The Taoist watched the sword from the opposite bank, awestruck. Wang Xiaoping’s single sword strike embodied a mastery of sword intent and aura so profound that it could be deemed the pinnacle of swordsmanship in this age, transcending mere classifications of talisman-swords or sword techniques.
One crucial reason why generations of swordsmen could rise and fall amidst the martial world’s shifting peaks lies in the fact that sword cultivation masters, when inspired, often transcended conventional cultivation boundaries. A minor master of the 2nd rank might strike a blow reaching the “Pointing to the Mystical” realm, while a swordsman of the “Pointing to the Mystical” could ascend into the “Celestial Phenomenon” realm with a single strike, even breaking through bottlenecks to reach the level of a terrestrial immortal.
A long azure dragon, vivid and full-bodied, stretching a hundred zhang in length, hovered beside him, as if Wang Xiaoping bore a colossal sword upon his shoulder.
As this Da Xuan Tong practitioner from Wudang Mountain hollowed out a section of the river, the tilted boats on the river surface were swept downstream into the Guangling waterway along with the rushing waters. The spectators bore witness to this breathtaking spectacle, their hearts stirred. Fortunately, Wang Xiaoping’s aura exuded a calm and balanced demeanor, so while the onlookers were astonished, they were not afraid. As the surging waters once again filled the channel, ferry passengers seized the opportunity to catch a glimpse of this immortal display. Some travelers originally heading upstream hastily pulled out silver coins, desperately begging the boatman to turn the vessel around and drift downstream. Their lack of fear stemmed from noticing the sword tip shifting toward the shore, while the old man in the hemp robe who had stood upon the river surface now darted ashore, shifting the battlefield.
As Wang Xianzhi’s toe barely touched the ground, the azure sword came hurtling toward him, the distance between man and blade less than three zhang.
Wang Xianzhi shifted from lightly tapping the ground with his toe to firmly planting his foot, while his other foot’s toe lightly touched the ground behind him. He made no attempt to dodge, instead unleashing a direct punch.
The massive azure sword abruptly “halted” at a distance of one zhang, exploding into a dazzling spray of water, which then dissipated into mist and vanished.
The water curtain formed by the collision of fist aura and sword energy seemed endless.
The hundred-zhang water sword sustained severe damage, visibly shortening before the eyes of the ferry passengers. Soon, ten zhang of its blade had vanished.
Wang Xianzhi remained unmoved, but as his patience wore thin, he no longer wished to stand idle and take the blows. He advanced, shifting his rear foot forward, and swung his left fist outward. The punch’s power was immense, not only shattering the successive waves of new “sword tips,” but also causing the entire azure sword to tremble and waver violently.
Innumerable fine and chaotic sword energies hidden within the great water sword began to shoot outward in all directions, creating a magnificent spectacle.
Later, the ferry passengers, having more or less deduced the old man’s identity as the City Lord of Wu Di Cheng, watched as he advanced step by step, delivering blow after blow. The sword was reduced from ninety zhang to eighty, then seventy. When it was halved to fifty zhang, Wang Xianzhi finally eased his assault slightly. Just like martial cultivation itself, which demands constant progress lest one regress, the moment he held back, the previously obstructed sword momentum, as if waiting for this very moment, surged forth with overwhelming force—far surpassing its previous intensity, as though it had leaped an entire cultivation tier.
Wang Xianzhi slid backward a short distance, lightly leapt upward, and brought down a palm strike upon the massive sword tip. The tip was forced downward, the azure sword piercing into the earth, tearing and upheaving a deep trench. The great blade curved beneath the ground, emerged again, continuing its arc, ultimately forming a vast circle. The sword’s tail lay not far beneath Wang Xianzhi’s feet, while its tip descended from above, once again pointing toward Wang Xianzhi, who had already turned around.
