Shu Xiu stood frozen in place, not daring to move. The water sword shot past just above her head, scattering her raven-black hair. The purple silk ribbon that had held her bun in place fell into the mud, and the deep robe that wrapped around her graceful figure fluttered forward. The water sword was as thin as a thread, yet it carried astonishing sword energy. The deafening roar in Shu Xiu’s ears lingered for a long time.
Even Shu Xiu, who didn’t use a sword and whose face was pale with shock, was stunned. Lü Qiantang, who had devoted thirty years to the study of swordsmanship, was even more astonished, his mouth slightly agape. True mastery in swordsmanship lay not in technique but in the Dao of the sword. The grandeur or frailty of sword intent had no direct relation to the scale of sword energy. The old man in the carriage had just pointed a finger, and that single gesture resembled the famed “One-Line Tide” of the Guangling River in his homeland. Every year on the eighteenth day of the eighth month, the tide was said to be the most spectacular in the world. Lü Qiantang had once built a thatched hut near the Haiyan Pavilion, the best spot to witness the “Midnight Roar of a Hundred Thousand Soldiers,” where he practiced his sword for years, honing his skills with the heavy blade.
Lü Qiantang glanced at the carriage, where the figure of the old man in sheepskin was indistinct. He muttered to himself—none of the six guardians of the Martial Repository were rumored to wield such domineering sword intent. Though he pondered, he dared not let his guard down. Together with Yang Qingfeng, he kept a vigilant eye on the fallen figure in red armor. Lü Qiantang noticed that the seemingly frail middle-aged man, whom he had previously underestimated, had blood seeping from his hands. Unnoticed, he had drawn blood sigils on the back of his hands, and even the pouring rain couldn’t wash them away. Whether they were the Dragon-Tiger Heavenly Master’s talismans or the Maoshan exorcism spells, Lü Qiantang couldn’t tell, as he was no expert in such arts. Meanwhile, Yang Qingfeng crouched on the ground, his fingers digging into the mud, which began to churn. To his astonishment, dozens of silver-white mole crickets burst forth from the withered flesh of Yang Qingfeng’s arms.
Xu Fengnian frowned and asked, “Is this Water Armor dead?”
The old man, who wore a divine talisman in his topknot, took the oil-paper umbrella from Qing Niao and sneered, “Not so easy. Though these five Crimson Armors are far inferior to the one Ye Hongting wore, which was blessed with imperial purple energy, they won’t perish from a mere finger flick. Back then, Ye Hongting, at the Vajra Realm, would exhaust his opponents over days and nights unless someone like Han Shengxuan stripped him of both armor and skin. Otherwise, no matter how severely injured or slain, Ye Hongting would remain unfazed. Condensing imperial purple energy into armor is a divine feat. Now that these five elemental Crimson Armors have gathered, the real show is about to begin. Since I’ve intervened, I might as well see it through. No matter how troublesome, they’re still nothing compared to the nuisance Ye Hongting was back then.”
“Found it,” the old man said, looking eastward.
Qing Niao shot forward like an arrow.
“If you insist on hiding, I’ll destroy one armor first and see if you still have the patience to stay hidden. Without the Water Armor, let’s see how you’ll employ your favorite attrition tactics.” With a single step, the old man glided over Shu Xiu’s head and stomped on the chest of the rising Water Armor—precisely where the water-bead sword had blasted a hole. The shockwave from the old man’s strike sent Lü Qiantang’s Chixia Sword and Yang Qingfeng’s meticulously prepared spirit-summoning exorcism technique flying. To call him unreasonable would be an understatement, yet neither Lü Qiantang nor Yang Qingfeng showed the slightest resentment, merely retreating swiftly.
The old man, still holding the umbrella, stomped again, driving the Water Armor’s head deep into the mud. Then, in an instant, he closed the umbrella and wielded it like a sword. This time, the sword intent surpassed even the earlier water-bead dragon. The torrential rain swirled around the umbrella, forming a massive waterspout beside the old man. Whispering, he uttered, “One Sword to Make Immortals Kneel.”
The umbrella, like a silver river, plunged into the Water Armor’s skull. The downpour on the path abruptly halted, the raindrops rebounding upward as if defying the heavens.
