Facing Tuoba Pusa, Xu Fengnian grasped the unremarkable wooden sword in his hand and gave it a light flick, sending a simple sword flourish through the air. It was a stance so common that even the most inexperienced swordsman, fresh from picking up a blade for the first time, could execute it effortlessly. Yet, Tuoba Pusa’s expression grew graver than when he had faced Xu Fengnian’s earlier, more imposing sword techniques.
Xu Fengnian took half a step forward with his left foot, followed by a full step with his right. Then, his left foot covered a distance twice that of an ordinary stride, while his right foot spanned four steps. With each movement, his strides grew longer, until his final step resembled a soaring leap through the air. This was the same footwork used by Liu Haoshi, the gatekeeper of Tai’an City, when he once ambushed the White-Clothed Luoyang. Yet, the wooden sword in Xu Fengnian’s hand remained unchanged—no profound sword intent, no sweeping aura of invincible sword energy.
Tuoba Pusa, standing firm and unmoved, couldn’t help but show a trace of bewilderment. He certainly didn’t believe Xu Fengnian was merely putting on a meaningless show. The man was far from exhausted, still brimming with energy. So when Xu Fengnian dragged the wooden sword behind him, closing the distance to just ten feet from Tuoba Pusa, it marked the first time in their battle that he had actively sought close combat.
Tuoba Pusa retreated, gliding back dozens of feet. His gaze wasn’t fixed on Xu Fengnian but rather on the crude wooden sword, held like a cavalryman dragging a spear. He was waiting for Xu Fengnian to strike, to truly “raise the sword.” In this world, no technique was flawless—not even Wang Xianzhi’s. But Wang Xianzhi’s overwhelming physical prowess and indomitable spirit had once made him the undisputed strongest. He could crush any opponent with a single punch, not because his moves were sophisticated, but because he disdained flashy techniques, preferring sheer dominance.
Tuoba Pusa didn’t believe Xu Fengnian, weakened as he was, possessed such capital. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have resorted to so many schemes after their first encounter. Tuoba Pusa was confident that once Xu Fengnian unleashed his sword, he could counter it—the only question was how much effort it would take. In the martial world of Liyang and Northern Mang, the only sword Tuoba Pusa had ever needed to avoid was the Peach Blossom Sword God Deng Tai’a’s divine techniques.
Even if Xu Fengnian had mastered countless sword forms, refining the mundane into the miraculous, he still hadn’t reached the heights once occupied by Li Chungang or currently held by Deng Tai’a. As for Lü Dongbin, the unrivaled master of the past millennium—if Xu Fengnian had attained such divine skill, Tuoba Pusa wouldn’t have come to this western city to humiliate himself.
Tuoba Pusa retreated leisurely, allowing Xu Fengnian to close the distance while dragging his sword. But he had a clear limit—he would not leave the city. Unless Xu Fengnian struck, he wouldn’t act. He waited patiently to see what trick Xu Fengnian had up his sleeve.
All the while, Tuoba Pusa kept his attention fixed on the wooden sword. He could have attacked immediately after Xu Fengnian’s taunt, but the more Xu Fengnian resembled an amateur swordsman rather than a master, the more intrigued Tuoba Pusa became. Even after sixteen steps, there was still no sign of the sword’s hidden power.
Could this swordplay truly be nothing but an empty flourish? Was it merely a ploy to elevate the reputation of that swordsman named Wen Hua? Or was Xu Fengnian playing some mind game, wielding a sword without true intent?
Tuoba Pusa held back because he was preparing for his inevitable second battle with Deng Tai’a. The more Xu Fengnian used his sword, the greater Tuoba Pusa’s advantage would be. In Northern Mang, the decline of sword arts was undeniable—how could a single “Sword Qi Approaching” satisfy Tuoba Pusa’s hunger?
With only two retreats left before leaving the city, Xu Fengnian still showed no intention of striking. This stirred a flicker of anger in Tuoba Pusa. Did Xu Fengnian truly believe a mere wooden sword—without even a scabbard—could intimidate him into retreating?
No longer willing to play the passive role, Tuoba Pusa planted his right foot firmly on the street, crushing the stone beneath. His left foot lunged forward, and before it even touched the ground, the entire street ahead collapsed. As his foot landed and his right fist swung, the buildings on either side of the main street swayed like wheat in a storm, collapsing in unison.
A mighty gale surged down the street, hurling countless shattered stones toward Xu Fengnian.
Xu Fengnian, like a traveler braving a headwind, chose not to evade but to charge straight through.
With each step, his pristine robe—despite the protective veil of crimson serpents—began to fray. His hair whipped wildly, and his cheek was sliced by the razor-sharp fist energy, leaving thin trails of blood.
Tuoba Pusa’s heart tightened. Was Xu Fengnian enduring this assault just to close the distance, to build momentum for a single decisive strike?
