Sword and sword qi seemed to be painted by a master painter using bold freehand ink splashes.
The intensity of the sword qi was such that Song Nianqing’s second strike had not even approached, yet it was crushed into dust. Instead of retreating, Song Nianqing advanced, his feet hovering no more than a few inches above the ground, shuffling forward for over ten feet. After halting, he twisted the tips of both feet. The soles of his brand-new green cloth shoes scraped up a trail of dirt as he moved. With his left hand he held a sword behind his back, while his right hand first embraced the sword before his chest, then pointed it downward. The blade tip shifted from downward to an upward slash. This upward sweep struck the base of the sword qi, and Song Nianqing’s long sword gradually bent, slowly transforming into a shattered sword stance. The tip never rose above his head. With a light shout, he actually flung the solidified sword aura over his head and behind him, sending it crashing down onto the street, creating a bottomless pit.
The sword of the Sword Pond Sect leader did not extend straight but remained slightly curved in the shattered sword stance. Releasing it, before the blade could fall, the tip of his left-hand sword struck the midsection of the suspended blade in midair, producing a clang like the sudden morning bell of a temple, resonating and echoing. Luoyang advanced unhurriedly, extending an arm to casually wave away a strand of sword qi that had been released from the clashing blades. Song Nianqing swiftly changed from a straight thrust to a horizontal strike. The second sound was like an evening drum—deep and dull.
Morning bells and evening drums—drums to kill, bells to capture the soul. These two sword techniques were ones Song Nianqing had learned twenty years ago when he first stepped into the martial world, wandering across the land. One night, he had stayed at a nameless ancient temple and, upon hearing the morning bell and evening drum, had attained an epiphany.
Song Nianqing repeated the dull, monotonous strikes without pause—instantly one hundred and eight times. Luoyang continued walking forward steadily, and eventually, she no longer even bothered to lift her hands. Continuous explosive sounds rang out before her, and wherever she passed, the area was left in ruins from the bell and drum sword resonance. Originally meant to signal the sound of drums calling for return, forbidding any violation.
But if Luoyang could twice single-handedly cut through the Northern Yan, what were these trivial clanging bells and sword sounds to her?
Song Nianqing’s twin swords could no longer withstand the thousandfold impacts and shattered, falling to the ground. Song Nianqing did not turn back to retrieve swords from his horse. Instead, he formed a sword seal, his hand gestures resembling both Buddhist and Daoist techniques. He summoned the swords from their sheaths—three blades successively leaping from the horse’s side, like a cascade of rainbows landing above Luoyang’s head. Song Nianqing’s beard and hair flared, his green robe’s wide sleeves wildly fluttering, his feet sinking a foot into the ground. Luoyang was practically beyond reason in her arrogance, her hands clasped behind her back. She stomped a foot, shattering a green stone slab beneath her, sending shards flying upward—exactly as she had done in her first clash with Dunhuang’s Deng Ta’a. At that time, she had stomped the ground, sending thousands of raindrops flying upward like a thousand white swords. Each time a blade had rushed toward her, it had been deflected by a stone pellet from a few feet away. In her thirty-step advance, her three swords had already failed over sixty times, their tips broken. Now, the distance between her and Song Nianqing had narrowed to less than ten zhang.
Song Nianqing pressed both hands downward. The three swords, now half their original length, simultaneously lunged toward Luoyang in a final desperate attempt. Luoyang casually swept a hand, effortlessly catching all three dying projectiles in her palm as she continued walking forward. Unlike the first sword she had crushed instantly, these three swords did not sever their connection to qi in her grasp. Instead, their sword qi sprouted like bamboo shoots after spring rain, growing stronger. As Luoyang walked, she glanced down at her palm. Even noticing the phenomenon of the swords swallowing her qi like a snake devouring an elephant, she made no move to counter. The sword qi took root in her hand. Song Nianqing narrowed his eyes, snapped his fingers, and the old horse, familiar with its master’s habits, lightly trotted over to the aged man.
Song Nianqing took down the only sword among his fourteen that bore a tassel—the blade clear and bright like a mirror, hence named Zhaodan (Reflecting Courage). Years ago, when he had brought twelve swords to Wudi City, Song Nianqing had been merely a newcomer to the sword world. Wang Xianzhi had already been recognized as the strongest cultivator under heaven. Yet Song Nianqing had never taken a single step back. Zhaodan had been the first sword he forged himself after retreating into seclusion. Every swordsman was a swordsmith, forging his own sword in the furnace to carry as a companion. Although the Sword Pond was filled with a thousand swords, those were merely for remembering ancestors and reflecting on predecessors. Since Song Nianqing’s time, the Sword Pond forbade any younger generation from venerating the past over the present. Hence, many sword cultivators visiting the pond had spontaneously remarked, “The Sword Pond now has no ancient swords.”
With Zhaodan in hand, Song Nianqing’s spirit soared, his sword heart becoming ever clearer. The white-robed woman advanced step by step, seemingly not initiating an attack but forced by circumstances. Yet in Song Nianqing’s heart, the pressure was immense. The more leisurely and composed her steps appeared, the greater the disturbance to his inner calm. Song Nianqing did not choose any other sword—selecting Zhaodan alone was itself a silent acknowledgment of the woman’s strength.
