In Wudi City, no one dared to step outside the city walls. Xu Fengnian did not press further. With a slight curl of his fingers, he summoned several weapons flying through the air. The Elm Seed Sword struck the ground before Mozi Sword Zhou Mu, the Dragon Coiling Spear embedded itself before a master spearman, and a red short blade named “Qian Yao” soared onto the city wall, landing in the hands of a swordsman. Scattered here and there, more than a dozen weapons found new masters. After a brief shock, these dozen individuals all bowed in gratitude to Xu Fengnian outside the city. It was not merely joy at receiving a gift, but a deep sense of appreciation for his recognition. Among them, a previously unknown thin boy drew the most attention. He had managed to catch the sheathed Da Shuang saber. After receiving the blade, the boy struggled to control the heavy, living weapon, dragged along for dozens of steps before falling on his backside, finally hugging the frosty saber to his chest with a foolish grin. No one else could bring themselves to laugh. The boy had been born in the city; his parents were retired top-tier assassins, who had been slain in a mysterious bloody attack years ago. Now, the boy shouldered the saber and ran out of the city, facing the man who treated the city’s martial experts as if they were nothing, declaring he would follow this “immortal” and learn the saber art, pledging his life in return.
Xu Fengnian requested three spacious carriages to carry the weapons. One of the senior spies from Fushui Bureau, who had been hiding in Wudi City for years, surfaced and took the reins of the first carriage, shedding tears uncontrollably as he drove. Lu Yunchang, having grown up in Wudi City mingling with all sorts of people, was in charge of the second carriage. The apprentice Wang Sheng, who had barely learned how to drive, brought up the rear, with Xu Fengnian sitting beside her, continuing to explain the basics of martial arts. Besides the carriages, the aging spy also had to manage six fine steeds, as the carriages were extremely heavy and required frequent horse changes.
The group of four, three carriages, twelve horses, and over four hundred weapons leisurely departed from the East Sea (East Sea), then followed the southern edge of the imperial heartland, tracing a faint arc. When the group reached the apex of the arc, Xu Fengnian stood atop a hill near a solitary fortress, gazing at the southern landscape for a long time.
Wang Sheng and Lu Yunchang, being of the same age, never quite got along. Wang Sheng disliked Lu Yunchang’s flippant attitude and his lack of decorum in front of her master. Lu Yunchang, in turn, found this sturdy “boy” too rigid and formal. They constantly bickered and clashed whenever they met. Yet, Lu Yunchang feared not the immortal figure who had gifted him the saber. To the clever youth, a land-bound immortal would naturally not concern himself with such trivialities. But the old man who always whispered to the horses, an oily and slippery character, terrified Lu Yunchang. The reason was simple: the old man was an extremely powerful figure in Wudi City, rumored to sleep on mountains of gold and silver. Even Yu Xinlang had once borrowed money from this elderly man, whose nickname was “Oil Seller.”
As Xu Fengnian stood at the highest point gazing southward, Wang Sheng, besides wearing a wooden sword at her waist, carried a purple sandalwood sword case on her back, and had four swords tied haphazardly with rope—Duyu, the thin sword; “Zhu Yu,” a three-inch blade personally forged by Cao Ye, the Confucian Sage of the Old Northern Han; “Ye He,” a talisman sword belonging to Huang Cishan, a wandering Daoist immortal; and “Xian Zhu,” the sword that once pierced the belly of the Eastern Yue Emperor. The swords radiated a chilling aura, seeping into her skin, turning her lips blue with cold. Her master had not explained why she must endure this hardship, only telling her that she would have to carry another sword before half a month had passed. In contrast, Lu Yunchang was carefree, constantly showing off his Da Shuang saber like a newlywed carrying his bride, even sleeping with it in his arms. Now, he approached Wang Sheng, having picked up many martial world customs, understanding the importance of seniority in sects. Though he often clashed with Wang Sheng, he did not wish to sour their relationship.
Lu Yunchang whispered, “Wang Muttou, what is our master looking at?”
Wang Sheng kept her lips tightly shut, only gazing at her master’s profile, refusing to acknowledge the boy beside her.
Used to being ignored by this stubborn girl, Lu Yunchang persisted, “Do you know who that old swordsman in green robes was? I’ll tell you—he’s no ordinary man. His name is Chai Qingshan, an elder swordsman from the Eastern Yue Sword Pool, the top swordsman in the Guangling Dao. He once served as a guest master to Zhao Yi. Even Song Nianqing, the Sword Pool’s sect leader, calls him ‘Master Uncle.’ Otherwise, why would our master return four swords, including the Strange Grass, to him? Of course, it’s not that our master fears Chai Qingshan. It’s just the matter of human relationships among martial heroes. Wang Muttou, you should learn from this…”
Wang Sheng finally turned and glared, “Don’t keep saying ‘our master’—my master never acknowledged you as a disciple!”
Lu Yunchang patted the Da Shuang saber’s scabbard and chuckled, “Be honest with yourself—where else can you find a disciple as talented as me? Look at you—carrying so many swords, and none of them are as famous as my saber.”
Wang Sheng simply refused to reply.
Old Master Liu, the elderly spy, had apparently finished his conversation with the horses and approached the two children, squatting down and picking up a handful of soil, sniffing it.
This had an immediate effect—Lu Yunchang fell silent, as if his mouth had been sewn shut.
