five earthly immortals, yet not one was worthy of Liu Songtao drawing his sword after I emerged from seclusion.”
Liu Songtao gazed toward Zhulu Mountain three hundred li away, his eyes soft and entranced.
“You said you wanted to see the Elegance of a sword immortal—I came. Last time, I was six days too late. This time, I might be a hundred years too late.”
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