Xu Fengnian had someone retrieve three fine swords from the martial arts armory to serve as the most extravagant appetizer in the world for Sui Xiegu. The old man, naturally, did not hesitate to accept such generosity from this young fellow. He casually picked up an ancient sword whose blade bore the inscription “Cloudy peaks split to reveal a moon of ice,” placed it across his knees, snapped off a piece of its tip with his fingers, and tossed it into his mouth as if chewing on soybeans. The young female servant who had fetched the swords for Xu Fengnian—who still did not know her name—was leaving the pavilion when she stole a glance from the corner of her eye. Her expression froze in stunned disbelief, a gaze brimming with a unique charm.
Xu Fengnian kept his eyes straight ahead, but the old sword-eater, watching the graceful young woman walk away, then turned his gaze toward the young man not yet thirty, his expression as if to say, “Is there really such a bland and pure prince in this world?” Xu Fengnian gazed at the greenish lake water, occasionally catching sight of a flash of bright color from the backs of ornamental carp gliding beneath the surface. Long ago, the old swordsman Laokui, who carried a blade, had been sealed beneath this lake for many years. When he finally emerged into the light again, Old Huang had once again taken up the nickname “Jian Jiu Huang” (Nine Yellow Swords). Back then, the eldest sister was still on the roads of Jiangnan, the second sister still studying at the Shangyin Academy, Xu Xiao had not yet aged so visibly, and Xu Fengnian himself still brimmed with yearning and dreams for the martial world.
Sui Xiegu devoured his meal swiftly—drinking fast, eating swords even faster. Soon, he began on the second blade, an even sharper sword named “Ten Thousand Gorges Thunder.” Glancing at Xu Fengnian, who seemed distracted, he sneered slightly, “The first time we met, your legs were trembling so badly you could barely stand. Now that you’ve defeated Wang Xianzhi, you really do resemble a beggar who’s stumbled upon a mountain of gold and silver—suddenly so rich and carefree. Sitting here with me, yet your mind still wanders ten thousand miles away!”
Xu Fengnian picked up the last sword, once one of the three sacred blades of the Longhu Mountain constellation three hundred years ago—Yaoguang. It had been stored in a case within the Tingchao Pavilion for years, hidden away like a beauty in seclusion, yet still radiated brilliance upon being drawn. Xu Fengnian thought for a moment, then waved to the servant girl who had not gone far, asking her to bring two more swords. Sui Xiegu did not mind, teasing, “I’ve heard that Tingchao Pavilion has a sword rack holding six legendary blades. Two of them, Fu Ji and Shudao, have even made it onto the list of the Ten Greatest Swords in the World. When will you let an old man like me take a look? The more you hide them, the hungrier I get. Be careful—I might just sneak in one day and snatch them away. Others can’t get within three zhang of you, but I’m sure it won’t be too hard for me.”
Xu Fengnian laughed, “It’s not that I’m unwilling to show Fu Ji and Shudao, it’s just that I can’t. Those two swords are my second sister’s favorites; she’s polished them since she was a child.”
Sui Xiegu finished the sword “Ten Thousand Gorges Thunder,” let out a satisfied belch, and, squinting, said with a smile, “If I insist on eating them, what would you do then?”
Xu Fengnian smiled without answering.
The old man extended a finger, and his long white eyebrows, hanging from his knees, coiled like divine serpents around his finger, their tips fluttering.
Outside the pavilion, the maid standing sideways on the stone steps suddenly felt a chill, as if someone had slipped a handful of winter snow down her collar. She gently lifted her eyes and gazed at the young prince seated quietly inside. For reasons unknown, the icy coldness in her bones lessened slightly upon seeing him. For a maid not assigned to the Wutong Courtyard, this young man—whom she had heard would soon don the princely dragon robe—seemed both near enough to touch and yet impossibly far away. Yet, throughout the Chingliang Mountains, everyone was eagerly anticipating the day he would wear the robe sent by the Golden Loom Bureau, speculating on its color—would it be apricot yellow or the deep blue of a great general? Would it bear coiled dragons or ascending dragons? Would the fabric be brocade or silk gauze? Especially among the women of the mansion, regardless of age, all believed that the day he donned the princely robe would mark him as the most handsome man in the world. They also knew that the imperial court had once sent a jade-white dragon robe via the Chief Eunuch of the Rites Supervision Office, but he had worn it only once on the border and then locked it away, never to be worn again.