Wang Sheng wasn’t afraid of the quiet old man, but she couldn’t bring herself to feel close to him either.
The old man made no effort to cozy up to the two children, who were destined never to cross paths in ordinary circumstances. Yet deep down, he envied these two incredibly lucky youths, who perhaps didn’t yet realize the magnitude of the opportunity they had received.
The heir to the most powerful feudal lord of the Liyang Kingdom, the Prince of Beiliang.
A martial artist who had personally defeated Wang Xianzhi.
The old man murmured softly, “Like sitting inside a glass screen, surrounded on all sides, yet still feeling the breeze. These years must have been hard on the eldest son of our great general.”
Wang Sheng hadn’t heard the old man’s muttering, but Lu Yunchang, with his sharp ears, couldn’t resist squatting down and asking, “Old Master Liu, what are you saying? Tell us!”
The old man continued rubbing the soil between his palms, gazing into the distance, coldly indifferent, “The most fortunate meeting is the rarest, and the hardest to truly appreciate. Kid, remember to cherish your blessings. Such good fortune is rare even under heaven.”
Lu Yunchang remained silent, sitting cross-legged, shouldering the Da Shuang saber, his hands resting casually on the scabbard, his eyes filled with determination.
They then proceeded directly northwest. No one dared to provoke such a massive stroke of luck. Many top martial sect leaders in the regions along the way volunteered to escort the three carriages, standing respectfully by the roadside. Upon seeing the young feudal lord in the carriage, they all bowed deeply, regardless of age, treating him with the utmost respect as a junior, simply to make themselves known.
When the carriages entered Hezhou, Wang Sheng was already strapped with eight swords, resembling a porcupine, quite comically.
That day, Xu Fengnian rode in Old Master Liu’s carriage, chatting about the old wars of the Spring and Autumn Period. The old spy, who had long abandoned his original name, gazed at the now unfamiliar northwestern scenery and softly laughed, “A man with two out of three baskets of yellow earth already covering him, never expected to return alive and smell the dust of this land again. As one ages, even dreams of this place become blurred, filled with vague memories of old faces and things.”
Xu Fengnian said calmly, “Wudi City is no longer the focus of our southern intelligence. Soon, the Northern Barbarians will invade the south, and this area will need you more than ever.”
The old man nodded, “Even if I die ten thousand miles away, dying here is better than anywhere else.”
Xu Fengnian smiled, “My master often spoke of you before he passed.”
The old man sighed, “Southeast has many green mountains and clear waters, though warm-hearted, it is often cold. Here in the northwest, though freezing cold, it does not feel cold.”
Xu Fengnian smiled, “No wonder my master always said you liked quoting classics, calling you ‘Old Sour Weng’ behind your back.”
The old man was momentarily stunned, then burst into laughter.
Suddenly, the old man’s expression turned serious. Xu Fengnian waved his hand and said, “You all continue on, no need to wait for me.”
A thin old man appeared on the road, hands empty, yet his sword intent was so heavy it nearly matched Li Chungan’s return to the realm of land immortals.
Xu Fengnian stepped out of the carriage and walked forward slowly, while the three carriages passed the unremarkable old man.
When Xu Fengnian reached about ten zhang from the old man, the old man took a step back, and Xu Fengnian also stopped.
Xu Fengnian asked, “Master of the Sword Tomb, you didn’t bring your sword?”
The calm old man did not speak, only staring at the young man who had stirred up the martial world.
Finally, the old man slowly said, “You are on the decline.”
Xu Fengnian said indifferently, “It’s only natural. Master of the Sword Tomb, you truly chose a good time and place.”
The old man smiled, “And a good opponent as well?”
Xu Fengnian remained silent, a faint Sneer forming on his lips.
From the Wu Clan Sword Tomb, the current head, the true master of the second most famous sword in the world, the Su Wang Sword—Wu Jian.
An old man who had rarely fought outside the Sword Tomb, yet had become an undisputed Grandmaster of the sword path.
In truth, Xu Fengnian was distantly related to this old man. But his mother had abandoned her status as the Sword Crown, breaking the clan’s rules. The sword Servant (attendant) aunt’s face had been slashed by countless sword qi, forcing her to wear a mask. Xu Fengnian had no fondness for the old man his mother had once said loved to count and polish swords year after year on the Sword Tomb Mountain.
Li Chungan once took the Mu Ma Niu sword from the Sword Tomb.
Deng Tai’a, a bastard son of the Wu Clan, had once survived on the Sword Mountain, eventually forging his own path and cultivating flying swords, becoming the Peach Blossom Sword God.
Two generations of sword masters, both unable to avoid the Sword Tomb, where countless famous swordsmen were buried.
Perhaps because of Li Chungan before and Deng Tai’a after, the old man on the road could not claim to be the greatest swordsman in the world, but few could afford to underestimate him.
Previously, only Wang Xianzhi could.
Xu Fengnian, who had once defeated Wang Xianzhi at the height of his power, naturally could too, though he could no longer do so now.
The old man’s aura was deeply concealed, showing no signs of a martial grandmaster. Smiling gently, he seemed like a kind elder chatting with a junior, asking warmly, “You wonder why I came without a sword?”
Xu Fengnian furrowed his brows but quickly relaxed.
The old man finally took a step forward.
Where he arrived, the sword arrived.
Whether or not the Su Wang Sword was in hand made no difference.
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