As Song Nianqing gathered his momentum, he glanced at the mysterious woman. The three swords he had previously summoned into the air were named Tian Shi (Celestial Timing), Di Li (Terrestrial Advantage), and Ren He (Human Harmony)—specifically crafted to target even masters of the Fingertip Heaven or Sky Manifestation realms, capable of forcibly drawing in qi mechanisms, growing stronger the more resistance they met. Each time Song Nianqing devised a new move, he forged a new sword. Over the years, he had diligently forged and nurtured swords, pouring his heart and soul into each of the fourteen blades. Each was paired with a unique technique, making them truly unprecedented “new swords.” If opponents of equal cultivation level underestimated him, they would certainly suffer dearly. Originally, Song Nianqing had hoped to forge twenty swords in his lifetime, reserving the final duel for either Deng Ta’a or Wang Xianzhi. But imperial orders were hard to defy, forcing him to break his retreat. Clad in green, he walked the martial world with his sword. At first, he had not thought the Beiliang heir worthy of all fourteen swords—believing five or six would suffice to decide the outcome.
Suddenly, Song Nianqing’s eyes widened.
“What difference does it make if I give you Heaven, Earth, and Man?”
The white-robed woman sneered coldly. The three swords, flooded with reversed qi, spiraled wildly with thick, arm-sized purple, yellow, and white sword qi entwining around them. Their triumphant cries turned into wails of despair. Like a hungry man finally fed, it was a joyous moment—but dying from overindulgence turned bliss into tragedy.
The three astonishing threads of chaotic sword qi instantly dissipated.
Song Nianqing exclaimed, “What a Sky Manifestation realm! Truly remarkable!”
Only seven or eight zhang remained between them. The Sword Pond leader did not grow angry but smiled instead. Closing his eyes, he gently ran two fingers along the blade of Zhaodan resting across his chest, murmuring, “Old companions, the seven swords before you did not die in vain.”
Luoyang clapped her hands and laughed, “Is this all the Sword Pond’s centuries of heritage can muster?”
Song Nianqing did not open his eyes but smiled calmly, “Watch this old man light a lamp to illuminate the gallbladder and inspect the land.”
The green-robed elder thrust his sword forward. What followed could hardly be described as heaven-shaking or ghost-moving. To an untrained eye, it would have seemed ridiculous—a child barely learning to wield a sword, barely lifting the heavy blade, stumbling forward with chaotic steps and twisted sword techniques. Though his form and sword strikes were chaotic, his speed was extreme. In the blink of an eye, the distance of seven or eight zhang shrank to just two sword lengths.
In sword cultivation, elders always warned never to be controlled by the sword—such swordsmanship could never flourish. Yet Song Nianqing, a grandmaster of the sword, did the opposite. He followed the sword’s lead, without the grand, imposing sword aura or righteous intent. He staggered forward, crooked and twisted, arriving before Luoyang.
Luoyang furrowed her brows and struck out with one hand.
Song Nianqing, pulled along by Zhaodan’s momentum, dodged Luoyang’s strike. The blade flicked toward her shoulder. For the first time, Luoyang stepped off the central line of the street, sidestepping with one foot. She pinched the tip of Zhaodan between two fingers. Before Luoyang could apply more force, the tip twisted, and Song Nianqing spun along with it, blooming into a dazzling sword flower. Luoyang bent her finger and flicked the blade. Song Nianqing immediately withdrew, staggering backward in a half-circle, striking toward Luoyang’s back. This time, Luoyang did not move her feet. She leaned her body backward, narrowly avoiding the strike. Yet the sword qi exploded where she had leaned, like firecrackers. Luoyang’s feet remained rooted, but her body twisted left, barely dodging the elusive, The antelope hangs its horns.-like sword qi. Song Nianqing seized the advantage, wildly swinging Zhaodan. In an instant, the area around them was filled with crisscrossing sword qi, like a brilliant display of clouds and mist.
Luoyang finally took a step forward. The sword qi of Zhaodan began to show its might, tearing apart the street’s ground and the buildings on both sides, raising a cloud of dust.
Luoyang walked and paused, letting the overwhelming sword qi rage, laughing, “Though it seems without pattern, it actually follows the winding veins of the land. You’ve nearly reached the threshold of the Sky Manifestation realm.”
The two returned to their original positions—Luoyang standing in the north, Song Nianqing in the south.
The white-robed demoness, who had shaken both the Northern Yan and Liyang martial worlds, clenched the sword aimed at her throat. Song Nianqing suddenly opened his eyes wide, roared, and stepped forward, pushing the blade tip forward three chi. Calmly, Luoyang took a small step back, the sword now only two chi from her neck. The powerful sword qi blew strands of her hair back from her temples, and the sleeves of her robe flapped violently. Unfazed, Luoyang ignored the blood flowing from her palm and stared at Song Nianqing, smiling as she spoke, “So much finger-pointing to kill the Sky Manifestation—get lost!”
Luoyang clenched the blade and shoved it backward. Song Nianqing, unwilling to abandon his sword, was struck in the chest by the hilt. Apparently angered by his stubbornness, Luoyang fiercely kicked the green-robed elder in the chest.
The soles of Song Nianqing’s cloth shoes were worn thinner by the ground as he flew backward, nearly parallel to the ground, pushing the blade another two chi toward the white-robed woman’s neck.
“I’ll let you keep pushing forward.”
Luoyang actually gripped the blade tip and pulled it another chi closer to her own neck, smirking. Then, with one palm, she struck downward, severing the sword Zhaodan with her bare hand.
With the sword broken, Song Nianqing had no choice but to retreat.
Luoyang did not bother to pursue the fallen. She casually tossed away the broken half, letting Song Nianqing retreat back to his old horse.
Struck in the chest by the hilt and kicked by a foot, blood seeped from Song Nianqing’s lips as he struggled to stabilize his qi.
The old man looked utterly bewildered.
If he had been defeated by Wang Xianzhi, the strongest under heaven, it would have been acceptable. But how could this young woman, unknown in the martial world, be so overwhelmingly powerful?
Had he simply been too ignorant?
The white-robed woman’s next words finally made Song Nianqing lose his temper. Even a swordsman of his stature, standing among the greatest sword cultivators in the world, could not remain calm.
“I’ll teach you how to wield a sword.”
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