Three carriages were ordered to keep a distance from the commotion, but they did not truly retreat. The veteran spy, most experienced in the martial world, quickly halted the horses and stepped down. Wangsheng and Lvyunchang, unclear of the situation, obediently followed suit. The three of them—elder, youth, and youth—stood shoulder to shoulder. Lvyunchang noticed Wangsheng sweating profusely, lips tinged purple, his body trembling uncontrollably. He was about to mock the boy’s cowardice when he noticed seven swords strapped to Wangsheng’s body, each silently sliding out of their sheaths by an inch. Most notably, the sword “E’er Huang” that Wangsheng had taken on just a few days prior, now fastened at his waist, exuding two streams of pale yellow sword qi from both ends of its sheath.
Lvyunchang, with his vast knowledge of martial legends in the Martial Emperor City, could roughly deduce why the Immortal Young Master had instructed Wangsheng to add a sword at regular intervals. It was to immerse the apprentice in sword qi, gradually attuning his spirit to the swords, aiming for a natural, profound sword intent through patient cultivation. Truly a painstaking effort.
The old spy said gravely, “Wangsheng, try to suppress the sword qi of E’er Huang with your own spirit. To master the supreme sword, one must control the sword, not be controlled by it. The sword must not become the master.”
Wangsheng, pale-faced, nodded with great effort, but failed to suppress the intensifying sword qi. The radiant yellow aura swirled around his waist like a jade belt tied to the young girl. The spy Liu furrowed his brow, knowing that these famed swords were drawn by the elder’s qi from the The Post Road. Wangsheng, still new to the sword path, naturally could not resist it. Originally, the spy had thought stopping here would allow them to deliver weapons to the young prince in the shortest time while maintaining enough distance to resist the elder’s sword intent. But now, he sighed inwardly—this sword master was simply too formidable, and Wangsheng far too inexperienced.
Lvyunchang asked curiously, “Old Master Liu, who exactly is that man who looks fifty or sixty? Is he worth the effort of our Immortal Master? Even Cha Qingshan treated him with such respect, not daring to act like a senior at all.”
The old spy scoffed, “Cha Qingshan, in terms of sword intent and technique, cannot compare to this figure. And he’s not in his sixties either—he’s over ninety!”
Lvyunchang was stunned, “Even Cha Qingshan, the unrivaled master of the southeast, is not his equal? How many swordsmen in this world could be so terrifying? And he didn’t look like the Peach Blossom Sword God Deng Tai’a either. I heard Deng is still young, and even if he doesn’t carry peach branches, he probably rides a donkey through the martial world.”
The old spy’s tone grew heavy, “He is the head of the Wu Clan Sword Tomb. By seniority, even your master must call him Great-Grandfather.”
Lvyunchang had always disliked sword cultivators in the martial world—those who trained for decades without achieving much. He preferred the boldness of wielding a blade, swift and decisive. As for the Wu Clan Sword Tomb, it was shrouded in mystery, and all he had heard was that it housed a group of half-dead sword cultivators, like lifeless statues.
As he spoke, the old spy kept observing Wangsheng. He saw that her cultivation was still too shallow—far from suppressing the surging sword qi of E’er Huang. Except for the four swords Duyu, Zhiyu, Yehe, and Xianzhu, which remained calm, the two newer swords, Xiaoyun and Shaonian You, were trembling violently, on the verge of fully unsheathing. The old spy felt a pang of regret—this child’s first trial of sword tempering, born of chance, had already failed to rise to the challenge, which would be especially detrimental to her future cultivation.
After a moment’s pause, unwilling to let the clash between Wangsheng and the swords escalate into a complete collapse of her will, the old spy was about to call for a retreat. At that moment, Wangsheng suddenly seemed to grow angry. She lowered her head, staring at the unruly E’er Huang, and scolded, “Behave!”
Lvyunchang rolled his eyes, and the old spy almost chuckled—but both were soon astonished to see the famed sword indeed calm down, its sword qi retreating by seven or eight parts into the sheath. What remained drifted gently around Wangsheng’s fingers, like a girl holding yellow flowers.
Lvyunchang’s lips twitched, helplessly muttering, “That actually worked?”
