In the northern reaches of Western Shu, nine mountains stretch like swords in a row. Among them, the twin cliffs of Great Sword and Small Sword stand facing each other. The former emperor of Western Shu once carved the cliffs into the shape of an open gate, which the world now calls the Sword Gate. Flying bridges and plank roads were built here, making it a natural stronghold of unparalleled danger. However, after the unification of the Central Plains by the Liyang Dynasty, the imperial highways were expanded, and the mountain paths of Sword Gate fell into disuse. Over the years, only small-scale merchants traveled this route.
As for Sword Gate, after Jian Jiuhuang’s legendary duel with Wang Xianzhi in the Martial Emperor City, some say his nickname originated from his enlightenment upon observing these mountains, while others insist that before leaving Shu, he carved a sword manual into the cliffs along the plank roads. Nowadays, many young swordsmen from Western Shu venture here in search of hidden opportunities.
As summer approached and peach blossoms began to wither, a narrow, winding path clung to the damp and shadowy cliffs. A middle-aged man rode a donkey, while a delicate-looking boy, resembling a book attendant, led the animal. The boy carried a large bamboo case on his back, muttering to himself. The unremarkable man seemed accustomed to the boy’s complaints and paid no heed, dozing lazily atop the donkey.
Just then, a group approached from the opposite direction—a local woodcutter leading a band of young, well-dressed nobles. The boy’s eyes lit up. He plucked a peach branch from his bamboo case and tossed it to the man, whispering urgently, “Master, Master! Quick, turn around and ride the donkey backward! And now’s the time for you to recite a poem loudly! Otherwise, with so many copycats riding donkeys these days, how will anyone recognize your status? You can’t just call yourself the ‘Peach Blossom Sword God’—no one would believe you!”
The man sighed helplessly. “We’ve met over a dozen groups on this journey, and every time you make me recite a poem—always one with ‘peach blossoms’ in it. Where am I supposed to find so many poems?”
The boy glared threateningly. “Then just repeat the last one—*Meeting the Immortal in the Valley*. It sounded plenty mystical. Master, if you don’t recite it, I won’t lead the donkey anymore!”
The man, ever patient, lazily turned to ride backward, holding the peach branch aloft as he boomed:
*”Peach blossoms fill the valley, seen one and all,*
*As dusk deepens, the road stretches long.*
*An elder bestowed upon me the Three Pure Talismans,*
*To live a thousand years, laughing at kings…”*
The boy, who had been exhausted moments ago, instantly transformed into the poised attendant of an immortal, striding forward with dignified detachment.
The noble youths, who had hired the woodcutter as their guide, stared in bewilderment before one of them scoffed, “Hah! These two charlatans think they can fool us? As if riding a donkey and waving a peach branch makes you Deng Tai’a! If that’s the case, I’ll ride a white horse with a saber and call myself Xu Fengnian!”
The boy flushed with anger, but the man only laughed, turning back around and tossing the peach branch into the bamboo case. The two groups passed each other without further incident—the boy’s carefully staged “chance encounter” earning nothing but disdain.
Watching his crestfallen disciple, the man chuckled. “Angry? Don’t be. Truth is, Master has long wanted to tell you—in the martial world, true masters seldom reveal themselves…”
The boy snorted, still fuming.
The man consoled him, “Alright, this trip to Shu, I promise to show you all its wonders.”
Silence.
The man grinned. “How about I fly on a sword to teach those fools a lesson?”
The boy sighed. “Forget it. They’re blind anyway—their loss.”
With the melancholy unique to youth, the boy muttered, “Master, I don’t mean to criticize, but among the Four Great Grandmasters, even Cao Changqing admires you. You fought Tuoba Pusa to heaven-shaking, earth-shattering effect. You even gave Xu Fengnian his flying swords! Yet nowadays, people only talk about how Cao Changqing crushed that useless monk, or how Xu Fengnian and Tuoba Pusa battled across the Western Regions like never before. No one sings your praises. It worries me.”
The man teased, “Then why do you slack off every time I teach you swordsmanship?”
The boy sighed like an old man. “I know my limits—no talent, no potential. Since I can’t be a great disciple, I have to hope my master achieves greatness instead.”
The man laughed. “You’ve got quite the attitude!”
Suddenly, the boy turned. “Master, why did you take me as your disciple anyway? Look at Wang Xianzhi—his disciples, Yu Xinlang and Lin Ya, are all top-tier masters. So don’t expect me to make you famous in the martial world.”
The man replied breezily, “What do I care about fame? To live freely and die without regrets—that’s true greatness. Do you think Cao Changqing, Xu Fengnian, or Tuoba Pusa can claim that? They can’t. If I die tomorrow, you’ll manage just fine. But Xu Fengnian? He’s shackled by his father’s legacy. Cao Changqing? He can’t let go of the Chu kingdom. And Tuoba Pusa? Obsessed with power and glory. These so-called ‘land immortals’ live in chains—don’t envy them.”
The boy sighed. “Sounds exhausting.”
The genuine Peach Blossom Sword God, Deng Tai’a, grinned. “Now that I’ve said all that, does leading the donkey feel less tiring?”
The boy chuckled, not in forced cheer but genuine realization. “Master… it really does.”
Behind them, footsteps approached. The boy turned to see the noble youths returning, sending the woodcutter forward. The man awkwardly rubbed his hands and said to Deng Tai’a, “Mind if we discuss something?”
Deng Tai’a smiled. “Go ahead, brother.”