The maid’s mouth parted slightly. The pavilion where the prince and the old sword-eating immortal had just been seated was now completely empty, and she hadn’t even felt the slightest breeze. The two had vanished before her very eyes.
Above the Tingchao Pavilion and the pavilion at the lake’s center, Xu Fengnian flew backward, his back to the armory. Though his figure was only a fleeting glimpse, to the hidden observers watching from the shadows, it was a breathtaking sight.
Three zhang ahead of him stood Sui Xiegu, one hand behind his back, his two long eyebrows like the whiskers of a dragon, fluttering in the wind.
Neither of them had attacked yet. Xu Fengnian, hovering in midair, paused again after reaching the shore, and Sui Xiegu’s slightly leaning figure also appeared in the observers’ sights.
Though their ages differed greatly, both stood at the pinnacle of the martial world. Yet they still had not openly clashed. However, the distance between them had now narrowed to two zhang.
Three strikes, and no more.
Xu Fengnian halted beneath the three gate plaques of Tingchao Pavilion, ceasing his retreat.
Sui Xiegu let out a loud laugh, but instead of forcing his way through the main gate, he lightly stepped forward and leapt upward toward the upper levels of the pavilion.
In an instant, a strange scene unfolded. The maid in the pavilion stretched her neck and watched as the old white-browed immortal landed back on the Tingchao Pavilion’s terrace, even patting his shoulder with his lone arm, as if brushing off dust.
Xu Fengnian hovered in the air at the same height as the sixth floor, gazing down at the old man below. A thin line of sword qi, so refined it reached the realm of formlessness, had sliced a tear in his robe. Sword qi without form, yet guided by the heart, was already considered a high-level technique, capable of battling top experts, though still leaving faint traces. But the most refined sword techniques were not only formless but also left no trace of intent, their movements unpredictable even to gods and spirits, making them truly fearsome. As for Duan Tai’e’s sword techniques, they were even more formidable—though tangible, they surpassed even the formless sword qi, embodying the very essence of a sword immortal. Few would dare provoke this middle-aged sword immortal, who had once borrowed ten thousand swords from Li Chungan and later returned from an oceanic journey to the Immortal Isles. After Wang Xianzhi’s death, even Tuoba Pusa dared not claim certain victory against him, with the odds at best fifty-fifty. As for the century-old Sui Xiegu, he was undoubtedly the second greatest swordsman in the world after Duan Tai’e. Though the old man had once joked that his hundred years of life had been wasted like a dog’s, in centuries of martial history, only Li Chungan had ever matched the Dao of the sword to rival Lüzu, and Duan Tai’e, once considered a practitioner of “inferior sword techniques,” had risen to the rank of sword immortal. Against such men, there was no reasoning—only awe.
Xu Fengnian stepped forward, attempting to block Sui Xiegu’s ascent to the pavilion’s upper floors. Sui Xiegu, in response, sent a thread of sword qi that sliced through Xu Fengnian’s robe.
At Tingchao Pavilion, the atmosphere grew tense, the air thick with impending conflict.
Xu Weixiong, seated in her wheelchair, appeared outside the staircase and calmly said, “Two external treasures—give them to him.”
In her view, there was no need to provoke the long-browed old swordsman, whose name might not appear on the martial rankings but whose strength was more than enough to qualify. For two swords that would never be drawn again, it was not worth the risk.
Xu Fengnian shook his head. “If they were mine, I’d gladly give them away. But these are my second sister’s favorites. I cannot.”
Sui Xiegu, having been stopped four times, finally sneered, “What arrogance! Do you really think you, a wounded local serpent, can defeat every dragon that crosses your path?”
