Spanning the western lands like a colossal sword cleaving the heavens and earth in two, this mountain range is hailed as the “Ancestor of Ten Thousand Peaks,” the very source of all dragon veins in the world. At a perilous pass that traverses the north and south of the western territories, the cliffs rise hundreds of feet on either side, with treacherous, winding paths cutting through the abyss. This narrow mountain gap serves as a vital corridor connecting the northern and southern regions of the west. A merchant caravan trudged laboriously through it, the rhythmic chime of camel bells echoing in the air. The traders wore tight-waisted barbarian attire and sturdy leather boots, accompanied by veiled women whose robust figures matched the rumors of the central plains—that in the west, women were treated as men, and men as beasts. Each member of this northbound caravan, regardless of gender, carried a curved blade at their waist. The stronger men bore unique armored pouches near the rear humps of their camels, containing roughly forged chainmail to don in case of bandit raids, transforming their camels into makeshift warhorses.
Suddenly, the caravan halted in alarm as a series of thunderous rumbles shook the ground. Fifty blades were drawn in unison, the men hastily donning their armor, though they knew full well that against a force capable of such commotion, their resistance would be futile. In the lawless western lands, where chaos had reigned for over two centuries, men with steeds and weapons were never in short supply. Before the camels could form a proper defense, a sharp-eyed traveler spotted a figure “running” down the sheer cliff face like an eagle diving for prey. The stranger landed just ten paces from the caravan, skidding forward a few steps before coming to a stop.
The merchants gaped in awe. The young man before them bore none of the rugged features of the western folk—his face was handsome, clean, and strikingly out of place. A white-sheathed longsword rested on his back, and a blade hung at his waist. His lips parched, he took a deep breath, then gestured as if drinking and asked in the common tongue of the west, “Got any water?”
The caravan stood silent, bewildered. But one veiled woman, without hesitation, tossed him a nearly empty waterskin. The young man caught it mid-air, flashed a grin, and with a single step, launched himself back up the cliff face as if scaling walls. He drank deeply before tossing the skin back—miraculously, it landed atop the woman’s head just as a sudden gust of wind sent the camels staggering backward. Before anyone could react, another figure plummeted from the sky like a meteor, shaking the earth. The waterskin slipped from the woman’s grasp, landing softly in the sand. The newcomer vanished as swiftly as he had appeared.
Years later, the tale of the “Immortal Borrowing Water” would spread far and wide across the western lands.
※※※
Hundreds of miles south of the mountains, as dusk neared, two rival factions clashed over a woman of legendary beauty. Over two thousand warhorses thundered across the famed Emerald Lake, their battle a desperate gamble. The weaker faction, inspired by the rising fame of a young northern prince, sought to trade their prized woman for three hundred suits of armor and a thousand crossbows, hoping to dominate the southern reaches. Seven hundred knights rode forth to escort her north—only to be ambushed at the lake. After an hour of brutal combat, the pursuers realized the woman had already slipped away. Enraged, they vowed to slaughter the treacherous tribe until only she remained.
As the battle teetered between mounted charges and disarrayed melee, a lone figure tore through the battlefield, splitting the fray in two. Men and horses toppled in his wake. The combatants, stunned, turned to see a young swordsman kneeling, one hand on his hilt, the other bracing the tip of his blade, which curved unnaturally in a half-moon arc.
Then came a towering figure, barreling through the gap with unstoppable force. The swordsman’s fingers slid along the blade, channeling the lingering energy into a crackling sphere of violet lightning. With a flick of his wrist, he met the charge—sword inverted, thunder coiled at its tip.
The titan, Tuoba Pusa, swatted aside the lightning and seized the hilt, but the swordsman—Xu Xiao—had already abandoned the blade, blocking a whip-kick with his elbow before being sent spinning. Seemingly outmatched, Xu Xiao retreated, then lunged forward, his blade half-drawn. A blinding light erupted, forcing onlookers to shield their eyes.
Xu Xiao’s true strike came not in drawing the blade, but in sheathing it. The resulting thunderclap sent shockwaves through the battlefield, hurling men aside like leaves in a storm. Tuoba Pusa, though unharmed, found himself outmaneuvered as Xu Xiao’s discarded sword returned to its sheath on its own—and the “slow” violet lightning he’d dismissed suddenly accelerated, striking his back in a burst of radiant force.
Xu Xiao wiped blood from his lips and whispered, “Homecoming.”
