Wang Xianzhi looked around with a desolate expression. The Xu Fengnian before him had brought some surprise, but compared to the imagined battle, it was still far from satisfactory. If Chen Zhibao had not left Liang for Shu, if Xu Yanbing had arrived with the Shicha spear, and if the mysterious Luo Yang, who had hidden ties with Beiliang, had joined them, the three of them together to support the young prince, only then could a truly thrilling battle take place. With only two Xu Fengnians appearing, even with layers of hidden tricks, it was still not enough to impress or to fight.
Xu Fengnian raised his head. Above where Wang Xianzhi stood, the sky churned with wind and clouds, and large swaths of colorful clouds rapidly gathered, like immortals spreading out a vast brocade. In the teachings of the Daoist Dan Ding sect, there is a saying, “Three Flowers Crown the Head, Five Energies Pay Homage to the Origin.” Yet the current scene clearly surpassed that. A revered ancestor, who was both a wine immortal, a literary giant, and a swordsman, once left behind the famous verse: “Departing Bai Di amid the colored clouds at dawn, a thousand miles to Jiang Ling in a single day.” Later generations often failed to grasp the true essence and subtlety hidden within. Xu Fengnian sighed. Wang Xianzhi was probably finally unable to contain himself, preparing to unleash his killing move. After taking a life, he would open the heavenly gates himself—not to ascend to heaven in one breath—but to stand guard at the heavenly gate for the martial cultivators of the mortal world.
Xu Fengnian took a deep breath, still not rushing to merge the wandering soul beside him with his own body. Instead, he steadied his breath and stood firm, waiting for Wang Xianzhi’s imminent thunderous strike.
Wang Xianzhi inhaled deeply. His silver-white hair instantly turned dark, and the once-elderly figure now appeared like a man in his prime.
Xu Fengnian did not bother to admire such wondrous transformation. He gently closed his eyes, his face glowing with a purple-gold hue. As he inhaled, his sleeves swelled outward, giving him an ethereal, otherworldly presence. This was the essence of the “Great Huang Ting” manual: “Let the bustling world clamor outside the door; shut it out and you find yourself in a mountain stream.”
Attack and defense each had their own marvels.
In the blink of an eye, more than twenty towering figures of Wang Xianzhi appeared between the two, each slightly different in posture, fully displaying his thunderous charge.
Xu Fengnian was pushed back for the first time, retreating a hundred zhang in one breath. Along that hundred-zhang stretch, over a hundred more figures of Wang Xianzhi emerged in succession, each a clear image.
Xu Fengnian, seemingly unable to fight back, retreated a second time, this time one hundred and fifty zhang.
With each exchange, Wang Xianzhi grew stronger, his forms multiplying. Along the line of attack, over two hundred towering images stood densely packed, not yet fading.
Xu Fengnian, persistently on the defensive, kept retreating. Relying on the sturdy body of Gao Shulou and the defensive wisdom of the “Great Huang Ting,” he showed no sign of collapse. Yet upon closer inspection, the wound from Wang Xianzhi’s three-inch lightning strike had not fully healed. The red serpent threads from the “Cat Man” Han Diaosi’s blood had given up their struggle. However, the blood had no time to seep from the wound—it turned into a faint mist, like boiling water melting snow, leaving Xu Fengnian’s robes still clean.
Wang Xianzhi never ceased his punches. Though he knew the opponent was using his own force to refine the body of Gao Shulou, he was too confident. Let Xu Fengnian borrow the momentum of his fists to temper the unrefined form—he would make him suffer in return. Eventually, one punch would be the final straw that breaks the camel’s back.
Along the line split two miles long on the ground, the number of “Wang Xianzhis” grew endlessly, so many that even the top ten martial cultivators watching would feel their scalps tingling.
But if Wang Xianzhi’s beloved disciple, the female boxing master Lin Ya, had been present to witness each of Wang Xianzhi’s attacking forms, she would have surely benefited greatly, advancing her martial cultivation to even greater heights.
For this was the most supreme boxing manual in the world!
Wang Xianzhi had thrown no fewer than six hundred punches, and Xu Fengnian had accepted every one. Finally, a turning point arrived—the previously lengthening retreat distance began to shorten.
