Xu Fengnian, retaining only the Soul Spirit responsible for cleansing impurities, had already stopped the blood flowing from his brow. The Xu Fengnian beside him, whose soul had returned from an astral journey, bore one Soul Soul and two Soul Spirit. Combined, they still lacked two Soul Soul and four Soul Spirit, yet were already enough to wound Wang Xianzhi. Xu Fengnian did not think his abilities were small, but verbal debate was of no benefit. Thus, in the face of Wang Xianzhi’s question, he did not engage in verbal sparring with this clearly enraged old scoundrel, but instead openly repaired the physical form gifted by Gao Shulu.
Wang Xianzhi sneered, “So you have no final words to say?”
Xu Fengnian stretched out both hands, covering his face, wiping away blood with his fingers, his eyes clear and sharp.
Wang Xianzhi heavily uttered the word “Good.”
Then the Xu Fengnian who had “returned with sword as a wandering son” saw Wang Xianzhi step forward and hurl a spear forged from celestial lightning.
However, as he saw this scene, the Xu Fengnian with a physical body had already been sent flying backward, crashing to the ground a hundred zhang away. His uncontrollable body even bounced once on the ground, sliding backward another dozen zhang before finally stopping.
Wang Xianzhi’s strike had come too swiftly; the Xu Fengnian standing upright had only seen the lingering afterimage of Wang Xianzhi after he hurled the lightning spear.
The fallen Xu Fengnian slowly rose, bending at the waist. His chest revealed a large area of mangled flesh, with occasional white lightning entwining and crackling. As he extended his hand, countless thin red threads of vermilion snakes floated out along his arm. Where his fingers touched, the red threads and white lightning canceled each other out, showing that the secret technique he had stolen from Han Diaosi’s skull had not yet taken immediate effect.
Wang Xianzhi still held the lightning spear, its aura merely diminished by a fraction.
Another foot-shaped crater appeared before the old man in the sand.
The Xu Fengnian who had just stood upright was struck again by the lightning spear, though this time he did not fall. His head slightly tilted back, he grasped a segment of lightning with both hands, preventing it from piercing his neck. His feet lightly touched the ground like a dragonfly, retreating backward.
The first time he deliberately left himself wide open and endured the lightning strike, Xu Fengnian had relied on Gao Shulu’s unblemished body to attempt to learn more of Wang Xianzhi’s flow of energy. Since Wang Xianzhi’s second spear strike was the same as the first, there was no need to accept every strike as before.
The footprints before Wang Xianzhi grew deeper, and the intervals between spear throws became shorter. The distant Xu Fengnian could only retreat again and again, retreating eight times in succession. The last time, he used the unnamed boxing technique passed down by Wudang’s Hong Xixiang. His waist turned like a central axle, his body revolving in circles, his hands drawing arcs in unison. Lightning followed Xu Fengnian’s body, circling around him again and again. When Xu Fengnian finally stood still, his spine straight, his back upright but not hunched, his hands gently moved up and down. A few inches above his palms, two orbs of lightning flickered, seemingly playful and light, easily causing one to underestimate the thunderous might they contained. Xu Fengnian’s hands traced arcs, the two glowing white lightning orbs merging and gradually dissipating before him.
At the same time, the Xu Fengnian who had returned from the black-and-white annals of history changed expression drastically and began to turn and rush toward “himself.”
The ninth footprint appeared before Wang Xianzhi, who still held only three chi of lightning. Before Xu Fengnian’s soul could collide with his body, Wang Xianzhi had already closed the distance, launching an attack first—whether it was a spear strike or sword strike, none could tell.
This three-chi lightning instantly pierced Xu Fengnian’s body like a knife through tofu. Wang Xianzhi gripped the three chi of lightning that had successfully breached Gao Shulu’s body, lifting it upward and hoisting Xu Fengnian into the air.
What followed was perplexing: before Wang Xianzhi could withdraw the lightning, Xu Fengnian acted first, placing both hands on the seemingly divine weapon from the ninth heaven, kicking Wang Xianzhi in the shoulder, his body drifting two zhang away, staggering. Instead of taking the chance to pull free, he forcefully struck himself, driving the weapon deeper into his body.
Wang Xianzhi did not press his advantage, standing still and nodding, showing an unusual trace of appreciation.
If the boy had pulled out the lightning himself, then those previous eight spear strikes and the final sword strike would have been in vain.
The eight spear strikes had merely been a distraction. The key was that new sword technique Wang Xianzhi had created, originally intended for Deng Tai’a upon his return from seeking immortals.