The sword on his back, *Fangsheng*, howled in its sheath like a dying cicada’s final cry—or an old man’s longing to return to his homeland. The battlefield trembled as a towering violet lotus bloomed behind Tuoba Pusa, its petals unfurling in wrath.
The Northern Barbarian God of War swallowed blood, his expression unreadable. He had underestimated this young man, who wielded the legacies of countless masters—Li Chungang’s swordplay, Wang Xianzhi’s fists, Hong Xixiang’s circles—each breath a new marvel, each retreat a prelude to resurgence.
Their battle was no longer a contest of strength, but a whetstone sharpening the pinnacle of martial arts.
※※※
At dawn, a lone figure raced along a snow-capped ridge, a speck against the vast white expanse. Pausing, he scooped up snow to scrub his stubbled face, then drew his blade to shave—a rare moment of respite.
Unlike the drawn-out skirmishes of days past, the tide had turned. In six clashes over a day and night, Tuoba Pusa had retreated four times. Now, each strike was lethal, each miss a retreat.
The final reckoning neared.
After the Chicken Soup Monk gifted that Buddhist alms bowl, the reason Xu Fengnian foolishly waited for Tuoba Pusa in the western city was to harness Tuoba Pusa’s relentless assaults to temper and forge the “sword embryo” he had absorbed from the gathered fortunes. Both Tuoba Pusa and Xu Fengnian gained something from this, but it was clear that Xu Fengnian held the upper hand in turning the tables later.
After Tuoba Pusa’s failed ambush last time, Xu Fengnian had pursued him for over two hundred miles until both ascended this majestic snow-capped peak.
In their life-and-death struggles, the two had developed a certain tacit understanding. The retreating party would not deliberately conceal all traces of their aura, always leaving behind some clues for the pursuer to follow.
Tuoba Pusa made it unmistakably clear to Xu Fengnian that he would be waiting on this snow peak. As for when and where he would unleash a sudden, fatal strike, Xu Fengnian would have to rely on his skill and luck to face it head-on.
Xu Fengnian finished shaving his stubble, sheathed his knife, and before standing up, scooped a handful of snow into his mouth, letting it slowly melt and trickle down his throat.
Straightening his back, he adjusted the sword behind him with one hand and gripped the hilt of his knife with the other, raising his head to look ahead.
Suddenly, an avalanche of snow roared down, growing ever more massive.
It was unmistakably Tuoba Pusa, using sheer human force to create this overwhelming snowslide.
Xu Fengnian was certain Tuoba Pusa was hidden within the snow.
Closing his eyes, he wrapped four fingers around the knife hilt, pressing his thumb tightly against the guard, poised to draw the blade.
The avalanche cascaded down the mountain like a flood, splitting around Xu Fengnian on either side.
Standing firm as an unshakable pillar, Xu Fengnian remained unmoved.
A frigid spear, infused with immense energy, shot toward Xu Fengnian’s heart like a bolt of lightning.
Xu Fengnian drew his knife in a flash, narrowly dodging the spear and Tuoba Pusa himself in that split second.
A chunk of flesh was torn from Xu Fengnian’s shoulder, but a trail of crimson blood also lingered in the air beside him.
Turning around, Xu Fengnian felt no lingering fear—only a tinge of regret. If Tuoba Pusa had chosen to settle the fight then, Xu Fengnian was confident he could have severed one of his opponent’s arms, even at the cost of a grievous injury.
But Tuoba Pusa, as if guided by unseen forces, abandoned the battlefield, preferring to let Xu Fengnian’s “essence” carve a bloody gash down his back.
After the avalanche, Xu Fengnian sat cross-legged in the snow, panting heavily, certain that Tuoba Pusa was also recuperating at the mountain’s base.
Now, their battle was no longer about who could recover faster, but about ending it swiftly—one decisive strike to determine life or death.
Lying lazily in the snow, Xu Fengnian gazed at the sky and murmured, “Life is as lonely as an avalanche.”
※※※
A great river carved through the canyon, traversing this three-thousand-mile mountain chain before finally surging into the sea within the borders of Nanzhao.
While drinking from the riverbank, Xu Fengnian was struck in the forehead by Tuoba Pusa’s finger, sending him crashing into the riverbed.
Of his ten flying swords, six had come within inches—just a hair’s breadth—from piercing Tuoba Pusa’s temples, eye sockets, and heart.