The Taoist, secluded in solitude at Longhu Mountain, was deeply moved. Before his eyes, this sword formation was as precise and flawless as jade. Its essence lay in the outer circle representing the heavens and the inner square symbolizing the earth. The initial sword strike belonged to the Diamond Realm, the river-cutting into a sword was the “Pointing to the Mystical,” and now, half the sword unsheathed, it displayed the grandeur of the Celestial Phenomenon realm. Within the great circle, countless sword energies crisscrossed. In truth, all three realms were united in a single sword strike, executed seamlessly. Even more remarkable was that this incomplete sword strike never showed signs of weakening—the momentum continued to rise. Even Wang Xianzhi had failed to intercept at the critical juncture between the “Pointing to the Mystical” and the “Celestial Phenomenon.” For over sixty years, Wang Xianzhi had never relied on superior cultivation to overwhelm an opponent. He always preferred to engage in equal footing combat, allowing his foes to exhaust their techniques and spirit, so that even in defeat, they would bear no regret. Thus, he had reined in his fist aura in advance, sensing the fleeting moment of Wang Xiaoping’s sword transcending cultivation tiers.
At this moment, facing the fully realized “Circular Jade Sword,” Wang Xianzhi slowly raised his previously lowered hands, summoning two distinct halos of violet and cyan energy, shaping them respectively into a blade and a sword.
The Taoist softly chuckled, “It’s rare indeed to see Wang Xianzhi wielding weapons to face an opponent.”
With a sudden motion of gripping sword and wielding blade, Wang Xianzhi’s already imposing figure radiated a towering aura, like a deity descending from the celestial court.
Yet Wang Xianzhi did not unleash any elaborate or intricate techniques. He merely executed a horizontal slash and a vertical sword strike—cutting the jade disk with the blade and severing the azure water with the sword.
A priceless jade disk shattered as if hurled against a hard surface, the spectacle dazzling beyond words.
The situation shifted so rapidly that even the Taoist, who had cultivated in seclusion at Longhu Mountain, found his vision momentarily blurred. When he refocused, he saw the fifty-zhang-long half-blade of azure light shattered into fragments.
The Taoist had believed Wang Xiaoping’s half-blade of Celestial Phenomenon was the ultimate expression, but he soon realized he had underestimated this Wudang swordsman who had descended the mountain many years ago. Wudang was destined for revival, upheld by the weight of two paths—Heaven’s Dao and Martial Dao. The previous Abbot Hong Xixiang had nearly achieved both, but his descent from the mountain had been too hasty, and his departure from the world even swifter. Thus, Wang Xiaoping bore at least the burden of one sword. Having resided for years within the ancestral Daoist temple of Longhu Mountain, the old Taoist had always felt that Wudang was too steeped in human sentiment, its cultivation aura inevitably inferior to the mist-veiled sanctity of the Celestial Master’s Hall. Yet Wang Xiaoping’s final half-blade caused the old Taoist to reconsider slightly.
Wudang possessed eighty-one peaks bowing toward the Great Summit.
Surrounding Wang Xianzhi were eighty-one swords of varying lengths and thicknesses, each tip pointing skyward—some upright, some slightly inclined—each perfectly mirroring the formations of the eighty-one peaks. The swords’ spiritual resonance and majestic formations aligned so precisely that the observing Taoist could easily discern which peak each sword represented.
Wang Xianzhi softly chuckled. Whether it was Qi Xuanzhen seated high upon the Demon-Slaying Platform or Hong Xixiang riding a crane down to Jiangnan, neither had ever engaged him in “equal combat.” He had always considered it a regret. He had once devised a technique over many years, initially intending it for Qi Xuanzhen. When Qi was said to have ascended to immortality, he turned his attention elsewhere. When at last another swordsman emerged from Wudang to suppress Longhu Mountain, Wang Xianzhi had revived that technique, refining it quietly. But again, he was disappointed, and the opportunity to use it never arose. Since Wang Xiaoping had not disappointed him, Wang Xianzhi no longer restrained himself. He slightly bent his knees, assuming the posture of a king lifting a cauldron, exerting the strength to uproot mountains and rivers. As the eighty-one swords soared toward the Great Summit, an immense cliff—far grander than any boulder—was forcibly torn from its roots.
Towering waves surged, and the earth trembled.
The world mistakenly believed that the divine art of shifting mountains and overturning seas was merely a fantastical tale from ancient legends.
At this moment, the ferry passengers bore witness with their own eyes, their hearts filled with terror. Many knelt in worship at the bow of the boats, too afraid to gaze upon the mountain flying through the sky, blotting out the heavens.
One mountain suppressed the eighty-one peaks.
What was even more unfathomable was that Wang Xianzhi himself was also within the scope of this suppression.