Or was this all a ruse—his earlier cautious, calculating demeanor a smokescreen for a single, lethal blow?
Two swords had already divided “heaven and earth.” A dazzling array of immortal techniques had separated “near and far.”
This motionless, silent sword—was it meant to divide life and death?
Xu Fengnian’s wooden sword, its tip still pointed downward, defied conventional wisdom. The world’s truths often revolved around balance and harmony, or the Confucian ideal of the “Middle Way.” Buddhism spoke of “no-self,” Daoism of “non-action”—all converging on similar principles.
But at this moment, Tuoba Pusa saw something else in that motionless wooden sword—a turbulent storm of emotions.
Resentment. Frustration. Indignation. Grief.
*My heart is filled with unquenchable fury!*
Xu Fengnian raised the wooden sword with deceptive ease, its tip now aimed directly at Tuoba Pusa.
No explanations. No hesitation.
Man and sword became one, charging forward in defiance of all logic.
This single wooden sword strike embodied the essence of the martial world.
Unyielding.
Like a desperate gambler staking his life’s savings on one final throw of the dice against fate itself.
Years ago, a wealthy young man had set out into the martial world with grand ambitions, only to find himself floundering in its muddy depths. No ethereal immortals, no noble heroes—just a struggle for survival, where even three meals a day were uncertain.
Then he met a fellow wanderer—a wooden-sword drifter. Their first encounter was a comical clash of thieves stealing melons, but from that moment, they became inseparable. The young man, with his bookish knowledge, loved to needle his companion with lofty ideals, mocking the drifter’s obsession with his shabby wooden sword.
*”Real masters value their swords, but only as extensions of their own will. No true swordsman would ever revere the blade more than himself!”*
The drifter, when cornered, would only retort: *”That’s their sword, not mine. Mine’s different.”*
And if truly provoked, he’d brandish the wooden sword, threatening: *”You think I don’t have a few secret techniques up my sleeve?”*
Their bickering often ended with the young man fleeing as the drifter chased him, poking him mercilessly with the wooden sword.
What truly infuriated the young man were the times he’d be squatting in the wilderness, answering nature’s call, only for the drifter to appear out of nowhere, declaring he’d just invented a “peerless sword technique” and demanding praise. The drifter wouldn’t stop until the young man had exhausted every compliment in his vocabulary.
Their journey was a series of humiliations—losing in martial tournaments, being chased out of villages by angry farmers, and getting rejected by every woman the drifter fancied. Yet, no matter how many times he was spurned, the drifter would always dust himself off, adjust his tattered clothes, and declare: *”One day, I’ll be the greatest swordsman in the world!”*
Later, they met a wealthy girl who fancied herself a heroine. For a brief, glorious period, they dined in proper restaurants, feasting on meat and wine. The drifter would sigh contentedly: *”This—the smell of liquor, the taste of grease—this is how a true hero should live!”*
But when the money ran out, they were back to stealing sour bean curd from village drying yards. Yet the drifter would still claim it tasted like the finest delicacy.
When they finally parted ways, the drifter—penniless, with nothing but his wooden sword—said solemnly: *”I can’t give you this sword. I still need it to make my name, to become the greatest swordsman. But I swear, one day, I’ll repay everything.”*
The young man had laughed it off. *”Don’t worry about it.”*
But the drifter, uneducated yet stubborn, insisted: *”Brothers keep accounts clear. You helped me without asking for anything, but I won’t forget.”*
Years later, Xu Fengnian realized that those days—filled with poverty, humiliation, and absurdity—were like a jar of aged wine. Long after it was emptied, its flavor lingered.
That shabby, unglamorous martial world—far from the flying heroes and moonlit duels of his youthful fantasies—was the one he cherished most.
Tuoba Pusa’s expression shifted uncertainly. What was Xu Fengnian trying to accomplish with this sword?
With a cold snort, Tuoba Pusa retreated beyond the city walls.
He had planned to re-enter the moment Xu Fengnian’s momentum waned, striking back with thunderous force.
That moment would have been the true line between life and death.
But Tuoba Pusa froze. Not because Xu Fengnian had some hidden technique—the sword’s momentum had indeed peaked and faded.
There was no sword energy. Only the lingering essence of the strike.
Xu Fengnian stood still, clutching the sword, and burst into laughter.
*”Wen Hua, did you see that? Your martial world, your wooden sword—just like that, it sent a master like Tuoba Pusa fleeing beyond the city walls!”*
He planted the wooden sword into the ground, then raised his arms. The ancient sword *”Fangsheng”* and the famed saber *”Qi Yun”* flew to his hands—one from the inner city’s ramparts, the other from the Six-Beaded Bodhisattva outside the walls.
As he strode forward, Xu Fengnian glanced back at the wooden sword and murmured with a faint smile:
*”What comes next… is mine alone.”*
Across the desert sands, a thousand-mile battle awaited.
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