Xu Fengnian smiled. “This is all your own doing, Senior.”
Sui Xiegu curled his lips, his tone darkening. “Oh? The boy’s really puffing himself up now? I thought this was just a game, but since you insist on being stubborn, I’ll take this chance to prove myself—and all swordsmen in the world. Without Wang Xianzhi, the title of Number One in the World should rightfully go to a swordsman.”
Xu Fengnian replied calmly, “After my battle with Wang Xianzhi, I gained some insights and devised three moves. If you, Senior, can withstand them, I won’t just hand over Fu Ji and Shudao—I’ll give you this entire armory.”
As he spoke, Xu Fengnian raised his hand. Hidden within the shadows, the Prince’s Mansion’s elite assassins began to retreat swiftly. The stunned maid was even snatched away and thrown directly to the opposite shore of Tingchao Lake.
Sui Xiegu closed his eyes, waiting in silence.
Xu Weixiong did not move. She simply rested her cheek on her hand, tilting her head upward, gazing at her younger brother high above, her lips curling slightly.
It truly seemed she could no longer beat him up like she used to.
A mighty wind began at the edge of a reed field.
By the shore of Tingchao Lake, a field of reeds stood, their autumn plumes already gray-white, their stalks leaning, their feathery leaves gradually withering.
The wind rose, and fluff began to fly.
To any nearby observer, it would be visible: the hollow reed stalks, growing by the water’s edge, began to break inch by inch, falling into disorder.
In this field of dying autumn reeds, the flying fluff resembled falling snow.
At the same time, the once tranquil surface of Tingchao Lake, nestled halfway up Chingliang Mountain, shattered into countless ripples, as if countless invisible hammers were ceaselessly pounding the water mirror. Occasionally, a carp leapt from the surface, only to be reduced to dust.
The once-colorful wooden pavilion at the lake’s center began to crack in countless places. The two rows of pagoda trees lining the path to the lake emitted deep, muffled cracking sounds.
Eventually, the disturbance spread to the shore beneath Tingchao Pavilion itself, crawling from the water’s edge to the empty ground beneath Xu Fengnian’s feet, covered in shifting, ephemeral patterns of air currents. Yet this invisible current, intentionally or not, bypassed both Sui Xiegu and Xu Weixiong. Their situations, however, differed: the current avoided Xu Weixiong on its own, while Sui Xiegu, like a rock in the middle of a rushing river, forcefully split the current apart.
Xu Fengnian sat cross-legged in midair, gazing down at the unmoving Sui Xiegu.
Both men were among the greatest sword experts of their time, whether in sword techniques or sword intent. Xu Fengnian had often imitated Li Chungan’s legendary sword-summoning at the Snowy Peak, calling forth hundreds of swords in grand displays. Yet he knew well that such large-scale sword techniques, while impressive and effective against ordinary martial artists, were wasteful of energy when facing an equal like Sui Xiegu. Just as on the sea off Wudi City, decades later, when Li Chungan and Wang Xianzhi met again, the old man’s seemingly chaotic sword waves, though appearing scattered, were in fact a seamless chain of sword qi. Now, Xu Fengnian’s formation over Tingchao Lake did the opposite: though he struck first, he did not attack directly but instead offered the initiative to Sui Xiegu. It was like a host setting out a lavish banquet, saying, “I’ve prepared a feast—whether you eat or not depends on your appetite!”
This move contained Li Chungan’s sword-summoning intent, Xue Songguan’s stormy rhythm in the rain alley, Duan Tai’e’s essence of Thunder Pool, and even a touch of the monk Longshu’s Buddhist serenity.
Trapped within this formation, Sui Xiegu would, with a single move, provoke a chain reaction, turning the entire miniature world against him.
Whether he fought to prove himself or to uphold the honor of swordsmen everywhere, he would first have to escape this prison akin to a Buddhist “small world.”
As Sui Xiegu prepared to strike, Xu Fengnian turned his head slightly toward Xu Weixiong, smiled, and then casually tossed a chess piece high into the air.
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