Because of Wang Xianzhi’s incredible speed and relentless assault, even though Xu Fengnian had retreated nearly three miles, not a sound was heard.
Finally, a delayed thunderous explosion echoed from behind the old man.
This was perhaps the common way of the world—first comes lightning, then thunder follows.
“One strike with full vigor, the second weaker, the third exhausted”—this was the natural order.
Yet when the last Wang Xianzhi figure standing began to dissipate, the old man, like a climber pausing for breath, resumed his ascent—and this time, he accelerated.
The previously single-handed Wang Xianzhi now struck with both fists.
The “Drum-Beating Posture!”
Wang Xianzhi’s twin fists struck Xu Fengnian’s crossed arms.
This drumbeat echoed simultaneously with the long-delayed thunder of the punches behind.
Xu Fengnian’s body leaned back, feet rooted, sliding backward at a tilt.
The second Wang Xianzhi figure at the start began to fade, but the real Wang Xianzhi, facing Xu Fengnian, suddenly accelerated. He swung his arm downward, striking Xu Fengnian’s chest with a punch that sent him crashing into the ground. Then, with a kick, he sent the rebounding Xu Fengnian flying another dozen zhang.
Still a foot above the ground, Xu Fengnian extended his hands, fingers digging into the sand to slow his retreat.
On his second journey through the martial world, the old man in the sheepskin robe had once hammered Xu Fengnian’s spirit with over a hundred “Azure Snake” strikes from his sleeves—a unique teaching method of Li Chungan. Later, after eating the purple-gold dumpling offered by the Northern Yan emperor Yuan Qingshan, Xu Fengnian had also asked Xu Yanbing to strike him without mercy, to temper the violent energy within. Though far from a shortcut in martial cultivation, this method, if one could endure it, laid a solid foundation. Now, in terms of sheer force, whether it was Toba Pusa’s fists, Deng Ta’a’s sword, or Gu Jian Tang’s blade, none could match Wang Xianzhi’s punches. Xu Fengnian had only recently inherited Gao Shulou’s body, and had not yet fully integrated its power. Thus, Wang Xianzhi’s assault became the best forging method.
Each generation of Beiliang blades required countless hammerings before they could be forged.
It was done!
As if guided by divine will, Xu Fengnian’s wounds healed seven or eight parts of the way—subtle signs of perfect timing.
He struck one palm against the ground, spun upward, and stood once more before Wang Xianzhi.
Xu Fengnian had gritted his teeth, waiting for this moment. Had Wang Xianzhi not been “fishing”? If the bait was too small, how could one lure the great fish of the Northern Sea known as Kun?
The hundreds of Wang Xianzhis converged into one, and Xu Fengnian charged forward.
Almost simultaneously, the one Xu Fengnian soul and two spirits that had been watching silently merged with his body, returning to their proper place like a wandering son returning home.
If the distance was ten parts, Wang Xianzhi charged six, and Xu Fengnian only four.
Then both unleashed their full strength, each delivering a punch and a palm strike.
Not holding back in spirit or soul, this palm strike was the culmination of Xu Fengnian’s martial cultivation.
Wang Xianzhi, too, no longer held back. Since the day he broke the “Wooden Horse Bull” sixty years ago, the world’s number one had never fought with his full strength—until now, when he finally unleashed his peak power.
Wang Xianzhi struck first, his fist slamming into Xu Fengnian’s forehead.
Xu Fengnian’s palm followed closely, striking Wang Xianzhi’s chin.
Both left the ground simultaneously.
Then, sinking their qi, they returned to the ground, firmly rooted, neither retreating a single step. Xu Fengnian’s head rocked backward slightly, while Wang Xianzhi’s hair, already dark, turned another shade of frost-white.
Neither sought to counter techniques next. They simply kept attacking—Xu Fengnian perhaps willing to perish together, while Wang Xianzhi preferred to kill the enemy at the cost of his own heavy losses.
Wang Xianzhi’s fists kept striking Xu Fengnian’s forehead. Each time Xu Fengnian’s head rocked back, the motion increased slightly. But Wang Xianzhi’s white hair grew ever so subtly, and his hair alternated between black and white, a sign far more dangerous than Xu Fengnian’s gradual decline.
