Beyond the gorge’s mouth raged a supreme battle between martial cultivators, while along the banks of the Guangling River, dozens of miles from the battlefield, a humble cottage had lost its Taoist priest, who still owed the villagers a dozen peachwood swords. All that remained was a dazed monk. As Wang Xiaoping sat cross-legged, hands folded in meditation, silently watching the river flow toward his final moments, the mad monk finally removed the tattered saffron robe he had carried all the way from Lantuo Mountain and replaced it with clean garments he had just asked Wang Xiaoping to purchase in the market a couple of days prior. The usually stern and humorless middle-aged Taoist even cracked a rare smile, saying it was payment enough—just for collecting a corpse, no need for repayment.
The monk rubbed his bald head, then raised his hand. From the reed beds beside the river, he summoned a single reed leaf through the air. It fluttered down into the river. He stepped onto the water’s surface, lightly treading atop the reeds.
One reed upon the river.
Several boats sailed upstream, wave after wave, one after another. Just having witnessed the fierce battle between two Immortal cultivators, the onlookers were now stunned into numbness again as they beheld this new spectacle. They wondered what great fortune had brought them such a day—truly a time when immortals emerged in droves. But with so many appearing all at once, were hidden sages really so common?
The reed drifted out of the gorge, floating to the center of the river. The now-robedless, useless monk glanced left and right. First, he looked at Wang Xiaoping, then at the old Taoist. Expression calm, he took one step forward—and sank swiftly beneath the river’s surface.
The depths of the Guangling River were murky, the light dim. Searching for a person or object down there was like seeking a needle in the sea. Yet he still landed precisely a few zhang away from a figure clad in purple robes. The Huishan woman’s senses and orifices were all sealed, her body curled like an unborn child, the heavens and earth her parents.
Liu Songtao gazed motionless at this woman.
The old Taoist on the riverbank, who had chosen a solitary, hidden path, had left Longhu Mountain originally intending to see her one last time before death. Looking further back, the reason he had taken up residence at Longhu Mountain in the first place was tied to a secret known to only a few.
A hundred years ago, the three of them had traveled the world together. At that time, he was not yet a monk of Lantuo Mountain—he was the ninth-generation sect leader of Zhulu Mountain, a heretical master unlike any before him, the least like a Zhulu sect leader in history. And that Taoist was not yet the current resident of Longhu Mountain—he was the fourth prince of the Liyang imperial family, widely acknowledged not as the crown prince yet more esteemed than one, excelling in governance, scholarship, and martial cultivation. As for the woman, whose fate would eventually be pitiful beyond words, she possessed neither a face that could topple kingdoms nor a powerful aristocratic background. Yet Liu Songtao, who traveled incognito at the time, had fallen deeply in love with her. But she had loved another—the refined and dashing young nobleman Zhao Huangchao. Liu Songtao had not cared. The three traveled together, and with the two of them by her side, where in the world could she not go? He watched silently as the woman he loved smiled sweetly at another man, and he did not feel sorrow. But when he returned to Zhulu Mountain, entered retreat, and emerged again, he heard the tragic news of Zhao Huangchao’s doing. He descended the mountain in silence, just as he did today, to collect a corpse, to dress her, and carry her back to the mountain.
In his final descent from Zhulu Mountain, Liu Songtao slaughtered countless false paragons of the martial world, countless high-ranking nobles and officials. After each killing, he would turn around, imagining she was standing there, smiling.
Now, Liu Songtao gazed at this purple-robed woman—both her and not her—and tears streamed down his face.
He reached out a hand, attempting to grasp the gently swaying hem of her grand purple robe drifting in the river’s current, then slowly withdrew. His body began to rise, breaking the surface, skimming the water like a dragonfly, laughing aloud and singing.
The river surface thundered like a drum.
