Xuanyuan Qingfeng watched helplessly as that colossal arc of fist-force surged toward her.
Even in the eyes of a Second-Rank Minor Sage, this mistress of Da Xue Slope might seem barely capable of putting up a fight.
Ordinary martial cultivators often believe that once they ascend to the Heaven-Illuminating Realm by sheer luck, the energy within their bodies will connect with the heavens and earth, becoming inexhaustible and limitless. This belief is not entirely wrong, but only half-correct. Heaven-Illuminating experts are ultimately not immortals freely wandering the mortal world. The great martial sage Ga Shulu once likened this realm to climbing a jade ladder into the heavens. Compared to the next stage—sitting atop the Kunlun peaks and gazing upon the ocean—there is a clear difference. One is still climbing the mountain, while the other has already reached the summit. Thus, if someone were to destroy this ladder to the skies, one would be forced to halt progress. Han Diaosi excels at slaying Heaven-Illuminating experts precisely because his Finger-Sundering Art is best suited for dismantling such ladders. However, while Han must engage in close combat to unravel his prey, Wang Xianzhi is different. Throughout the entire fight, the Lord of Wu Di City never approached Xuanyuan Qingfeng closely. Whether it was his barehanded breaking of chains, the Azure Dragon diving into water, or those two fists thrown, even including the path she walked along the cliff, the distance between them had never been small.
At this moment, Xuanyuan Qingfeng’s mind went completely blank, unable to recall anything. She could not remember the blooming osmanthus trees of Hui Mountain, the lingering fragrance of the girl’s vintage wine, or the stormy rainstorm atop Da Xue Slope.
As she slowly exhaled a last breath, it was as if she had released her final life force, letting the last remnants of her energy scatter. Her violet robe, now nearly drained of strength, fluttered more violently in the wind. Xuanyuan Qingfeng closed her eyes, her heart calm as still water. Her final thought was just two words: mutual release. As a child, innocent and naive, she would often ask her bookish father countless questions. Somehow, she once asked him about love and romance. Her father, who always enjoyed analyzing characters, once explained the word “qing” ( emotion, emotion) by breaking it down into its components: water and heart. He said that when one’s heart becomes as calm as still water, one has truly let go—only then can one say the matter is completely resolved.
Standing atop the cliff, Wang Xianzhi saw the violet robe struck by the rainbow-like fist, furrowing his brows slightly. This woman had achieved an epiphany at the moment of death, but it was too late.
Wang Xianzhi could have changed his mind, shattering the fist-force himself and sparing the woman’s life. Yet the old man, having waited by the Jieshi cliffs for sixty years, had grown weary of waiting for the next rising wave of the martial world.
Just as the white Rainbow fist-force was about to obliterate Xuanyuan Qingfeng, Wang Xianzhi suddenly turned his head, gazing toward the left bank of the Guangling River. In his vision, he saw a middle-aged Daoist priest sprinting toward the ruins of the iron chains that once sealed the river, then leaping high across the wide expanse of water. He landed on the opposite bank atop another iron pillar, moving with such speed that even Wang Xianzhi, who had long been hailed as the unrivaled champion of the martial world, could not help but look on with newfound respect. In terms of lightness kung fu alone, the priest’s single leap across the river far surpassed the mere concept of “leaving no trace upon snow.” But the priest was not done yet. His body arrived before his sword qi did—this was the essence of a true immortal riding a sword. As the priest landed, the powerful fist-force, still surging forward, was abruptly severed in midair without warning, vanishing in an instant. Even if Song Nianqing, the master of the Fourteen New Swords, had attempted to intercept it, the result would not have been so clean. Even if the fist-force were split in two, Wang Xianzhi’s residual energy would have still allowed the front half to crush Xuanyuan Qingfeng to death. Yet now, it had vanished entirely.