With a soft snap, the old man reopened the oil-paper umbrella and leisurely strolled back to the carriage.
Qing Niao returned lightly, shaking her head. “The enemy has retreated.”
Xu Fengnian, still mounted and with eyes closed in concentration, thought to himself: *Was that a strike only a Land Immortal could unleash?*
*It’s good I chose the saber over the sword. Had I learned the sword first and witnessed these two Xuanzhi-level strikes today, I’d have been left with an insurmountable shadow. Though I’m still far from grasping sword heart, sword energy, or sword intent, I might never have dared to wield a sword again. In the rivalry between saber and sword, while the numbers of first-rate masters are comparable, the very pinnacle of swordsmen have always overshadowed saber masters. Especially those hailed as Sword Gods throughout history—each was nearly peerless in martial arts. The previous generation’s Li Chungang was invincible with his Wooden Ox. The current era’s top swordsman, Deng Tai’a, dares anyone to challenge him with just a peach blossom. Even the arrogant Cao Guanzi admitted that while he stood above the other eight great masters, he felt ashamed only to follow Deng Tai’a. Such words alone drew a clear line between Wang Xianzhi, Deng Tai’a, and the rest, including Cao Guanzi. Wang Xianzhi was already seen as a transcendent figure, a once-in-five-centuries prodigy. But Deng Tai’a was different—he still carried a trace of mortal aura. The Peach Blossom Sword God was a legend even within the imperial palace.*
Xu Fengnian asked softly, “Is the Water Armor dead? Has the mastermind retreated?”
The old man, still basking in the glory of his swordless strikes, ignored the young master. Instead, he grinned at Jiang Ni, who hadn’t seen much of the spectacle, and asked, “Little girl, was that impressive enough for you?”
Jiang Ni had only vaguely glimpsed the colossal waterspout from afar. Being an outsider who only appreciated the spectacle, her awe paled in comparison to Lü Qiantang and Shu Xiu’s. Besides, she had seen grander displays before! The twin sabers of Bai Hu’er, swirling with snowflakes, were far more beautiful—both the blades and the wielder! Thus, the old Sword God’s performance was wasted on her. Seeing her blank, unimpressed expression, Li Chungang burst into laughter and fondly touched the divine talisman in his hair, his mood unspoiled. Back when his Wooden Ox was still intact, he had grown weary of flattery and gasps of admiration. This little girl’s obliviousness was far more refreshing.
Handing the umbrella back to Qing Niao, the old man ducked into the carriage and remarked offhandedly, “Seems the other side isn’t ready to go all-out with you yet. They’ve left behind a Water Armor. If you hurry, you might still uncover some of the Crimson Armor’s secrets. Once the puppet inside loses all vitality, the arcane inscriptions on the armor will vanish.”
Xu Fengnian’s expression was complex. After a moment’s hesitation, he bowed slightly to the old man before galloping toward the spot where the Wood Armor had been slain by the umbrella-sword.
Waving Lü Qiantang and Yang Qingfeng away, the young master crouched before the Crimson Armor. The helmet had been shattered by the sword strike, but the intricate inscriptions on the armor were breathtaking. What was Xu Fengnian most proud of? Certainly not his rudimentary saber skills, but his memory. The Crimson Armor bore Daoist Three Pure Ones talismans and Buddhist Sanskrit mantras, which Xu Fengnian could partially decipher, thanks to his mother’s Buddhist faith and Wei Shuyang’s early teachings on Daoist talismanic sects.
Shu Xiu, mustering her courage, stepped forward to shield the rain-soaked young master, only to be coldly rebuffed: “Get lost!”
Her face stiffened.
Lü Qiantang, the greatsword wielder, smirked faintly.
Yang Qingfeng approached at a respectful distance and said, “Young Master, I have some knowledge of talismanic mechanisms. May I take a closer look?”
Without looking up, Xu Fengnian asked sharply, “Can you prolong the lingering spiritual energy?”
Yang Qingfeng bowed slightly. “I can.”
“Don’t disappoint me.” Xu Fengnian drew the Spring Thunder Saber and lifted one of the Crimson Armor’s arms, scrutinizing every detail. The chest, blasted open by the old man’s finger, was mostly unrecognizable, but the limbs remained intact.