The world often likened swords to three chi of green blade; Wang Xianzhi’s sword technique was thus named “Three Chi.” In the realm of swordsmanship, the emphasis had always been on intent rather than technique, and the profound meaning of “Three Chi” naturally lay within those three chi. If Xu Fengnian had pulled out the lightning merely to reduce his injuries, he would never have understood its subtlety. Even if he had grasped the meaning of the Three Chi sword technique, what difference would it make? Even if Wang Xianzhi were merely a swordsman, he still had four advanced sword techniques within three chi. He had chosen this move because since Xu Fengnian had wounded him with a single slash, he would repay the favor in kind. Even the size of the wound would be identical. As for the other four sword techniques of the earthly immortals, Wang Xianzhi’s original intent in wielding them had always been to slay a thousand riders with a single strike, regarding court politics as nothing.
Wang Xianzhi came from humble origins, far from the present-day Liyang court’s inclusiveness. It was truly a time when poor families produced no noble sons. He remembered clearly the hardships after he had abandoned literature for martial arts, finally mastering a rough form of lightness kung fu. Afraid to display his skills in the bustling city streets, he could only practice in remote wildernesses, experiencing the sensation of flying over grass and walking on snow without leaving a trace. Exhausted, he would lie beneath the sky and on the earth, using it as his bed and blanket, still remembering the scent of grass and mud and the icy chill of washing his face with snow. Later, by chance, he changed his path to sword cultivation. The joy he felt when he first generated sword qi was indescribable, and even after many years, the memory remained fresh. After that, step by step, he had climbed to the peak of martial cultivation, soaring above the world on the wind, looking around to find no one standing beside him. The things worth remembering had become few.
The two Xu Fengnians stood together, but their souls never fully reunited. Wang Xianzhi’s sword strike had damaged his qi far more than his body. Since Gao Shulu’s physical form could still endure, there was no need for unnecessary fusion. Rushing to merge them recklessly would only be walking into a trap, damaging the originally pristine and invincible body cleansed of impurities.
Wang Xianzhi’s wounds had already begun to sprout fresh muscle and bone like budding shoots on branches. His chest wound was no longer shocking to behold. Now it was Xu Fengnian’s turn to suffer. The red threads of vermilion snakes struggled and clung, still unable to completely purge the residual lightning sword qi.
Suddenly, Wang Xianzhi spoke, “When old man was still a scholar, I had a heart-to-heart with a senior literatus. He said something that, even now, I still remember: ‘Rather than having one’s name recorded in history, better to have one’s head hung at the nation’s gate.’ Yet in that age of chaos, that scholar was merely another casualty of war, never fulfilling his ambitions in court, nor dying a noble death. When I heard of his passing, collecting his remains was nothing more than pulling his body from among a hundred others lying in roadside mud, hastily buried. The sword he wore in life was probably worth only a few dozen taels of silver, but was already taken away, his legacy reduced to a trinket for lesser men to trade for official caps or sake money.”
“Has Wang Xianzhi ever blocked a junior’s path?”
“While old man has guarded the Eastern Sea, has any martial cultivator like Liu Songtao ever dared to wreak havoc in the world during my lifetime?”
“The court is mighty, clad in iron armor with cavalry galloping across the land. The common people are unarmed, and in times of rise and fall, the ones who die most are precisely these innocents. Old man does not expect everyone to face the oppression of a peaceful era’s bureaucracy or the plundering of warlords in chaotic times, nor does he expect all to handle these hardships easily. Old man simply hopes that more people, when cornered and facing death, can take one step forward instead of only being able to kneel and beg for mercy. Old man’s wish is not much—just that one step, one step alone, for the people of this world.”
Xu Fengnian asked calmly, “Why say all this?”
Wang Xianzhi replied indifferently, “Old man has lived too long, seen too much. Usually, there’s little to say to anyone. You, boy, refuse to speak your final words, but old man wishes you to die knowing the truth. If you were merely a noble’s son, inheriting your position through generations of scheming, old man would not waste words on you. Killing you would seem a dirty chore.”
As Xu Fengnian prepared to speak, Wang Xianzhi waved him off, saying, “What you wish to say, old man already knows. But whose fist is stronger, whose words are weightier—that is all there is to it. No matter how eloquently you speak, if old man refuses to listen, that is the end of it.”
Xu Fengnian smiled, saying, “The outcome is not yet decided. Who holds the greater truth remains to be seen.”
Wang Xianzhi neither denied nor agreed, saying, “Old man has spoken his piece. Now, who is more deserving of death shall soon be revealed.”
A hundred li away, a carefree figure with sleeves fluttering in the wind carried the Qie Na spear.
Purple energy came from the west.
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