The wooden sword, once piercing through the chest of Wang Xianzhi, had not yet left its scabbard and hovered quietly beside Xu Fengnian.
Xu Fengnian, riding the sword through the air, laughed and said, “One last round.”
The peachwood sword, sharing a spiritual connection with its master, slowly emerged from the scabbard. At first, it moved sluggishly, but gradually accelerated like rolling thunder, leaving a rainbow mist across the sky, visible even to those unfamiliar with martial arts.
The essence of this sword strike resembled the old servant Huang, known in the jianghu as Sword Nine Yellow, a toothless old man who learned few sword techniques, believing himself clumsy and fearing he might bite off more than he could chew. He walked slowly, leisurely strolling through the martial world, not caring where he went, content as long as he didn’t miss the scenery along the way.
As soon as Sword Nine was unleashed, the peachwood sword vanished. Wang Xianzhi, high above, flicked his fingers several times, employing the art of locating vital points in the Xuan Realm, but failed to sever the crucial energy channel of the sword traversing six thousand miles. Wang ceased his attempts and simply stilled his fingers, not hastily withdrawing but like a scholar hesitating to begin an essay, confronting a difficult topic.
Suddenly, Wang turned his head, and at that moment, a thread of sword qi grazed his cheek, slicing off a few strands of his snowy white hair.
Still, Wang did not flick his fingers again, remaining motionless, then gently stepped back as a thread of sword qi swiftly passed his chest, severing some fibers of coarse cloth.
Thereafter, Wang Xianzhi maintained his curved finger posture, occasionally shifting his feet, narrowly evading hidden threads of sword qi that bore no discernible sharpness.
Internally, Wang Xianzhi felt astonished. He had once faced the second ascent of Huang Zhentu atop Wudi City, and was no stranger to this sword strike. Previously, the eight Xuan Realm swords had not warranted his serious attention. The ninth sword had indeed torn his sleeve, although it was merely a Tianxiang sword strike, yet Sword Nine Huang’s Tianxiang was quite novel. The essence of ordinary Tianxiang experts stemmed from the opening lines of a classical treatise: “When things are not level, they cry out.” Thus, scholars often composed verses at lofty heights, and swordsmen, generation after generation, led the way by wielding their swords to express and resolve injustices.
Wang Xianzhi had once privately told Cao Changqing, “Abandon the nation, forsake books, forget emotions, and practice sword, and surely you will transcend.”
Yet Sword Nine Huang’s ninth sword strike clearly crossed the Tianxiang threshold without reaching the level of a sword immortal, instead giving Wang Xianzhi a sense of unexpectedness, lacking any sense of injustice. At the time, Wang was somewhat taken aback. In theory, a gentle old soul should not be able to master a formidable sword technique, just as the appreciation of undulating landscapes mirrors the principle that sword techniques, too, rely on intricate and unpredictable moves.
The current sword strike was similarly peculiar, lacking the grand momentum of dark clouds pressing over the city and winds filling the tower. Instead, it incessantly darted back and forth, brimming with the mundane breath of barking dogs, crowing roosters, and bustling life, like neighbors quarreling but holding back out of decorum, resulting in nothing but noise and annoyance.
This new sword technique, compared to the old one from Sword Nine Huang, differed only slightly, with the latter being more spontaneous and refined.
An immortal riding the wind on a sword, chilling nineteen states in one night—such words aptly described a sword immortal’s swiftness. The peachwood sword darted around Wang Xianzhi, appearing and disappearing suddenly, covering untold distances—hundreds of miles? A thousand miles?
Wang Xianzhi knew the sword had freely danced around him for exactly three thousand miles! At its farthest, it was nine miles away; at its closest, it brushed past him. Unceasingly darting back and forth, tracing arcs over ten feet or flying straight for several miles, it followed no discernible pattern.
Wang continued to wait, keeping his finger curled but not flicking.
It was only after narrowly missing the peachwood sword for the seventh time, in an instant, that he finally flicked his finger lightly.
His finger struck the air, yet a faint metallic sound abruptly rang before Wang Xianzhi. The farther from Wang, the louder the sound grew, rolling endlessly.
Six miles away, the peachwood sword, ordinary in material yet causing Wang Xianzhi great trouble, exploded midair into a cloud of splinters.
Xu Fengnian, controlling the sword, waved his hand, and the splinters returned from afar, reforming into a sword that gently sheathed itself. After sheathing, it once again dissipated.
The scabbard was a sword tomb.
Xu Fengnian inserted the scabbard into the yellow sand at his feet, clearly deciding not to use it again.