Standing proudly atop the cliff, Wang Xianzhi immediately deduced the identity of this sword-wielding Daoist. It was none other than the Sword Obsession Wang Xiaoping, renowned for his pure and focused sword heart. Legend had it that he practiced sword techniques without fixed forms. The Wudang Mountains had eighty-one peaks bowing toward the central summit, each at varying distances. Wang Xiaoping would stand on one peak and point his sword toward another, while a fellow disciple on the distant peak would toss a single leaf into the air. Only when Wang’s sword qi struck the leaf without piercing through it would he consider the practice complete. In the past, when Wang Xianzhi waited in Donghai for the greatest martial experts to enter his city and climb his tower, very few had escaped his notice. Wang Xiaoping was one of them, for Wang Xianzhi had always been curious whether this Daoist, who carried the sword tradition of Wudang, could surpass the unmatched killing aura of Deng Tai’a.
Wang Xianzhi felt no anger at Wang Xiaoping’s sudden appearance, nor any desire to punish the fallen Xuanyuan Qingfeng like a beaten dog. He ignored her as she plummeted into the river below. Even if she survived and transcended her previous limits, achieving a level of martial prowess that would make her untouchable in the future, it no longer concerned Wang Xianzhi.
At this moment, Wang Xianzhi only wished to test Wang Xiaoping’s next sword strike.
Standing on the riverbank, Wang Xiaoping held a simple Daoist peachwood sword in his hand, gazing upward at the old man. Since defeating Li Chungan, Wang Xianzhi had faced no true equals. In the hearts of all sword cultivators, this had been a suffocating reality, for Wang Xianzhi had climbed to the pinnacle of the martial world by trampling the sword path beneath his feet. The sword sects, once proud of holding half the martial world, had been overshadowed ever since Li Chungan’s loss. Even the new Sword God, Deng Tai’a, had failed to dethrone Wang Xianzhi. Then came the great sword masters—Wu Clan’s Sword Tomb, the ancient master of the Sword of Kings; Dongyue Sword Pond’s Song Nianqing—yet none could deliver that one cathartic strike. As long as Wang Xianzhi lived, sword cultivators could not lift their heads. How could there ever be a single sword strike to settle all matters?
Wang Xiaoping had trained with the sword since childhood, always dreaming of challenging the Wu Di City and questioning Wang Xianzhi, the man who once said, “I see sword cultivators as mere performers.” He wished to ask: truly, is there no one among our sword cultivators worthy of standing against you?
Wang Xianzhi called out loudly, “Wang Xiaoping, before I enter the Beiliang territory, I shall wait for only three of your sword strikes.”
Wang Xiaoping did not reply loudly. He lowered his gaze, looked at his peachwood sword, and softly said, “One strike is enough.”
Wang Xianzhi’s journey to Beiliang had not been swift. Too fast, and the long-awaited battle would lose its meaning. But neither could he move too slowly. When that young woman surnamed Jiang had forcibly opened the Heavenly Gate, Wang Xianzhi had paid it no mind. Yet if it were that young man surnamed Xu, the matter would be different. Huang Longshi, that chaotic demon who delighted in stirring up trouble, had transferred the lingering qi of eight fallen kingdoms into the martial world, creating a chaotic convergence of fate. One after another, martial prodigies like Cao Changqing, Deng Tai’a, and Chen Zhibao emerged. If not a once-in-a-century phenomenon, then certainly a once-in-fifty-years marvel. It was as if all the bamboo shoots sprouted in the same spring after the rain, heedless of whether the next year would bring a harvest or not. Among this great surge of talent, that young man surnamed Xu was undoubtedly the latest rising star—yet he stood directly beneath Wang Xianzhi, that evergreen old bamboo.
In truth, Xuanyuan Qingfeng’s defeat was not as unjust as it seemed. Over the years, only a handful had managed to strike Wang Xianzhi directly—Deng Tai’a’s flying sword, Cao Changqing’s sleeve strikes, Gu Jiantang’s Thunder Within Inches, Song Nianqing’s final desperate sword qi, and the dying strike from the Sword Nine Huang array.
Of course, the most recent was the young prince’s fist.
Wang Xiaoping suddenly looked up with a smile and said, “Wang Xianzhi, why do you stand so high?”
Then, he slightly raised his left arm holding the sword, twisting his wrist to point the scabbard’s tip toward the cliff wall, slightly angled downward, as if indicating something. With his right hand, he gently tapped the hilt of the sword.