“Heaven and earth are useless, beyond my sight. Sun and moon are useless, unable to shine as one. Kunlun is useless, refusing to come to me. Mercy is useless, hidden behind hypocrisy. Purity is useless, sleeves empty and bare. The great river is useless, flowing eastward without return. Wind and snow are useless, offering no warmth. Green grass is useless, withering each year. Karma is useless, all predestined. The martial world is useless, forgotten by all…”
Liu Songtao sang like a monk in sorrowful chant, like a madman beating a drum, leaping toward the riverbank, lowering his head to gaze at the laughing swordsman of Wudang who had met death with a smile. He reined in his arrogance, his lips moving slightly, palms pressed together in prayer, chanting sutras for the fallen swordsman.
Liu Songtao opened his eyes, scanning the surroundings, then gazed up at the sky and laughed loudly, “Meditation is useless—what Buddha can one become?!”
At that moment, Liu Songtao shook his shoulders, and for a fleeting instant, his pale complexion vanished, replaced by a golden-purple aura described in Buddhist scriptures as the mark of a true Bodhi-attained holy monk.
With that shrug, the leader of Zhulu Mountain seemed to be shaking off a heavy burden he had carried for far too long.
The old Taoist Zhao Huangchao narrowed his eyes, his expression darkening. He had already divined that Wang Xiaoping’s peachwood sword, long restrained, was now bearing a great burden, its path leading westward toward the Wudang Mountains of Beiliang.
So, even Liu Songtao, who had hidden away in Lantuo Mountain for a hundred years, had come to stir this murky waters?
Zhao Huangchao hesitated, then finally chose not to stop Liu Songtao from forcibly casting off that invisible burden.
Before moving forward, Liu Songtao turned back one last time, gazing at Zhao Huangchao, the man with whom he had been entangled in love and hate for a hundred years.
Their eyes met.
Liu Songtao sneered, “You’re not even as good as a woman! A hundred years ago, it was so. A hundred years later, even more so. How can Zhao the old villain still live?!”
Zhao Huangchao, who once sent his soul soaring on a dragon to Kuanglu Mountain, remained silent.
A hundred years ago, when Liu Songtao slaughtered mercilessly through the imperial court, Zhao Huangchao had half-pleaded, half-forced the Tian Master of Longhu Mountain to set up a ritual altar, summoning three ancestral masters of recent times to strike down the demon with thunderbolts from ten thousand li away. Though they failed to kill Liu Songtao, they succeeded in silencing the demonic leader of the martial heresy for a century.
Liu Songtao no longer paid attention to this old ancestor, whom the current Zhao emperor knew well but dared not acknowledge, and he dashed forward, chasing after Wang Xianzhi walking along the riverbank.
He had left Lantuo Mountain and entered the Central Plains martial world. Along the way, Li Dangxin of Liangchan Temple had blocked him, the White-Clothed Luoyang had blocked him, Zhao Ningshen, the reincarnation of the first ancestor of Longhu Mountain, had blocked him, and countless martial world experts had tried to stop him.
This time, however, it was his turn to block someone else’s path.
Wang Xianzhi walked unhurried, and soon Liu Songtao caught up to the city lord of Wudi City, who was actually forty years his junior. Though they seemed to walk side by side, Liu Songtao was actually riding the wind, his feet never touching the ground.
Wang Xianzhi did not turn his head, speaking calmly, “The world has changed. A hundred years ago, Liu Songtao could rightly claim to be the greatest in the martial world. But now, not only is there someone surpassing you in sword cultivation, but even Deng Tai’a’s sword techniques are slightly superior. You truly dare to block me?”
Liu Songtao laughed, “The rivers and mountains flourish anew with each generation. Isn’t it a good thing for new faces to rise?”
Wang Xianzhi remained silent.
Liu Songtao gazed into the distance, continuing, “As for what you hope for—desiring that the martial world beneath our feet may thrive for a hundred years, endure for a thousand—it is not that I do not understand. But each generation has its own fate; one cannot force it. Like those wandering strategists of the Qin Dynasty, who roamed far and wide like stray dogs, never imagining that later generations would see powerful aristocratic clans rise, becoming tumors in the eyes of future ages. What you, Wang Xianzhi, see as good may be evil to others. You have conquered the martial world across generations—can you not be content? Why not ascend peacefully to the heavens and let future generations walk their own paths? You might say Li Yufu of Wudang is even more meddlesome, but he is a man of the three teachings, newly entering the world. As for Xu Fengnian, his circumstances are unique, vastly different from yours. How can you compare?”