Old Huang never spoke of elaborate philosophies, never saying something like “where the heart finds peace, there is home,” but simply stating, “I’m just an old man who left his hometown; wherever I sleep comfortably is home.” The humble room beside the stables on Qingliang Mountain, where he could sleep soundly, was his home. Resting his head on a wooden box, thinking of the few jars of old wine beneath the bed, he needed nothing else, had nothing more to ponder. Hence, Old Huang’s sword, when unsheathed, feared nothing, and when sheathed, regretted nothing. Thus, on his final journey through the jianghu with sword in hand, sheathing it meant returning home.
We swordsmen are undaunted by death, unreluctant to see our beloved swords break.
Xu Fengnian, possessing merely one soul and two spirits, softly said, “After Sword Nine comes Blade Ten.”
He extended his hand, two fingers together, gently sweeping them to reveal a long blade formed from gathered purple-gold aura, shaped like the sixth-generation Northern Liang saber.
Unorthodox Daoist texts record that the living possess three souls and seven spirits, a belief held with skepticism by many. But Xu Fengnian, who had endured Wang Xianzhi’s celestial and terrestrial pressure, was certain of it, for besides his living body, only one spirit, “Chuhui,” remained. The other three souls and six spirits had each entered their own dreamlike spring and autumn. Xu Fengnian squatted by a pit; when another self emerged, he did not watch the battle but quickly crouched down to breathe deeply, cleansing his body of impurities. Gao Shulu’s body was inherently pure, and Wang Xianzhi’s cunning lay in piercing through his Chuhui, forcefully flooding him with countless impure energies amidst the upheaval of heaven and earth. Gao Shulu’s robust physique could almost ignore ordinary injuries; his recovery speed was so rapid it could leave even ordinary Vajra Realm practitioners in awe. Even if his internal organs were shattered or his heart pierced, he could still survive for hours against natural law.
Black mist swirled around the crouching Xu Fengnian as he focused intently on the cracks at the pit’s edge.
Seeing the small signs reveals the big picture.
After Xu Fengnian became the sixth strongest in the world, many outsiders began studying the martial arts journey of the new Prince of Northern Liang. Most marveled at Xu Fengnian’s ability to learn covertly, unaware of how, after Deng Tai’a and Luoyang’s battle, he had memorized countless tiny grooves carved by their flying swords in the Dunhuang City of Northern Han. Nor did they know how much effort he had spent to grasp Liu Haoshi’s entrance and Song Nianqing’s faltering sword steps. When the peachwood sword, considered Wang Xiaoping’s relic, returned to the peak of the Lotus Mountain, its value lay not in indirectly transmitting sword intent but in seeking clues to explore Wang Xianzhi’s unique energy flow. Xuan Qingfeng’s blocking was merely to repay a debt, to settle matters and cut off entanglements; failure meant everything ended, while success meant he could ride ahead in the martial arts world. However, the subsequent obstructions by Wudang’s sword fanatic and the monk Wu Yong were not so simple. One sought to have no regrets, and the other was praying incense, but undoubtedly, both were trying to find the flaws in Wang Xianzhi, which might not even exist.
Unexpectedly, apart from the girl known as Hehe, Xu Yanbing was next to step forward alone to temporarily block Wang Xianzhi’s path.
He surely harbored the determination to die.
This man once joked that Northern Liang could afford to lose Xu Yanbing but could not afford to lose its Prince.
Though spoken as a jest, it was no laughing matter.
Crouching Xu Fengnian had no time to wipe the blood from his face. At that time, when he endured the compression of heaven and earth, the soles of his boots had already worn through, his feet a bloody mess. When he tilted his head and shoulder to bear the brunt, his shoulder had been ground down to bone. However, after Wang Xianzhi hurled him to the ground, these injuries healed before one’s very eyes, returning to their original state. Yet, the torn shoulder of his robe and the bottomless boots bore witness to the perilous situation at that moment. Now, the Xu Fengnian who could dominate the martial worlds of Liyang and Northern Han—how many could have inflicted such grievous wounds upon him? Besides Wang Xianzhi, who had not yet unleashed his full strength, only Toba Pusa and Deng Tai’a, both determined to fight to the death, could have done so!
Crouching Xu Fengnian continued to fix his gaze on the cracks in the ground, only raising his arm to roughly wipe away the thick blood flowing from his brow when it obscured his vision.
Standing Xu Fengnian grasped the hilt, gazing down at the extraordinary Northern Liang saber, muttering to himself, “This slash was originally meant for Zhao Huangchao.”