Clearly, Wang Xianzhi intended to assert his dominance over Wang Xiaoping. “This old man brings the mountain. If you cannot shatter it, how can you hope to rival Wang Xianzhi and claim victory!”
A cliffside crashed down.
Dust billowed into the sky on this shore of Guangling River, the deafening roar piercing the ears.
Wang Xiaoping had scooped up a section of the river, shaping it into a colossal sword unlike any other in the world. Yet the true root lay in the wooden sword that had vanished without a trace. A peachwood sword was originally a sacred Daoist talisman for warding off evil spirits. For Wang Xianzhi to suppress it with a mountain was a grave provocation against Wudang Mountain, where Master Lü had attained enlightenment.
Wang Xiaoping’s sword was new. Wang Xianzhi’s mountain was also newly summoned.
Atop this new mountain stood an old man with white hair as ancient as the martial world itself, clad in spotless hemp robes, standing with his hands behind his back.
That half-formed sword strike did not vanish into oblivion. Instead, it pierced through the mountain, leaving only a single sword among the eighty-one.
The water sword was no more than three chi in length, yet its sword energy stretched ten zhang.
From a hundred-zhang azure water sword, only ten zhang of sword energy remained.
Wang Xiaoping appeared to suffer repeated defeats, but to the seasoned Taoist observer, Wang Xianzhi atop the mountain had not emerged unscathed. His coarse hemp sleeves were tattered, and the bending of his knees to shift the mountain had caused his mighty aura to leak outward, tearing the fabric at his knees from tightly woven to loosely frayed.
The Taoist gazed toward the lone flying sword beyond the mountain, his eyes tinged with wariness.
An eye for an eye.
Truly the most stubborn swordsman upon Wudang Mountain, the one who bore the name of “Sword-Crazed.” You, Wang Xianzhi, suppress the sword with a mountain—then I, Wang Xiaoping, shall strike your head with a flying sword.
Those who travel a hundred miles are halfway at ninety. The final ten miles are the hardest, especially when climbing a mountain.
To fully complete Wang Xiaoping’s final sword strike was akin to climbing a mountain—each step more arduous.
So it was with the sword.
And with the swordsman?
Was it not fitting that he made one last ascent to see an old friend?
The Taoist sighed softly—was this the sword heart Wang Xiaoping had finally attained in his lifetime?
Longhu Mountain had seen immortals ascend through the ages. In the past three centuries, its prestige had far surpassed Wudang’s. Yet such a sword had never emerged from its halls.
The old Taoist couldn’t help but feel a tremble in his eyelids.
The sword was unleashed!
Wang Xianzhi roared, charging forward. With each step upon the crumbling mountain peak, he drove a deep crater into the stone, forcing the mountain downward by several zhang. He shattered the sword energy, and with a single palm strike, pushed against the sword tip.
A man may die. A sword may break.
A seven-chi man, a three-chi sword—yet both share one breath.
No retreat!
Sword energy, sword intent, and sword edge—all were destroyed inch by inch.
Wang Xianzhi’s steps slowed to a crawl. His towering frame and mighty hand could only advance by inches.
A hole tore through his palm.
When the world’s greatest swordsman finally shattered the three-chi blade with unmatched might, not only was his palm bloodied and torn, but a thin strand of sword energy pierced his chest, blooming into a crimson flower of blood.
The sword energy vanished behind Wang Xianzhi.
The blade had pierced through him entirely.
The Taoist, sharing the same surname as the imperial Zhao family, let out a heavy sigh. In his lifetime, Wang Xiaoping had one sword strike—truly enough to honor his life and his sword.
Suddenly, the Taoist’s eyes flew open, his heart pounding as he turned toward the riverbank.
Was Wang Xiaoping already dead?
Hardly anyone noticed that during the mountain’s suppression of the sword, a faint light had streaked across the sky and vanished.
It seemed as though someone had returned to the mountain in his stead.
At that moment, the eldest Daoist of Wudang, seated cross-legged, gazed toward the river’s surface, his face pale, yet his expression serene and smiling. That warm smile had never graced his face during all those years upon the mountain. “Little junior brother, I won’t be here to welcome you home.”
Wang Xiaoping closed his eyes, refusing to watch his final sword strike.
Thus, that last blade was Wang Xiaoping’s final act—a sword strike born of regret yet free of shame, a strike from beyond the grave.
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