The towering figure of Sui Xiegu, his long eyebrows like the whiskers of a white dragon, remained steadfast as a mountain before and after the battle formation. This was not only the prudence accumulated from a century of experience but also the arrogance of one who dared to challenge the two greatest martial experts of the world—Li Chungan and Wang Xianzhi. If one added Xu Fengnian, the current contender, then the three greatest martial experts of the past century had all been defied by him. When Li Chungan returned from Zhanmo Terrace, his mind was unsettled, yet Sui Xiegu did not seize the opportunity to strike. Instead, he still sought the strongest version of Li Chungan—the one who had elevated sword techniques to the peak of mastery, the Two Sleeves of Azure Serpents. Later, when Wang Xianzhi was at the pinnacle of his martial prowess, every move he made was the strongest. Unfortunately, Yu Xinlang intercepted the final half-strike, because Wang Xianzhi had already decided his last battle would be with Xu Fengnian in the distant northwest. From the conversation overheard by the green-robed child at the time, it was clear that Wang Xianzhi was not someone Sui Xiegu could defeat in a single clash.
This time entering Beiliang, Sui Xiegu was certainly not here to pledge his life to anyone or to charge into battle during the war between Liang and Mang. Rather, it was Xu Fengnian himself that intrigued the old sword-eater, who regarded wealth and fame as fleeting clouds. Sui Xiegu likely determined that Xu Fengnian’s former physical prowess granted by Gao Shulu had long dissipated. Thus, their clash would be a contest of will and spirit, a duel where no blood needed to be spilled. It was somewhat akin to the famed art of theoretical warfare practiced by the old master of the Spring PostGrass Hall. Yet, in today’s world, Sui Xiegu believed that among those like himself who dared to engage in a purely intellectual duel with Xu Fengnian, there would scarcely be more than a handful.
Timing is everything. Just as Xu Fengnian stood in opposition to the old man, Wu Liuding and Cu Hua, leading a hundred riders of the Wu Clan, arrived in Liangzhou City and made their way to Qingliang Mountain. Entering the Prince’s Mansion, they proceeded unimpeded. The hundred or so sword-bearers, having dismounted, lined up on the opposite shore of the Tide-Listening Lake where the two masters stood locked in confrontation. These withered swordsmen, each carrying a longsword, formed a single line. Except for the carefree young Sword Crown and the composed female sword attendant, the qi of more than ninety others began to stir, their once tranquil minds rippling with subtle emotion. Even a silent observer of a game cannot help but imagine themselves playing the moves; how much more so for those watching a sword duel? Among the ninety swordsmen, most bore expressions of stillness. Even in the face of a rare peak confrontation at the foot of the Tide-Listening Pavilion, none showed signs of shock. The opening passage of the Wu Clan’s genealogy carried an ancient adage: only when the heart is as dead as ashes can a sword truly awaken. In essence, the sword must outweigh the self, forgetting oneself to remember the blade. Only then can a sword attain mystic resonance and divine insight.
The Wu Clan revered the concept of “two grips of the sword.” One was like a devoted lover meeting their beloved, holding a single blade for life, remaining steadfast as if sacrificing oneself for love. The sword must never be treated as a servant. The other was like a descendant honoring an ancestor, emphasizing the lineage and inheritance of the sword path, constantly reflecting on how past swordsmen who held the same blade lived and acted.
Wu Liuding squatted by the lake’s edge, while Cu Hua, bearing the Sword Suwang, stood behind him. On either side of the young Sword Crown stood two figures. One was a man in his forties named Zhu Hui, whose presence was so chilling it was like seeing a ghost in broad daylight. The other was an elderly man whose stern demeanor, by contrast, seemed almost kindly. The old man carried a blade so thin and long that its width was less than half of a standard sword, while its length equaled two ordinary swords. Though short in stature, the blade was nearly his height.
These two held immense weight even among the sword masters of the Wu Clan’s Sword Tomb. Privately, Wu Liuding referred to the man as “Zhu the Devil.” He had once been a deadly rival of Deng Tai’a, and both had been discarded children on the Sword Mountain. From childhood to adolescence, they had survived together, yet for reasons unknown, they eventually became bitter enemies. The other, known as “Old Man Who Married a Sword,” was He Lian Wuchi, one of the few Beimang swordsmen in the Sword Tomb. He had been the opponent of Deng Tai’a when the latter left the Tomb to fight. Regardless of his swordsmanship’s strength, He Lian’s unique insights into the sword path had earned him the highest praise from the Wu Clan’s elders, who called him unparalleled.
Zhu Hui, with arms crossed over his chest, spoke in a sinister tone: “What’s this ‘Number One Under Heaven’? Remove those pins, and even I could kill him.”