He closed his eyes, stepped back a large pace, extending his right palm forward while holding the saber behind with his left.
Winds rose and clouds surged, and yellow sand lifted into the air.
Crouching Xu Fengnian finally stood, seemingly wanting to witness with his own eyes as “himself” delivered this slash. He extended a finger to press against his brow; the blood slowed but still seeped through his fingers, trickling down the face that Northern Liang’s elders said greatly resembled the Queen’s, winding its way along his features.
The slash was unleashed.
First came the sound of continuous thunder, then the saber’s qi slicing a line through the sky.
This was a slash Xu Fengnian had conceived himself. The first half of the technique drew inspiration from observing the grand tide of the Guangling River up close. Before seeing the crest of the wave, the sound of the tide was already like thunder in the ears. Then came the sight of a misty river, a white ribbon stretching across, the crest gradually rising like a row of majestic snowy mountains cascading down from Kunlun Mountain.
The second half of the slash emphasized spiritual intent even more, born from his soul’s journey through the Spring and Autumn period, witnessing firsthand the stirring and tragic final battle at Xilebi. Clad in white, the war drums were beaten; how many armored warriors returned on horseback?
Only after integrating these two aspects did this unprecedented slash emerge. Old Huang never named his sword techniques, and Xu Fengnian had no time to name this one.
This slash was like a bold ink painting on paper, the blade’s edge like a heavy brushstroke, sweeping out a vast arc.
Wang Xianzhi neither dodged nor evaded, placing both hands on the arc’s peak, carried upward by the slash’s force until he vanished into the clouds, completely out of sight.
Higher still, where Wang Xianzhi halted, the severed qi did not dissipate into the ninth heaven but instead, like the Guangling River after the tidal bore had surged past, formed an even more magnificent returning tide at Laosalt Warehouse!
The great tide surged down from the heavens.
Since Wang Xianzhi had smashed Xu Fengnian into the ground amidst layers of killing intent,
It was only fitting to return the favor.
Before Wang Xianzhi could dispel the qi waterfall, Xu Fengnian, having already unleashed one slash, conjured another Northern Liang saber, plain and thick, the first generation of Xu family’s war sabers.
Xu Xiaolong marched out from the two Liaos, advancing southward.
Crossing rivers southward time and again, engaging in hard-fought battles repeatedly, surviving near-death experiences again and again, laughed at by outsiders, mocked as a mad dog willing to bite without even being tossed a bone by the imperial court of Liyang.
Xu Xiaolong never argued with anyone, nor did he ever explain anything to his eldest son, Xu Fengnian, during his lifetime. Xu Fengnian only came to understand the answer during his soul’s journey through the Spring and Autumn period.
Xu Xiaolong had always been a desperate pawn crossing the river, not wanting to die, but not fearing death either.
To hell with the Vision of the world, to hell with emperors and generals, to hell with the rules of the chessboard!
Xu Fengnian, gripping the saber, stepped forward, the blade pointing upward, directly at Wang Xianzhi hidden in the clouds.
Softly murmuring, he said, “Cross the river!”
A black rainbow rose from the ground, inverted.
Wang Xianzhi, resisting the falling waterfall, was struck in the chest by this slash. The two Xu Fengnians standing on the ground could both see the black dot slowly descending under the waterfall, violently struck back by the subsequent slash to a distant height unreachable by sight.
The Xu Fengnian who had traveled through the black and white Spring and Autumn periods sighed softly, saying, “Difficult.”
Xu Fengnian nodded, but soon smiled and said, “But now that old scoundrel won’t dare to use only seven or eight parts of his strength anymore.”
As soon as these words were spoken, a beam of light descended from the heavens, shaking the earth.
Wang Xianzhi, like a celestial deity stepping out of the heavenly gate into the mortal world!
The old man’s chest bore a wound the size of a fist. Even though his physical form, as the strongest in the world, rivaled the peak of Gao Shulu four hundred years ago, the wound showed no sign of healing. Within his flesh, strange sprouts emerged, eerie in their sudden appearance and disappearance.
Even more mysteriously, after Wang Xianzhi was driven into the heavens, he dragged down a spear-like bolt of lightning.
Wang Xianzhi, his shoulders and coarse cloth tattered, asked coldly, “Is that all you’ve got?”
This martial artist, likely surpassing even the Tianren Realm Boundary, who in the world could rival him?
And how much more so could anyone hope to defeat and kill him?
Moreover, Xu Fengnian could hardly wait for the return of his last Soul and Twin Souls, still wandering afar.
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