Though his expression remained calm, the old spy was deeply shaken. In every generation, there were rare geniuses who emerged in the martial world, and among them, those of the Buddhist and Daoist sects were the most mysterious. It was said that Qi Xianzhen possessed the supernatural ability of “spoken prophecy,” defeating six Heavenly Devils of Zhulu Mountain on the Demon-Slaying Platform, three of whom perished under his spoken truths. The white-robed monk of the Two Chan Temples was also rumored to possess a secret “mantra,” capable of determining life and death.
As for sword cultivators, those who could resonate with famed swords, drawing their spirits close, were known as natural sword embryos. The old spy felt relieved, yet could not help but feel a touch of self-mockery. In his youth, he too had been considered gifted, but without a true master to guide him, his studies became scattered and shallow, ultimately limiting his martial cultivation. Whether one had a mentor or not often determined the height of one’s achievements.
After a moment’s hesitation, the old spy said, “Wangsheng, come with me. Take ten steps forward.”
Wangsheng nodded softly. Lvyunchang, impatient, asked, “Old Master Liu, what about me?”
The old spy replied gruffly, “Stay here and watch the carriages.”
Lvyunchang sighed heavily, glancing at the five-foot frost blade slung over his shoulder. “Guess it’s just you and me, buddy.”
Ahead on the The Post Road, the head of the Wu Clan took a single step forward—and then stood still. Yet what followed was even more unexpected. The elder did not seem to be facing an enemy in mortal combat, but instead began to speak softly, filled with emotion and nostalgia.
“My ancestors once said that when I was born, strange omens filled the sky—nine dragons soaring above, summoning rain and clouds. On the Sword Mountain, eight dragons carried away nine famed swords, while one dragon coiled atop the mountain, resting upon the ancient sword Qiu Niu. On the very first day I began training in swordsmanship, my venerable ancestor told me that after drawing Qiu Niu, I must leave the Sword Tomb once every decade to seek a new sword.”
“At ten, I ascended the Sword Mountain and drew Qiu Niu. At twenty, I ventured into the deep mountains of Liaodong, retrieving Chiwen from the bottom of a lake. At thirty, I found Chaofeng among the stone tablets of the northern Han wilderness. At forty, I traveled through the lands of Xichu where Manjushri preached, encountering Suanni upon the Buddha’s seat. At fifty, I entered Shu and found Jiaotu. At sixty, I journeyed to the southern frontier seeking vengeance, and by chance, I saw Yazhi impaled upon an ancient, towering tree. At seventy, I discovered Gongsuo beneath a stone slab at an ancient bridge in Taian. At eighty, I visited an old friend in the former Dongyue Kingdom, meeting Pulao within an ancient bell. At ninety, I returned to Taian and beheld Pixiu. Thus, I gathered all nine swords. At that point, my life should have been complete.”
The elder smiled, “All my life, I have done nothing but search for swords. I never questioned why I trained. As long as I obtained a sword every decade, I pondered how to discard the sword and grasp its essence. Decade after decade, I missed many people, many sights.”
Xu Fengnian lifted his head, gazing at the sky.
Before his eyes stretched a golden sea of clouds, sunlight cascading like feathers, dazzling and beautiful.
Then, as if a needle had pierced a silk tapestry, the clouds were torn open, leaving a slightly tilted gash.
Xu Fengnian did not move, but from one of the carriages, more than a dozen famed swords soared toward the tear in the clouds.
A deafening explosion rang out in the sky, like a bell striking another, shattering eardrums.
Faintly visible, the famed swords that had risen from the earth all snapped and fell lifelessly.
A gust of sword qi, brimming with vigor, flew in from the bamboo forests of Xishu, circling Xu Fengnian like a cage, head meeting tail, sealing him in.
Another surge of sword qi arrived from the northern Han lands, splitting into ten parts, each a sword, converging into a single breath guided by an immortal’s hand.
A mighty surge of sword qi emerged from the northeast, a rainbow piercing the sky. It began in Liaodong, its momentum ending in Hezhou, carving out a colossal arc, wrapped in mist and water vapor, warding off fire omens.
Another surge appeared from the distant southeast, brimming with ancient sword qi.
One after another, a total of nine surges of sword qi, each unique.
The old master of the Wu Clan had spent ninety years gathering nine swords. He did not use the swords themselves in battle, but instead harnessed their spirits and will.
The elder had indeed chosen the perfect moment to reveal himself. As he journeyed toward Hezhou, the sword qi had already begun rising one by one.
If an immortal could peer down from the Ninth Heaven, they would see nine streams of sword qi rising from all corners of the earth, converging upon the spot where Xu Fengnian stood.