The woodcutter lowered his voice. “Sorry, friend. These rich kids want to buy your donkey. I can’t refuse them. If you’re willing to sell, I suggest asking for a high price—twenty or thirty taels. They won’t balk at the difference.”
Before Deng Tai’a could reply, the boy exploded, “Our donkey’s not for sale! Not even for ten thousand taels!”
Deng Tai’a, now facing them, stroked his chin. “If it’s gold… maybe.”
The boy, ever the instigator, added, “You’re lucky—Master says ten thousand taels of gold, and it’s yours!”
The woodcitter shook his head. These two had no idea how dangerous the world could be. In these wilds, if those angered nobles turned violent, who would even report it?
Sure enough, the group stormed over, led by a burly youth who drew his sheathed sword and pointed it at Deng Tai’a. “Old man, don’t push your luck. I’m offering fifty taels of silver—take it or leave it. It’s not that I can’t pay more—I once spent four thousand taels in a month! But even as a fool, I have my limits.”
The boy seethed. “Master, how can you stand this? I won’t! I’m fighting! I may not be a grandmaster, but I can handle these clowns!”
Deng Tai’a glanced at a strikingly beautiful girl among the group, then back at his disciple, who gulped guiltily.
The man studied his disciple—no longer the impulsive child he’d rescued from the snow years ago. Back then, Deng Tai’a had just left the Wu Family Sword Tomb, unknown in the martial world. He had no interest in flaunting his skills, preferring to avoid conflict. But this stubborn boy, despite his frail frame, would charge into fights, returning battered yet unbroken. Perhaps this innate sense of justice was what Deng Tai’a lacked—for him, nothing mattered but the sword in his heart.
One day, after hearing a storyteller’s tales of martial heroes, the boy declared he wanted to learn martial arts. When Deng Tai’a asked why, he said he’d figure it out later.
Amused, Deng Tai’a arranged for him to join a minor sect. Though deemed “gifted,” the boy soon lost interest in training, content with his monthly allowance. When Deng Tai’a returned to check on him, the boy excitedly spent his savings to buy him a saber—mistakenly believing his master disliked swords.
Touched, Deng Tai’a officially took him as his sole disciple.
That saber was later traded for the donkey. Before Deng Tai’a’s duel with Wang Xianzhi, the boy had begged him not to fight empty-handed. Failing to persuade him, the boy pointed at a peach tree and said, “At least take a branch as your sword!”
And so, the legend of the Peach Blossom Sword God was born.
Even after Deng Tai’a’s rise to fame, the boy never stopped complaining—about losing to Wang Xianzhi, about gifting the flying swords to Xu Fengnian (not out of greed, but because Deng Tai’a had never shown them to him), about the world’s blindness to his master’s unmatched skill.
Amidst the endless gripes, Deng Tai’a suddenly realized—his forever-young disciple had grown up. He stole glances at pretty girls now, and faint stubble shadowed his lips.
Snapped back to the present by the noble’s sneer, Deng Tai’a dismounted and patted the donkey. His disciple, once reckless, now had the skill to hold his own against second-tier masters—yet avoided petty fights.
Ignoring the entitled youth, Deng Tai’a ruffled the boy’s hair. “Disciple, though you’re hardly accomplished, having you as my student… makes me happy.”
The boy shuddered. “Master, are you sick?”
Deng Tai’a smiled. “Just happy.”
A dissipated noble, unimpressed by the donkey rider but incensed by the boy’s earlier glance at his lady, snapped his fan shut. “Fifty taels is generous. Enough for a fine weapon if you fancy the martial world, or books if you aspire to the exams.”
Deng Tai’a ignored the barbed words. The boy rolled his eyes. “Master, let’s go. They’re not worth it.”
Deng Tai’a nodded. “Give me the bamboo case.”
The boy frowned. “No way. I’d rather tire myself than the donkey—it’s not young anymore.”
“Just hand it over.”
Grumbling, the boy passed the case.
Between the twin cliffs, the wind howled. Birds occasionally streaked across the sky.
Deng Tai’a, rarely burdened with luggage, smiled. “Go on ahead.”
In the next instant, he performed an odd motion—plucking the peach branch from the case and hurling it skyward.
As the crowd gaped, the branch hovered midair.
Bewildered, the boy felt a light shove from Deng Tai’a. “Sink your qi, lift the sword—Mountain-Treading Art!”
Propelled off the plank road, the boy instinctively stabilized his energy midair—
And landed perfectly on the peach branch.
Like an immortal riding a sword.
After a brief panic, the boy—who’d seen enough of his master’s prowess—burst into laughter. “Down the mountain we go!”
He soared away on the wind, his joy echoing between the cliffs.
How many youths dream of wandering the martial world with a sword?
How many get to fly like an immortal?
Deng Tai’a remounted the donkey, grinning at the stunned nobles. “Fifty taels? Not enough for this donkey.”
Finally, he winked at the girl his disciple had admired. “Remember this, lass. That boy? He’s nagged Wang Xianzhi about the Martial Emperor City’s flaws, shared wine with Cao Changqing, and cursed Prince Guangling’s heir to his face. But most importantly—he’s the one who gave me the name ‘Peach Blossom Sword God.’ Impressive, no?”
The girl was speechless.
As the donkey’s hoofbeats faded into the distance, Deng Tai’a felt a pang of regret. Of the Four Great Grandmasters, he’d fought Tuoba Pusa, would never fight Cao Changqing… Would he ever cross swords with that Xu brat?
*Kid, don’t die.*
*Dying under the hooves of those northern barbarians? What a pathetic end.*
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