They stood in place, exchanging punches and palms.
Xu Fengnian’s forehead was already dented, but Wang Xianzhi was not unscathed either, his face now marked with bruises.
Xu Fengnian fought fiercely without retreat. From the first palm strike delivering ten parts of force, after over sixty exchanges, he could only muster eight parts.
What was once a fierce battle had become a death struggle.
Xu Fengnian changed from open-palm strikes to fists, naturally extending his reach by two inches.
In this contest of ten parts of strength, Xu Fengnian had already begun to calculate every inch.
Eventually, he had to change his fists into straightened hand-blades, or else he could no longer reach Wang Xianzhi.
If it had been any other opponent, Xu Fengnian, whose cultivation alone could rival the top three in the world, could have wielded a sword with elegance, a saber with might, or fought barehanded with ease. Where would he have been reduced to such petty calculations?
Wang Xianzhi struck with fists from start to finish.
Above the two celestial beings, the colorful clouds churned wildly, gathering and dispersing unpredictably.
When Xu Fengnian’s final hand-blade struck Wang Xianzhi only at the fingertips.
A cold smile flickered at Wang Xianzhi’s lips.
The last gasp of a dying man—merely a final struggle!
The old man had not begun with a death match but had gradually escalated, first offering half a bowl of water, then eight parts of tea, and finally a full cup of wine to the point of intoxication.
Yet even in drunkenness, he had not lost control.
At the moment Xu Fengnian’s head rocked back in a half-circle, Wang Xianzhi’s momentum surged once more.
The final punch!
With eleven parts of his essence and spirit, he sent the young man on his way, not in vain for the old man’s final battle in this world.
Indeed, Xu Fengnian was at his last breath. He no longer struck with the hand-blade but instead summoned every last ounce of energy, charging forward with his head to meet Wang Xianzhi’s fist.
He was struck backward, his face like a porcelain vase on the verge of shattering, with cracks spreading across it, terrifying to behold.
Not only his face, but his entire body suffered the same fate.
Wang Xianzhi, too, was not unscathed. His steps faltered, and he staggered backward.
His arm hung limp, broken.
As Xu Fengnian’s body was about to fall, he smiled.
In an instant.
Not too far away, the carefree one threw a spear of “Shicha”!
After Wang Xiaoping’s death, one sword pierced through Wang Xianzhi’s body.
Following that path, the spear struck Wang Xianzhi’s chest once more, unavoidable.
The “Shicha” spear pierced through Wang Xianzhi’s towering form, its tip burying into the earth, slanting into the ground.
Wrapped in the spear’s rainbow-like momentum, Wang Xianzhi flew backward. Compared to Xu Fengnian, who crashed heavily to the ground, raising a cloud of dust, the old man halted abruptly upon touching the ground, strangely suspended in the air, then slowly stood upright.
Wang Xianzhi looked expressionless, watching the second Xu Fengnian, who had one soul and two spirits, hastily return to his body. Yet he did not stop the countless blood threads from flowing out of his body.
The doomed cannot die, and the one who wishes to live cannot survive.
Blood stained his robes, and dyed the yellow sands red.
Xu Fengnian lay in the blood.
The dying young prince of Beiliang gazed blankly at the sky.
Xu Fengnian closed his eyes. His soul drifted outward, along with Gao Shulou’s body, slowly heading toward Huang Longshi and the “Ha Ha Girl.”
He only hoped that this last bit of cultivation could save the foolish girl who always liked to carry sunflowers.
Finally, Wang Xianzhi spoke, “Any last wishes?”
Xu Fengnian, his life force fading, did not answer.
Before descending from Wudang, he had already made his plans. In Beiliang, there was a puppet “Xu Fengnian” resembling him. Even if he perished in this battle, and the real Xu Fengnian was gone, Beiliang still had a prince.
Thus, as long as the Xu family banner stood, the morale of the Beiliang army would remain, not easily shattered by the Northern Yan’s hundred thousand cavalry.
The Central Plains might see the smoke of war a little later.
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