Wang Xianzhi sneered, “Feasting on the leftovers of Huang Sanjia, aiding Huang Longshi in his tyranny, relying on your reincarnated Immortal identity—do you really believe you are in the right? Wang Xianzhi does not believe in such Reason. If there is justice in heaven, I shall listen only after I ascend.”
Liu Songtao smiled, “I’ve heard much of your recent deeds. Unlike me, or Gaoshulu four hundred years ago, who slaughtered martial experts upon sight regardless of righteousness or evil, you rarely take lives. Indeed, our paths differ; we cannot walk together.”
Wang Xianzhi snorted coldly, “Rather than letting Xu Fengnian’s hard-earned cultivation be wasted beneath the hooves of the Northern Desert, it would be better for him to fight me honorably. At least future generations will remember the Prince of Beiliang. Otherwise, with the Liyang Zhao clan’s despicable virtue, not only will they fail to leave their names in history, even private records will dare not mention them.”
Liu Songtao frowned, asking, “Do you not fear that if the Northern Desert cavalry breaches the northwest gates and invades the Central Plains, even a decade of war would cost countless lives—perhaps not much less than the Spring and Autumn Wars?”
Wang Xianzhi replied indifferently, “The rise and fall of the world—what concern is it of mine?”
Liu Songtao sighed, “Did not Huang Longshi once say, ‘The rise and fall of the world concerns every common man’?”
Wang Xianzhi scoffed, “Fine words from a silver tongue. If no one else speaks against him, do you, Liu Songtao, truly believe they are of use? If you had ascended a hundred years ago, after I ascend, I will strike you down from heaven first.”
Liu Songtao did not anger. After a moment of silence, he felt awe, joy, and admiration all at once. For a time, overwhelmed by emotion, he forgot to ride the wind, unable to speak aloud, only thinking within his heart, *Now I understand what it is you seek, Wang Xianzhi.*
After ascending, I, Wang Xianzhi, shall personally guard the Heavenly Gate, ensuring no heavenly beings interfere with the mortal world. Yet mortal cultivators may still ascend.
Thus, your Li Yufu is merely drawing snakes where none exist!
Wang Xianzhi did not stop, his voice carried through the air to Liu Songtao’s ears, “Now that you are prepared, if you wish to block me, do not worry about that sword wound.”
Liu Songtao silently said, *Well then.*
He drifted forward once more, passing Wang Xianzhi and halting dozens of zhang ahead, turning to face him.
He lowered his head, palms pressed together.
Liu Songtao’s expression was free and unburdened, as if finally released from a lifelong weight. He murmured to himself, “Hiding in Lantuo Mountain, surviving for a hundred years, only to see the one I cherished in my heart once more. Liu Songtao has finally come the time to offer incense to the orthodox Buddhist teachings with true devotion.”
One after another, towering Bodhisattva forms descended from the heavens.
They stood between Liu Songtao and Wang Xianzhi.
This was Liu Songtao’s move to block the path.
The Falling Sword Style.
Offering incense with devotion, bringing down the Bodhisattva swords.
Wang Xiaoping, Liu Songtao—sword immortals, again and again.
Wang Xianzhi instinctively looked up at the sky, as if recalling that no one he had ever owed remained there. Then he turned his gaze toward the place where someone had taken their final rest.
Liu Songtao remained with palms pressed together.
Thus, the grand forms of countless Buddhas and Bodhisattvas rained down ceaselessly upon the mortal world.
Wang Xianzhi clenched his fists, crossing them before his chest, taking a deep breath.
The divine forms descended, wave upon wave, surrounding the old man in a net of heavenly might.
Wang Xianzhi planted his feet, one after the other, with force.
If there is no equal in the mortal world—what is this?
Nothing.
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