Though Wu Liuding had no particular fondness for Xu Fengnian, he remained impartial in his judgment. Moreover, he deeply detested Zhu Hui for the carnage he had wrought in the Sword Tomb. If not for the fact that Zhu had already left the Wu Clan, Wu Liuding would have begged the elders to reconsider and never let the tiger return to the mountains. He and Cu Hua both doubted that the sixty chains binding the Dragon could truly contain Zhu Hui. Thus, Wu Liuding coldly retorted, “Don’t forget that Xu Fengnian now lacks the physical strength granted by Gao Shulu—he’s already greatly weakened. If Wang Xianzhi were still alive, would you dare say such words in Wudi City?”
The devilish man sneered, “Whether Wang is alive or dead, I’d never claim to be his equal. But since Xu Fengnian has been reduced to a mere shadow of his former self, an unworthy ‘Number One Under Heaven,’ why shouldn’t I speak? Why shouldn’t I kill him? If even the Wu Clan’s Sword Crown lacks the courage to face this, then the martial world is doomed to decline, and the Sword Tomb will be no exception.”
Wu Liuding’s eyes flared with anger, but before he could speak, Cu Hua softly interjected, “Zhu Huang, in three days, the ownership of Suwang will be decided.”
Zhu Hui, long coveting Suwang, chuckled, but in his burning gaze was a flicker of unease. Wu Liuding, too, grew anxious, yet he knew Cu Hua’s nature too well—no amount of pleading would change her mind. Even a flood of words would be in vain unless his sword skills surpassed hers. At that moment, after years of wandering the martial world, Wu Liuding suddenly wondered if he had been too complacent, believing he had all the time in the world to reach the pinnacle of swordsmanship. Though seemingly lazy and carefree, he had always been supremely confident, believing his talent alone was enough to make the entire martial world wait for his day of glory.
He Lian, who had been watching the scene at the Pavilion, suddenly spoke, “All my life, I have gathered insights and experiences like scattered treasures, hoping to weave them into two seamless curtains of heaven. But my own skill in weaving is mediocre, and I lack the ability to complete them. They say a clever woman cannot cook without rice, and that is a sorrow. But I am sorrier still, for I have a mountain of rice and no pot to cook it. Thus, I have never been able to show these curtains to the world.”
He turned to the young Sword Crown and continued, “I once thought you, Wu Liuding, might weave these curtains. But time waits for no one—I am already over eighty, with only a few days left. I may not live to see your great awakening. And now, I have the fortune of encountering a ready-made candidate…”
Wu Liuding frowned and said, “Old Man Who Married a Sword, you could have kept that to yourself instead of hurting my heart.”
The old man smiled and replied, “An old man seeing his juniors not striving forward can’t help but feel sorrow for their lack of ambition.”
With a sigh, Wu Liuding turned his gaze to the lake, lost in thought.
Besides these prominent figures from the Sword Tomb, others such as Zhang Lantai, who had once fought Gu Jiantang to a draw; Liu Jianzhi, who had clashed with Qi Jiajie in Taian City; Yue Zhuowu, the young master of Apricot Sword Furnace; Han Banjian of Xishu; the sword-monk Cui Meigong; and several other celebrated swordsmen and swordswomen like Nalan Huaiyu, all stood watching the peak battle beside the martial library. Unlike the common belief that such a clash between two top experts would shake the heavens and move the earth, the only visible spectacle was the gentle falling of autumn leaves like snow and the rippling of the lake’s surface. The most striking image, however, left even the hundred or so Wu Clan swordsmen puzzled and bewildered. Even top swordsmen like Zhu Huang, He Lian Wuchi, and Gongsun Xiu Shui found their gazes drawn to a single object slowly moving through the air.
A single Go piece, thrown high, had not yet reached its apex but continued to rise.
Each of them had their own interpretation. Gongsun Xiushui, once the top swordsman of the Southern Tang, murmured, “That young prince must have created a Go board. The moment this piece lands will be when the killing intent is unleashed. Whether the old man with the long eyebrows can win depends on whether he can break through this Go formation before the piece touches the ground.”
Nalan Huaiyu, still graceful as ever, smiled and said, “What Go board? In my view, that young man is just showing off, doing things in the most stylish way possible. At his level, even the simplest move can create a thunderous impact. Of course, it has to look good.”
Yue Zhuowu, who had nearly driven himself mad studying ancient swords, shook his head and said, “You truly underestimate him. That old master is brimming with sword qi. His cultivation may not be lower than Xu Fengnian’s. There must be a deeper meaning here. A life-or-death duel cannot be taken lightly.”