Tuoba Pusa rained furious punches upon the river’s surface, his gaze locked onto Xu Fengnian, who couldn’t break free from the water’s depths. Each strike was meant to crush and drown Xu Fengnian beneath the river’s weight.
Tuoba Pusa “walked” atop the river for a full hundred and twenty miles.
In the end, having forcibly reversed his energy flow, Tuoba Pusa’s arms hung limp, and blood streamed horrifically from his ears, nose, and mouth.
When Xu Fengnian surfaced like a corpse, Tuoba Pusa—his arms now useless—could only stomp down with his foot.
Even knowing a flying sword, guided by Xu Fengnian’s will alone, would pierce his foot, Tuoba Pusa didn’t hesitate.
Xu Fengnian was stomped into the chest and plunged back into the muddy riverbed.
Strangely, Tuoba Pusa could find neither Xu Fengnian’s body nor any trace of his lingering aura.
The young prince seemed to have vanished from the world.
After a fruitless night of searching along the river, Tuoba Pusa was about to turn back toward the Liang-Mang border when, at dawn, he saw the stubborn youth—who refused to report to the King of Hell—slowly emerge from the water on the opposite bank.
The longsword on his back was gone.
He clenched the scabbard between his teeth, gripping his knife with both hands.
Neither crossed the river to attack. Instead, they walked slowly upstream.
Xu Fengnian was recuperating. Tuoba Pusa was stacking the odds in his favor.
※※※
After nearly ten days of pursuit and battle, spanning thousands of miles, the final clash arrived beneath a torrential downpour—a rare sight in the western regions.
The collision was brutally simple, like the charge of Liang-Mang cavalry—no flourishes, no tricks.
Xu Fengnian drove his knife into Tuoba Pusa’s abdomen with both hands.
As Tuoba Pusa staggered back, he hammered fist after fist into Xu Fengnian’s forehead.
Finally, Xu Fengnian first released one hand from the knife, then gripped it with five fingers, then two, then just one.
When he finally let go, Tuoba Pusa—his abdomen pierced clean through—collapsed backward.
Xu Fengnian, his hair wild and disheveled, toppled straight back.
Tuoba Pusa lay in the mud, trembling as he reached out, unable to grasp the hilt. Instead, he gripped the blade and yanked it from his abdomen, propping himself up on one elbow to sit.
Xu Fengnian remained motionless.
Tuoba Pusa exhaled in relief, chuckled, spat blood, and glanced at the knife in his hand. “What a shame.”
Then he suddenly looked up, his face twisting in shock and bitterness.
A sword tore through the rain.
It was *Fangsheng*—the sword that had vanished!
Only now did Tuoba Pusa realize the missing sword had been waiting for this very moment—when he seemed to have gained the upper hand.
To pull this off, the timing and positioning had to be flawless. To set this trap, Xu Fengnian had taken an enormous risk, splitting his focus to “care” for a sword “far beyond reach,” guiding it before even drawing his knife, ensuring it struck precisely when Tuoba Pusa was “just within reach”—not a step more, not a step less.
They say this was how the eunuch of Liyang had died.
Tuoba Pusa sighed softly. Had he been given just half an incense stick’s worth of time to recover, he could have easily finished off the young man.
He didn’t regret much—only felt a little aggrieved, a little stifled.
Was there still time?
No.
Who would have thought Tuoba Pusa would one day rely on others?
He closed his eyes.
Suddenly, an old man with frost-white hair stood before Tuoba Pusa, extending a single finger to block the flying sword.
The sword, denied its kill, seemed to wail in despair.
Lying in the mud, Xu Fengnian clung to the last shred of consciousness, piecing together the man’s identity—the architect of the Northern Mang’s Spider Web, the Shadow Chancellor, Li Mibi.
The old man smiled. “You should know that to stop Xu Yanbing and Tantai Ningjing, allowing me to arrive first, we sacrificed over sixty experts! The Northern Mang’s martial world will hardly be worthy of the name after this.”
Though his words were casual, his movements never slowed. After deflecting the sword, he charged through the rain toward Xu Fengnian, laughing. “Xu Fengnian, you may have lost, but you fought honorably. Besides, you only lost to fate. Xu Xiao likely won’t blame you.”
At that moment, Xu Fengnian only felt water splash beside his ear.
He didn’t see the sandalwood box that landed heavily nearby, nor the young woman who had flown six thousand miles to reach him.
She didn’t even glance at him.
She only said, cold and firm:
**”You are not allowed to die.”**
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