The old man in the sheepskin coat was the legendary Sword God of the previous generation, Li Chungang? To Xu Fengnian, this was unexpected yet reasonable. Recalling Xu Xiao’s evaluation in the Listening to the Tide Pavilion, along with the vivid memory of the water swords and the umbrella sword—both utterly breathtaking—Xu Fengnian believed Jiang Ni’s blunt words. It was best if he really was Li Chungang. Even a thin old crane was incomparable to the chickens and ducks on the ground. So what if he lost to Wang Xianzhi and had his Wooden Horse Ox broken? This one-armed old man still shattered the Talisman General’s Red Armor with a single finger. If given a sharp sword, what level of sword intent could he achieve?
Xu Fengnian’s leg had been struck over a hundred times by Jiang Ni wielding the priceless Fire Clay Inkstone. Frowning, he said, “If you keep hitting me, my leg will be fine, but your uncle Jiang Taiya’s treasure will be ruined. You reckless girl might not care, but I do.”
Having vented most of her frustration, Jiang Ni carefully hid the inkstone—though where could she really hide it? Xu Fengnian picked up a stack of high-quality Xuan paper from the table, surprised to find it no less refined than the tribute-grade Daqian Xuan from Jiangnan. He pulled out a sheet, marveling at its thinness and resilience. This type of paper, absorbing less ink, was even more suitable for meticulous brushwork than raw Xuan paper. In high spirits, Xu Fengnian even considered asking the mansion’s owner for dozens of bundles before leaving Yingyuan. With that in mind, he no longer cared about the Fire Clay Inkstone. He personally ground ink on the naturally toad-shaped Huanglu Inkstone, took up a Liaodong brush, and left Jiang Ni to her own devices as he meticulously recreated the intricate patterns from the Talisman General’s Red Armor.
Four sheets of paper were used to sketch the patterns on the Red Armor’s chest, back, hands, and feet. Then, he painstakingly separated the overlapping celestial scripts and cloud motifs, drawing them individually. The swirling clouds, obscure star charts, and numerous Buddhist Sanskrit characters made this an endless labor.
Focusing on these drawings was several times more exhausting than practicing swordsmanship. Unnoticed, the heavy rain outside had long ceased, replaced by deep twilight. Rubbing his ink-stained hands, Xu Fengnian sighed wearily. Qingniao entered softly, offering a warm towel. After wiping his face and hands, Xu Fengnian exhaled deeply. This task was mentally draining—one wrong stroke could lead to a thousand miles of deviation.
Qingniao said calmly, “Your Highness, the people outside the courtyard have been dismissed by me.”
Xu Fengnian let out a long breath, his hand instinctively reaching for the nearby Xiudao. Nodding lightly, he replied, “I’m too busy to waste words on them. If I lose a single thought because of their nonsense, they might lose their official caps and positions by nightfall. Qingniao, find out who owns this mansion. Just a glance tells me the calligraphy, paintings, bronzes, and paper here are of exceptional quality—not something mere wealth can buy. Also, ask how much of this Xuan paper is in stock. I want fifty or sixty bundles for the road.”
Qingniao nodded and left. Out of the corner of his eye, Xu Fengnian noticed Jiang Ni tiptoeing to peek at his drawings. He chose not to expose her, considering it repayment for her earlier revelation. The names “Sword God” and “Wooden Horse Ox” inevitably brought to mind those two sword strikes.
Shaking his neck, Xu Fengnian picked up Xiudao and Chunlei and stepped into the courtyard. Jiang Ni lingered in the corridor, clutching a martial manual. Each word she read earned her a coin, and today she’d already lost several taels of silver. Xu Fengnian focused his breath, drew Chunlei, and mimicked the old Sword God’s umbrella stance, thrusting downward. But the blade merely pierced the stone slab, devoid of any sword intent. After a dozen attempts, he crouched silently, frustrated.
Copying the Red Armor’s patterns was one thing, but stealing sword intent was as difficult as ascending the heavens.
Jiang Ni, brimming with righteous indignation, scoffed, “Shameless! Stealing techniques!”
Xu Fengnian closed his eyes, slowing his movements until he could feel the energy gathering in his right arm, merging with the blade, concentrating at the tip.
On Wudang Mountain, the Ox-Riding Taoist had taught him an unnamed circle-drawing fist technique, emphasizing slow, flowing motions. Though Xu Fengnian practiced fast swordsmanship, he understood that slow swords were harder to master. Only by forgetting speed altogether could one reach the realm where technique vanished, leaving only intent.
But such ideals were like castles in the air. How many martial artists in the world had swung swords millions of times in pursuit of this?
When the blade was an inch from the ground, Xu Fengnian suddenly exerted force.
A simple strike.
“Too hasty,” he murmured regretfully.
Sheathing Chunlei, he stretched and mocked himself, “No rush. Like Old Huang said, rice must be eaten one bite at a time.”
Jiang Ni, expecting something grand, curled her lip at the anticlimax. Xu Fengnian grinned. “Laughing at me? You, the aspiring Sword God, try lifting my blade. Forget Xiudao—if you can hold Chunlei horizontally for the time it takes an incense stick to burn, I’ll count it as ten thousand words read.”
Jiang Ni brandished her manual. “Listen or not, I’m counting three thousand words either way!”
Xu Fengnian waved her off. “Not today. I need to draw while it’s fresh in my mind. Go on, I’ll give you the three thousand.”
Suspicious of traps after years of schemes, Jiang Ni hesitated before leaving.
Alone, Xu Fengnian returned to his work, cursing the Dragon-Tiger Mountain’s alchemists as he painstakingly recreated the patterns. This task was like practicing slow swords—every stroke demanded full attention.
Unnoticed, the old Sword God Li Chungang wandered into the courtyard. Jiang Ni, still fretting over the inkstone, paused as the old man stopped where Xu Fengnian had stabbed the ground.
Li Chungang, drawn by the last strike, bent down, squinting at the faint crack. “Tsk. Why learn swords when you’re clearly better suited for blades?”
Adjusting his shedding sheepskin coat, he turned away. Yu Youwei, holding the plump cat Wu Meiniang, stepped back as the old man eyed her and muttered, “That boy’s got issues. Not eating cat meat is one thing, but ignoring this beauty?”
Yu Youwei flushed with anger but stayed silent.
Li Chungang scratched his crotch unabashedly and wandered off. Yu Youwei, unaware, entered the courtyard and hesitated upon seeing Xu Fengnian absorbed in his work. She had no real business here—just unsettled by the unfamiliar surroundings. Her own courtyard, shaded by bamboo, felt eerie, stirring thoughts of spirits lurking within. She preferred the graceful banana plants, abundant here.
As she approached, Xu Fengnian switched his brush to his right hand and smiled. “Need something?”
“Just looking at the banana plants,” she replied softly.
Xu Fengnian chuckled. “Can’t swap courtyards—my things are here. But if you like them, I’ll have them transplanted to your yard.”
Yu Youwei, flustered, said, “Fine.”
Snapping his fingers, Xu Fengnian summoned Qingniao. “Have the banana plants moved.”
“No need!” Yu Youwei turned away angrily, her cat stretching lazily against her chest. The sight momentarily distracted Xu Fengnian.
Calling after her, he grinned. “Come grind ink for me.”
“Huh?”
Pointing to the Huanglu Inkstone, he said, “You grind this.” Then, gesturing toward her chest, he added mischievously, “I’ll grind this.”
“Pervert!” Yu Youwei fled, face burning.
Leaning back, Xu Fengnian’s eyes held no lust, only contemplation as he gazed at the moonlit sky. “Where is Xu Xiao now?”
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