The sword-monk, often called “Big Bald Cui” by Wu Liuding, carried a wooden sword without a scabbard called “Dragon-Subduing Wood.” He scratched his head and sighed, “This feels deeply Zen-like. It reminds me of the time I passed by Longshu Chan Master at the back of the Two-Chan Temple. The old monk, covered in mud and carrying a hoe, walked toward me and greeted me with a smile. I mistook him for an ordinary monk and walked on. Only later did I realize he was a true enlightened being. No wonder they say the Xu family of Beiliang has been devout in Buddhism for twenty years. Every action and reaction is a matter of cause and effect.”
The Go piece began to fall.
Just as everyone thought a world-shaking battle was about to erupt, He Lian Wuchi’s eyes widened in astonishment and he muttered, “I see.”
Cu Hua closed her eyes again, while Zhu Huang, almost simultaneously, sensed something and sneered, his expression a mix of admiration and disdain.
The rest of the ninety or so swordsmen were still puzzled, waiting for the thunderous clash they expected.
Then, the Go piece gently landed on the old man’s shoulder. The old man’s feet began to sink into the ground, stopping only when his knees were buried.
Sui Xiegu withdrew his gaze from Xu Weixiong and casually swatted the piece away.
Then he looked up, his voice tinged with frustration, “You, young one, and Wang Xianzhi—why is it that when you reach this level of divine mastery, you’re no longer as straightforward as before? Do you think me unworthy of your full strength?”
Xu Fengnian landed softly and replied calmly, “As for Wang Xianzhi’s view of that sword stroke into the city, I cannot say. But for myself, I would rather not fight you if I can avoid it.”
Sui Xiegu sneered, “If I had attacked Xu Weixiong, the flaw in your formation, would you have fought then?”
Xu Fengnian did not answer directly but smiled, “But you didn’t attack, did you?”
Sui Xiegu said nothing, but Xu Fengnian darted forward, placing himself between Sui and Xu Weixiong.
Sui had not attacked, but he had deliberately borne the entire weight of this small world. Otherwise, how could a mere Go piece have buried his legs so deeply? Daoist texts once spoke of an immortal who placed a single reed atop Mount Bukui, causing the entire mountain to collapse. Whether true or not, it was clear that before the reed touched the mountain, the mountain must have endured an unimaginable pressure. Sui Xiegu, more than anyone, knew that the young man had set a trap. He had two choices: strike at Xu Weixiong or bear the weight of this small world. Regardless of his reasons, Sui chose the more difficult path, and thus, to the eyes of the onlookers, he appeared to have lost a step to Xu Fengnian.
Sui Xiegu, for reasons unknown, was unwilling to end it there and wished to fight again.
A buzzing sound came from the Tide-Listening Pavilion, like a swarm of mosquitoes humming together.
Xu Fengnian hesitated, then finally remained silent.
I will be hurt, but you will die.
Sui Xiegu, understanding the meaning, laughed and twisted one of his long eyebrows into a knot, asking, “How can we know unless we try?”
He Lian Wuchi sighed heavily, sorrow in his voice, “Why must you insist? Has the sword path of this world truly begun to wane in this generation?”
Inside the Tide-Listening Pavilion, all fell silent.
Then, a single sword rang out from the high tower.
The sword was named Shudao.
Before Chu Luxian’s thousand riders opened the path to Shu, there was already a green-robed swordsman who opened the way alone.
Xu Fengnian took a step forward, slightly bending his knees. His right hand formed a double-finger strike, while his left hand gripped the sword like a saber, pointing directly at Sui Xiegu—the swordsman who had once exchanged an arm with the old man in sheepskin and still not determined a winner.
To Li Chungan, no matter how great the matter, a single sword stroke could resolve it.
For Xu Fengnian, who had grown ever more distant from the martial world, the Rivers and Lakes was now a landscape he could only admire from afar, as the Prince of Beiliang.
Even if that Rivers and Lakes still held the old man’s back, Lao Huang’s sword case, and Wen Hua’s wooden sword.
He could only remain in Beiliang, just as Wang Xianzhi had remained in Wudi City.
He would not meddle in the affairs of the world, but that did not mean anyone could trespass in Beiliang and overstep their bounds.
At that moment, on the surface of the Tide-Listening Lake, a vast expanse of golden lotuses bloomed suddenly, unlike any earthly sight, swaying gently in the air.
In an instant, a golden body was formed, just as it had been in the days of Gao Shulu.
Sui Xiegu threw back his head and laughed, letting out a long breath.
He exhaled a hundred years’ worth of sword qi.
In Wudi City, that slow sword stroke into the city, blocked by Yu Xinlang after the four apprentices of Wang Xianzhi tried to intercept it, had still not been the full strike—only half a sword, with form but no spirit.
Now, at this moment, was the complete sword stroke Sui Xiegu had longed to challenge the Number One Under Heaven with.
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