After carefully crouching down, Yang Qingfeng’s expression shifted from surprise to a wry smile. “Young Master, it seems this armored puppet was already dead.”
Xu Fengnian’s hands moved deftly over the corpse, unfazed by Yang Qingfeng’s revelation. “Seems?”
Yang Qingfeng’s heart skipped a beat. “It’s certain.”
Xu Fengnian didn’t press further. “What else do you see?”
Yang Qingfeng stared intently at the armor. “Most of these inscriptions are the work of the Dragon-Tiger Heavenly Masters’ grand alchemists. Unlike the Gezao Mountain sect, the Dragon-Tiger sect cares not for the form of talismans but for the flow of energy—where there’s energy, there’s power. Look at these cloud and pine patterns in ancient seal script—these are the Dragon-Tiger sect’s famed Cloud Scripts, layered sevenfold. Pity they’re not the eightfold Purple Heaven Cloud Scripts that commune with the underworld, let alone the legendary ninefold Celestial Scripts, which exist only in records. These nine-grid talismans, however, are from the Gezao Mountain’s *Lingbao Mountain-Moving Scripture*, evident from the alchemist’s brushwork. As for the Celestial Lord figure on the left leg, that’s unmistakably Maoshan’s high-tier talisman, just shy of divine grade. The Buddhist Sanskrit is beyond my expertise, but I suspect traces of the Shangyin Academy’s Celestial Mechanism Pavilion.”
Xu Fengnian tapped the armor with the Spring Thunder Saber—the sound was crisp, yet the blade left no mark. “What’s this red armor made of?”
Yang Qingfeng shook his head. “I don’t know. This is my first time seeing it.”
The corpse inside the armor gradually crumbled to ash, washed away by the rain into the mud. As the old man had predicted, the inscriptions faded until only the broken armor remained.
Xu Fengnian stood, sheathing the Spring Thunder Saber just as Wei Shuyang and Ning E’mei dismounted behind him. He noticed Ning E’mei’s hand, gripping the halberd, was bleeding profusely, and his quiver held only a few short javelins. The martial commander knelt heavily in the mud, his eyes red as he declared, “I’ve failed you! The Fengzi Battalion suffered over forty casualties and still couldn’t stop the Crimson Armor—only managed to sever its arm! Grant me thirty light cavalry, and I swear I’ll hunt down the assassin! If I fail, I’ll bring you my head!”
Xu Fengnian raised an eyebrow. “You cut off the armored man’s arm?”
Wei Shuyang nodded slightly beside him.
It had been a brutal battle. Though the Fengzi Battalion were light cavalry, they had fought fearlessly against the unfathomable Crimson Armor, their battle formations surpassing Wei Shuyang’s expectations. Ning E’mei led from the front, his halberd sweeping like a tempest, and his thrown javelins howled through the air. Against all odds, he had hacked off the armored man’s arm. Wei Shuyang, though a Daoist recluse, had always underestimated battlefield warriors—until today. Witnessing the indomitable might of seasoned soldiers under a true commander had been a revelation.
Xu Fengnian smiled faintly. “Commander Ning, take the Fengzi Battalion back to Beiliang. I don’t need you risking elite soldiers on Jianghu affairs.”
The burly Ning E’mei lowered his head, planting his halberd firmly on the ground. “I refuse! The Fengzi Battalion refuses!”
Xu Fengnian’s face was impassive. “Not afraid to die?”
Ning E’mei’s voice rumbled like thunder. “When have Beiliang’s Iron Cavalry ever feared death? We only seek death on the battlefield!”
Xu Fengnian mounted his white horse and said indifferently, “Then follow. Ning E’mei, first send the fallen back to Beiliang. I’ll slow my pace for you.”
Ning E’mei saluted and left with his halberd.
The rain continued to pour from the blackened sky as the caravan settled into uneasy calm. Ning E’mei departed to handle the aftermath, Lü Qiantang carried the spoils of the Crimson Armor, Shu Xiu sat dazed on her horse, and the usually aloof Yang Qingfeng wore a rare smile—which only deepened Shu Xiu’s irritation when she noticed.
Xu Fengnian muttered to himself, “Fengzi Battalion… for whom do you seek death?”