This sword was one of several newly crafted peachwood swords made that summer. Since it was not made from the superior Feicheng peachwood, its color was only a faint purplish-copper tone, and it lacked the rich fragrance of the finest wood. After living with the useless monk Liu Songtao, villagers nearby, having heard of the protective power of peachwood against evil spirits, had gradually begun seeking him out. At first, only a single fisherman had asked Wang Xiaoping for a peachwood sword. Word spread, and soon villagers came in droves. Wang Xiaoping never refused, but he still owed eight swords to those who had requested them. Peachwood, feared by ghosts, was common among Wudang disciples. Before descending the mountain, Wang Xiaoping carried the sacred sword Shentu, making him an exception. When he first descended, his junior disciple Hong Xixiang had seen him off at the mountain gate, joking that he had carved half a peachwood sword for his senior brother. At the time, Wang Xiaoping, sword in hand, had paid no heed to such a common peachwood blade found both on and off the mountain.
The tip of the peachwood sword lifted slightly after the tap.
“Rise.”
Wang Xiaoping softly uttered that single word.
A moment of silence followed, then a thunderous series of rumbling sounds.
Beneath Wang Xianzhi’s feet, the cliff wall split from bottom to top, as if cleaved by a mighty sword. Rocks tumbled into the river, sending towering waves skyward.
“A rising sword strike with such might—do you intend to follow Li Chungan’s legendary sword-drawing feat? Since you will strike only once, old man, I shall oblige.”
With a carefree laugh, Wang Xianzhi lightly leapt from the cliff. His descent was not swift. Just before his feet touched the water’s surface, a massive rock broke free from the cliffside. Wang Xianzhi placed one palm upon the towering stone and strode across the river toward Wang Xiaoping.
With one hand lifting a stone weighing ten thousand jin, yet upon the river’s surface, only faint ripples formed beneath his feet.
Wang Xiaoping gazed at the strange sight of the rolling stone upon the river, suddenly recalling his senior Senior Brother’s act of halting the surging river. It had not been to show off supernatural prowess before the common folk, but because a sudden storm had endangered several ferryboats. Only then had his Senior Brother blocked the upstream waters until the boats reached safety.
Back on the mountain, Wang Xiaoping had been the most diligent and obsessed among the disciples in martial cultivation. He had always felt his Senior Brothers were too careless about their cultivation. It was fine if they did not pursue immortality, but they seemed far too indifferent toward the words “Wudang shall rise.” His Senior Brother Wang Chonglou always said, “No rush, no rush.” As for that Hong junior Senior Brother who always called him “Senior Senior Brother Wang,” he had often felt a sense of frustration toward him. Yet when he heard that Hong had finally descended the mountain, Wang Xiaoping couldn’t help but wonder whether it would have been better for his junior Senior Brother to remain on the mountain forever, cultivating that indescribable Dao.
Wang Xiaoping became completely absorbed, seemingly unaware of Wang Xianzhi’s approach atop the rolling stone.
Wang Xiaoping smiled, lost in thought.
He recalled his childhood, when his Senior Brother and de facto father, Master Wang Chonglou, would toss him high into the sky, then catch him with a laugh, saying, “Gotcha!”
He recalled sitting on Senior Brother Song Zhiming’s shoulders, watching the sunset atop the Great Lotus Peak. He recalled, as a youth, defeating Senior Brother Chen Yao, who had once been called the most competitive among the disciples. Yet Chen Senior Brother had shown no disappointment, only walking away with his back turned. Later, he heard that Chen Senior Brother had been smiling uncontrollably. He recalled Senior Brother Yu Xingrui, who always visited the purple bamboo grove to chat about amusing stories from the mortal world, regardless of whether Wang Xiaoping was interested or not.
Wang Xiaoping resumed his usual sword grip, stepping back with his right foot and firmly grasping the peachwood sword’s hilt.
Slowly closing his eyes.
On the shore where the middle-aged Daoist stood, the river’s crashing waves began to retreat.
The ancient iron pillars that once blocked the river trembled violently, their foundations cracking inch by inch.
In Wang Xiaoping’s heart, only four words remained.
Wudang has a sword.
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