The saying that the martial arts of Jianghu are profound and vast was quite dull in the eyes of Wang Xianzhi. The old man had witnessed far too many so-called ultimate techniques and new moves, which were nothing more than old wine in new bottles, unable to escape the rules set by predecessors. Especially for swordsmen, the towering peaks of the ancients were simply too high. Most descendants were still on the path of climbing, and thus any few dozen sword strokes along the way were utterly unoriginal, far from impressing Wang Xianzhi.
Yet for Wang Xiaoping’s half-sword move, the unsheathed beginning and the gathering of the sword, Wang Xianzhi did not take lightly at all. Initially, he intended to use the same method he had used against the woman from Huishan Mountain—relying on his unmatched overwhelming aura to attack from afar casually. However, Wang Xianzhi, who could literally hold mountains in his palms, finally refrained from acting so recklessly. He shifted from supporting the stone with one hand to using both, fingers like iron hooks, his energy seeping into the massive boulder. He first tore it into cracks, then twisted the entire ten-thousand-jin stone into hundreds of fragments. These fragments, though scattered, remained connected by thin threads of energy.
Wang Xianzhi pressed his wrists tightly together, twisted his hands, and the seemingly disintegrating fragments instantly reformed into a circular array of stones. Between the crevices of the shattered rocks, countless thin purple lightning bolts surged wildly. As Wang Xianzhi suddenly spread his hands wide, a flock of dark purple crows, fan-shaped and semi-circular, appeared above the old man’s head.
The crows of stone were not still; each one drew water from below. From the Guangling River beneath Wang Xianzhi’s feet, thick water columns as wide as arms surged upward.
If the crows formed the fan’s surface, then these rapidly rising and spinning water columns became the ribs of the fan.
Wang Xiaoping had descended from Wudang Mountain to hone his sword path. Today, his single sword challenged a mountain, forcing Wang Xianzhi to descend. Yet, an unexpected outsider arrived—also a man who had come down from the mountain. However, his timing coincided precisely with Wang Xiaoping’s sword beginning to rise and Wang Xianzhi’s crow formation. Neither aiding nor hindering the outcome, both men chose, consciously or unconsciously, to ignore his presence. This uninvited guest wore a faded old Taoist robe, washed to a pale white, but not in the style of either Longhu or Wudang Mountains. He appeared to be a middle-aged man in his forties. Approaching within a mile of the Guangling River, he just happened to witness Wang Xianzhi’s fist-energy, a white Rainbow, smashing toward a figure in purple robes. The Taoist seemed not to flee in panic, but instead walked leisurely, yet in the blink of an eye, he reached the riverside. Even as Wang Xiaoping slashed his sword, creating a rainbow arc, the Taoist still did not act, merely halting at the shore and watching the purple-robed woman from Huishan fall into the surging waters below. The Taoist seemed to sigh softly.
The middle-aged Taoist did not leap into the river to save her. Instead, he turned his gaze to the “fan” Wang Xianzhi had so elaborately created. He furrowed his brows. Everyone knew that when the old eccentric Wang guarded Wudi City, he had met countless martial experts, engaging in combat with no need for flashy moves. In short, fighting him was simply unimpressive. Whether it was Cao Changqing, who possessed eight-tenths of the world’s elegance, or the Peach Blossom Sword Sage known for controlling swords better than wielding them, none could offer the spectators the awe-inspiring spectacle of heaven-shaking and ghost-wailing feats. The Taoist remained utterly still, his left hand tracing an arc, creating ripples as if shielding against some invisible force, while his right hand formed rapid, dizzying mudras.
There are three elements in strategy: timing, terrain, and human harmony. The Northern Yan national master Yuan Qingshan excelled in calculating human harmony, Huang Longshi was especially adept at predicting timing, while this Taoist was known for mastering terrain.
Among the remaining Thirteen Armors of the Spring and Autumn Period, this Taoist, who had always remained hidden, was counted among them.
Though appearing to be in his forties, he was in truth over a hundred years old. Yet the path he cultivated offered no hope of reaching the Realm of returning to youth, the realm of immortals. Otherwise, with his extraordinary wisdom, he could have long since returned to simplicity, his freedom rivaling even Lüzu’s legendary act of passing through the heavenly gate without entering. Whether or not he ascended to the heavens, a feat others desperately sought, was merely a matter of his own will. Over countless years, he had seen too much rise and fall. He had debated Dao with Qi Xuanzhen, the reincarnation of Lüzu. He had nurtured a malevolent dragon for the Zhao family of Liyang in Difei Mountain. He had schemed with three generations of Longhu sect leaders. Even earlier, he had traveled the Jianghu with Liu Songtao, the invincible leader of the Zhulu sect a hundred years ago, both as friend and foe. The Taoist ceased his mudras, already fully aware of the battle unfolding before him.
Wang Xianzhi was nearing a hundred years old, having reached the peak of martial cultivation nearly half a century ago. Compared to ordinary men, he had lived far too long, to the point that almost everyone had forgotten that this towering old man had once been a scholar aspiring to serve the imperial court. He had once imitated the refined scholars, wielding a feather fan and silk scarf, pointing at the world with lofty ideals. But due to a series of fateful events, he had cast aside books and brush to enter the Jianghu, never looking back. When the demon Huang Sanjia channeled national fortune into the martial world, Wang Xianzhi had been the first to seize it, nearly like a court minister wielding the emperor’s authority to command the realm. No one could rival him; he could have easily taken the lion’s share and become another Gaoshulu of four hundred years ago or Liu Songtao of a hundred years past. Yet Wang Xianzhi did not do so. Whether it was Song Nianqing, the fearless young newcomer, or Cao Changqing, the newly entered Tianxiang realm, none of these martial talents bearing the heavenly fortune perished in Wudi City.