Xu Fengnian remained rooted in place. Except for the sword hidden in Wangsheng’s sandalwood case and the seven bound swords, all other famed swords from the three carriages had flown out to meet the enemy.
A hundred zhang behind Xu Fengnian, a large section of the The Post Road was torn apart by thunderous explosions.
At two different distances—seven zhang and six zhang—behind him, over twenty famed swords shattered before even entering the borders of Beiliang.
A final sword qi descended from above, reducing everything to dust, stopping only four zhang above Xu Fengnian’s head.
Each wave of sword qi drew closer to Xu Fengnian.
The most murderous of all, the Yazhi sword qi, struck like a lone city collapsing. Twelve ancient swords, led by Gu Cheng Sword, sacrificed themselves to intercept it, but the chaotic sword qi still surged two zhang before Xu Fengnian.
Yet the next wave of sword qi was the most powerful, like the beast Pixiu, devouring all without restraint.
Xu Fengnian extended his hand, summoning the Daoyi Sword. The two clashed and were destroyed together, but Xu Fengnian was forced back one zhang, while the sword qi advanced two.
At this moment, the elder still had two sword qi left—one was the circling, tail-biting Jiaotu sword qi, and the other was the long-dormant Qiu Niu.
The elder had already closed the distance to within one zhang of Xu Fengnian.
But Xu Fengnian had nearly no swords left. From the three carriages, only one sword remained—Zi Bu Yu, a relic of the sword immortal Chen Qingming—and an unidentified ancient sword inscribed with the words “Bo Xian.”
Zi Bu Yu hovered behind Xu Fengnian, while he held Bo Xian in his hand. Grasping the hilt with one hand, he pressed two fingers against the tip, bending the blade into an arc.
Xu Fengnian released both gestures at once, silently intoning, “Go.”
Bo Xian spun away and vanished in an instant. Zi Bu Yu also flew backward.
At the same time, the elder, who had only taken one step in the entire battle, finally advanced.
As if he had been waiting for this very moment.
Man and sword arrived together.
This was, after all, the elder’s Tenth Sword.
If the nine swords were gifts from heaven, then the elder, having lived nearly a century, had forged one sword himself.
In an instant, he breached the one zhang distance between them—Xu Fengnian’s So close, yet worlds apart..
Nine hidden flying swords were instantly deflected by the elder’s overwhelming sword qi.
Two fingers struck Xu Fengnian’s forehead.
But Xu Fengnian’s fist also struck the elder’s chest.
The elder murmured softly, “Very good.”
Xu Fengnian slowly withdrew his fist, puzzled.
The elder smiled with satisfaction, “At this moment, you still dare to fight with your life. It is I who have lost.”
Hearing that unfamiliar title, Xu Fengnian was at a loss.
The elder gently patted Xu Fengnian’s head, his expression warm, “I couldn’t trust anyone else to stand in this place, so I came myself—to see you off. I know you won’t acknowledge me as your elder. The Sword Tomb indeed wronged Su girl. But without rules, there is no order. Every family has its own difficulties. I had no choice but to be the villain back then.”
Xu Fengnian’s lips trembled, but he still could not bring himself to speak those three words.
The elder did not mind. He withdrew his hand, stepped back, and gazed at his great-grandson with a smile. “There are family rules. If I didn’t do this, I wouldn’t have the reason to give you the long-overdue coming-of-age ceremony.”
He continued, “Once, the Wu Clan’s nine swords could break ten thousand cavalry. My sword skills were passable, but I was not fit to lead. Now, even with nineteen or twenty-nine swords, I couldn’t break through ten thousand Northern Barbarian cavalry.”
“As for Xu Shao’s grandson-in-law, I’ve never liked him. Who let him be so weak in martial arts? Even now, I still think that brat is unworthy of Su girl.”
It seemed the elder was merely speaking to himself. Xu Fengnian, the nominal great-grandson, remained silent.
The elder laughed joyfully, “Meeting you makes me very happy.”
Perhaps he had finally gazed his fill at this exceptional and beloved great-grandson. As they passed each other, he gently patted the boy’s shoulder, “Don’t carry everything alone.”
Without turning back, the elder walked further and further away from the stubborn young man who had never once called him “Great-Grandfather.”
“One day, over a hundred riders will leave the Wu Clan Sword Tomb, bearing swords into Beiliang.”
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