※※※
The officials of Yingchuan, who had braved the rain to welcome Beiliang’s second most powerful figure thirty li outside the city, were left dumbfounded when a courier brought news that the young master had already taken a shortcut and arrived at the gates.
Zheng Hanhai smiled wryly and shook his head, saying to Jin Lanting, “Let’s go.”
Deputy East Forbidden Garrison Commander Tang Yinshan spat on the ground and stormed out of the pavilion. “Back to the city!”
Under the fearful guidance of a local clerk, Xu Fengnian arrived at Jin Lanting’s private estate—a sprawling property with deep courtyards, geese, lotuses, and banana trees. It was a serene and scenic retreat, a rare gem in humble Yingchuan. The clerk, too intimidated to speak, treated the young master like a predator. In the bureaucratic world, the gap between officials and clerks was vast, and among officials, ranks were strictly stratified. The sixth rank was a threshold, the third rank a chasm. Only those who reached the third rank—adorned with peacock or leopard insignia—could truly claim prominence. For civil officials, ascending from the third-rank peacock to the second-rank golden pheasant and finally the first-rank crane meant glory for their ancestors.
Xufengnian changed into fresh clothes in his chamber, while Qingniao helped him comb his hair.
Xufengnian pulled out the *Yu Gong Geographic Records* and spread it on the table, pointing at a few prefectures with a chuckle. “Look, the two border states of Yong and Quan next to Beiliang—every single one of the dozen or so officials and generals in power there holds a grudge against Xu Xiao. A third of Great General Gu Jiantang’s old subordinates were stationed in these two states. Within Yong, aside from Yingyuan, we’ll probably get nothing but cold shoulders. But once we leave Yong, things will improve. Over the past two years, Lu Qiuer has smoothed things over, and some of Beiliang’s former generals still hold sway in certain regions. We’ll have to endure a few rounds of toasts, and who knows, there might even be countless maidservants vying to warm my bed. Compared to back when Old Huang and I got robbed of our horses in central Yong and ended up penniless by the time we reached Ji, it’s like night and day.”
Qingniao glanced out the window and said, “Jiang Ni is waiting in the courtyard with a book, holding an umbrella.”
Xufengnian laughed. “That girl’s obsessed with money. Go fetch her in.”
Qingniao led Jiang Ni into the room. Xufengnian pointed at a satchel Qingniao had prepared and ordered, “No reading for now. Grind some ink first—I need to sketch something.”
The room had fine, well-aged xuan paper, though Xufengnian was particular about his brushes. Jiang Ni opened the satchel and picked out a Liaodong wolf-hair brush. But when she saw the familiar Fireclay Inkstone—the very one the Western Chu’s Imperial Uncle Jiang Taiya had ranked second among all ancient inkstones—her breath hitched. She had thrown it into the Wash Elephant Pool on Wudang Mountain as part of their deal. How was it here again? She examined it closely, tracing the inscription on the bottom: *”Who dares challenge the million halberdiers of Western Chu?”* Clutching the inkstone, which stayed cool in summer and warm in winter, she resisted the urge to hurl it at the deceitful, despicable, shameless Crown Prince. Instead, her eyes reddened as she snapped, “What is this?!”
Xufengnian grinned. “I gave it to you, you threw it away. I’m a petty man, so I fished it out of the Wash Elephant Pool.”
Jiang Ni’s eyes welled up, her lips trembling.
Xufengnian mimicked her tone perfectly: *”‘Shenfu is mine! Mine! The Fireclay Inkstone is mine, still mine!'”*
Jiang Ni lunged at the bastard, her voice breaking. “I’ll kill you!”
Xufengnian turned his attention back to the *Yu Gong Geographic Records*, blocking her charge with a lazy outstretched leg. “Enough. Stop fussing. Consider the inkstone a gift.”
Jiang Ni sobbed furiously. “It was always mine, you scoundrel! I’m going to learn swordsmanship from Li Chungang—I’ll stab you through!”
Xufengnian narrowed his eyes, lost in thought.
Ignoring the little clay figure who, lacking sword skills for now, settled for smacking his knee with the inkstone, Xufengnian mused, “Li Chungang? That old man’s demeanor… really doesn’t scream ‘Sword God.'”
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