This time, leaving the Eastern Sea, facing the reckless challenge of Xuan Yuanqingfeng, Wang Xianzhi could have killed her or spared her. But Wang Xiaoping was different. Backed by Wudang Mountain, the people of that mountain would soon face the celestial fisherman, ultimately creating a new structure unseen in a thousand years, separating immortals from mortals. In the future Jianghu, not only would the glorious sight of seven or eight earthly immortals appearing together be impossible, but even one might not remain. The Tianxiang realm itself would become a luxury, and the word “ascension” would fade into oblivion. In such a situation, Wang Xianzhi, who had carved out his own domain with his own strength, naturally detested this outcome deeply.
Wang Xianzhi not only had to block Wang Xiaoping’s next sword stroke upon full unsheathing but also aimed to sever the ties between the sword-obsessed man and Wudang Mountain entirely!
With fists clenched, Wang Xianzhi hurled them forward.
The fan surged forward, overturning mountains and sweeping seas, raising a mighty whirlwind.
Wang Xiaoping still kept his eyes tightly shut. His left hand, with two fingers together, pushed forward along the peachwood sword scabbard. The scabbard slid forward gently.
No overwhelming sword energy surged toward the heavens, no unusual phenomena stirred winds or clouds. Even as the boulders crackling with purple lightning rolled toward him, followed by a towering wave crashing down, the speed of the sword’s unsheathing remained calm and steady.
What followed next was shocking. The Taoist of Wudang was struck through by the storm of stones and lightning, then battered by the crashing wave. Yet, after this round of attacks, the countless fragments did not fall to the ground as expected. Instead, they floated one by one along the riverbank, slowly rotating. The sky above darkened with thick clouds, and then a long, translucent white line appeared, faintly visible, as if descending from the ninth heaven. Slightly tilted, it pointed toward Wang Xiaoping, whose peachwood sword still remained partially sheathed. The end of the white line hung three feet above the Taoist’s head.
It is said in the world that above one’s head, there are gods watching, recording every good and evil deed.
Wang Xianzhi sneered coldly, extended his finger, and lightly snapped the “fishing line.”
The middle-aged Taoist murmured softly, “In the end, Li Chungan could lose to Wang Xianzhi in his time, and Wang Xianzhi himself could lose to a rising talent. But the Jianghu must never lose its vitality. Why is it that Confucian scholars who disrupt laws with their words remain unchanged, while swordsmen who challenge authority with martial might are increasingly suppressed?”
The Taoist sighed, “The young man Xu Fengnian of Beiliang wants to guard the northwest gate, bringing peace to the people of Central Plains. His intentions are not bad. But he is too deeply entangled with Wudang. Once he grows too powerful, he will inevitably join forces with Li Yufu. Thus, two choices arise: not killing Xu Fengnian means a few more decades of peace, while killing him ensures the Jianghu remains the Jianghu, able to coexist separately from even the mightiest empire. Now, someone seeks to fill the well of the Jianghu, and you, Wang Xianzhi, as the guardian watching from the bottom of the well, refusing to accept it, is understandable.”
As he watched the taut white line above Wang Xiaoping’s head suddenly snap, the remaining line violently arched through the air before slowly dissipating into the clouds.
Wang Xiaoping still did not draw his sword.
His fingers had nearly reached the tip of the blade, meaning the scabbard was about to fully separate from the sword.
Whether out of fellow feeling as a fellow cultivator, or simple human compassion, the Taoist could not bear to watch. He turned his gaze to the river surface instead. In truth, if Wang Xiaoping had drawn his sword earlier, merely to break through Wang Xianzhi’s trap, he might have survived. With Wang Xianzhi’s rare temper, he might not have insisted on killing him. But since this sword-obsessed man persisted, Wang Xianzhi would likely truly decide to end his life.
The Taoist cultivated solitude and detachment. Though he understood Wang Xiaoping’s devotion, he found it hard to approve.
Even if it were an Earth Immortal’s sword strike, what difference would it make?
Even if it truly wounded Wang Xianzhi, it would merely show the young prince a tiny crack in his armor, insufficient to stop Wang Xianzhi from heading south to kill.
Is it worth sacrificing one’s life to grant another a slightly better chance?
Suddenly, the Taoist’s eyes widened. Even someone like him, whom Xu Fengnian had cursed as an ancient turtle-like monster, felt a rare shock.
Wang Xiaoping opened his eyes. As the scabbard was about to fall, instead of seizing the moment to draw his sword, he pushed the blade back into the scabbard and whispered softly, “Go.”
The still-sheathed peachwood sword vanished in an instant.
Passengers on many ferries crossing the gorge all screamed at once, for their boats, large and small, had suddenly lost control. Those struggling upstream began rapidly retreating, while those heading downstream shot forward like arrows.
All of this was due to the sudden disappearance of the Guangling River’s waters, bounded by Wang Xiaoping and the gorge’s end.
The river, as thick as a mountain peak, soared into the air, forming a colossal green sword unlike any before or after.
It curved around Wang Xiaoping, then in an instant straightened, its tip pointing directly at Wang Xianzhi, who now hovered above the empty riverbed.
Wang Xiaoping let out a light shout and took one step forward.
At last, the sword was drawn.
A single sword strike made from a section of the river itself!
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