Chapter 798: Draw the Sword First

A middle-aged man stepped over the threshold of the inn, a seemingly mundane action that nonetheless exuded an aura as refreshing as a spring breeze, leaving Yin Changgeng and the others feeling inexplicably at ease.

Clad in a white robe with a jade belt, his sleeves narrow and his garment wide, the robe was woven from Shu brocade—a top-tier tribute of the Liyang Dynasty—adorned with intricate golden embroidery along the collar and cuffs. While understated in grandeur, the details radiated nobility. Only a man of such refined elegance, one who had subdued his sharp edges, could have married a woman from the famed “Rouge Ranking” in his youth—a beauty celebrated as “Peach Blossoms on Horseback, Pomegranate Skirts.”

At his waist hung a long sword, its scabbard dark and ancient, seemingly crafted from the hide of a flood dragon. What truly set it apart, however, was the absence of both a guard and a hilt.

Qi Jiejie, the foremost swordsman of the capital.

From the age of nine, when he first lifted his family’s ancestral sword, “Ban Xiang,” to practice, thirty years had passed. He had journeyed north to Liaodong, south to the Jianghuai region, east to the Jieshi cliffs, and west to the Sword Pavilion, traversing every renowned mountain and river in the land. At eighteen, he exchanged his sword for “Xie Yang,” challenging six grandmasters of the sword—including Song Nianqing, the master of the Dongyue Sword Pool, Chai Qingshan, the chief retainer of the Chunxue Tower in Guangling, and the Sword Immortal Lu Baijie of Tangxi. He lost all six duels, returning to the capital in seclusion. Emerging at twenty-six, he took up the killing sword “Xing Shan,” facing eight hundred elite cavalry of the Northern Mang alone at the Liaodong border. He retreated unscathed, leaving over three hundred heads in his wake. At thirty, he switched to “Chang Jia,” a blade without edge or hilt—so much so that if the scabbard were inverted, the sword would slide free. Since ancient times, long swords had been called “Chang Jia,” and Qi Jiejie’s choice was clear: among the countless swords in the world, his “Chang Jia” alone sufficed. Thus, he and Huang Qing—the Northern Mang swordsman who had renamed himself “Jian Qi Jin”—were hailed as “Qi’s Art, Huang’s Path,” regarded as the successors to the successive Sword Gods, Deng Tai’a and Li Chungang.

In the newly ranked top ten masters of Liyang from the snowy plains of Huishan, Qi Jiejie followed only Xuanyuan Qingfeng, placing even above Chai Qingshan, who had returned to lead the Dongyue Sword Pool. What truly elevated Qi Jiejie’s reputation was the public acknowledgment from the notoriously proud “Purple Robe of Huishan,” who declared, “Master Qi’s realm may be a foot beneath mine, but in killing, I am ten feet beneath him.” This propelled Qi Jiejie, who had not drawn his sword in years, to the pinnacle of fame, nearly securing his status as the foremost master of the north.

Seeing Master Qi step forward, Gao Shilian and the others breathed a sigh of relief. To these young nobles of the capital, who had grown up hearing Qi Jiejie’s name like thunder, even if the heavens collapsed, Master Qi could hold them up with a single sword. Though they suspected his earlier release and retraction of sword qi had something to do with the enigmatic young man beside them, what did it matter? In Tai’an City, there was a long-standing belief: Master Qi’s true brilliance lay not in his current mastery of the sword, but in the fact that each tomorrow, he would surpass yesterday. When Lu Baijie resigned as Minister of War to take up a post elsewhere, Qi Jiejie saw him off. Lu Baijie, the Sword Immortal of Tangxi who had even gifted away his own sword, laughed candidly, “Perhaps in less than twenty years, I, Lu, won’t even be worthy to serve as Master’s sword-bearer.”

Qi Yanglong’s scholarship, Tantantang’s seal carving, Qi Jiejie’s swordsmanship—and now, Fan Changhou’s mastery of chess.

Who among Tai’an City’s million inhabitants wouldn’t take pride in them?

The young nobleman holding a book locked eyes with Qi Jiejie under the eaves. Compared to the youth’s relaxed posture, Gao Shiqing—ever adept at spotting inconsequential details amidst storms—was astonished to see Master Qi, for the first time ever, remove his famed sword “Chang Jia” from his waist and grip it in his hand.

At that very moment, a company of figures came hastening down the eastern thoroughfare of Taoshu Town. The ever-restless Zhao Wenwei couldn’t resist stealing a glance. Among the four travelers—spanning generations and genders—his gaze became riveted upon one particular silhouette. As the group approached, the young man’s vision finally crystallized into clarity, and his eyes remained transfixed. She was a maiden of his own summers, her form just beginning its graceful unfurling—the plump cheeks of childhood now refining into the elegant contours of a melon-seed face. Clad in robes white as driven snow, she bore an ivory-sheathed blade that seemed an extension of her being, while atop her raven tresses rested an exquisitely understated sandalwood hairpin of imperial purple.

Like a sword, it flew amidst her dark tresses.

In that moment, Zhao Wenwei was entranced. “Books hold beauties like jade”—what a lie! No written beauty could compare to the real thing before him.

Different flowers catch different eyes. Gao Shiqing’s gaze first landed on the handsome young man in green robes, sword at his waist. She gasped, “Li Yibai of the Dongyue Sword Pool?!”

Li Yibai was not only renowned in the Liyang martial world but also held considerable prestige among Jiangnan scholars and even the capital’s officials. His master was none other than Song Nianqing, the master of the Dongyue Sword Pool, while his family hailed from an exalted lineage. Among the ten great aristocratic families of the Spring and Autumn Period, who prized pedigree above all and intermarried only among themselves to avoid “marrying beneath their station”—even disdaining unions with certain imperial branches deemed insufficiently noble—the Li family was one of the rare exceptions, deemed worthy of secondary alliances. Of the eight surnames granted this honor—Li, Pei, Yu, Xie, and others—the Pei clan had faded into obscurity after the fall of the Divine Continent, reduced to infamy through a single woman: Pei Nanwei, the consort of the old Prince Jing’an, Zhao Heng.

Li Yibai embodied the grace of a top-tier Liyang noble, his smile disarming as he addressed Gao Shilian and Gao Shiqing. “I never imagined meeting Brother Gao and Miss Gao here in the northwest.”

With Li Yibai’s arrival from the Dongyue Sword Pool, the identity of the tall elder beside him became clear: Chai Qingshan, one of the world’s few grandmasters of the sword.

Undoubtedly, it was Qi Jiejie’s earlier surge of sword qi that had drawn them here. Yet upon entering the town, Chai Qingshan’s gaze never once settled on Qi Jiejie, his peer in cultivation. Instead, it remained fixed on the book-holding youth.

Li Yibai ignored the tense atmosphere beneath the eaves, cheerfully introducing the Gao siblings to his companions. “Uncle Chai was once close friends with the Holy Monk Longshu. Hearing that the White-Clad Monk would preach atop Lotus Peak, he brought us here to Beiliang. As for these two—Song Tinglu and Shan Eryi—they’re Uncle Chai’s beloved disciples. What are you waiting for? Greet Brother Gao and Sister Gao.”

The slender youth with an unusually long sword at his waist gave a perfunctory “Oh” and dutifully called out, “Brother Gao, Sister Gao,” before glaring daggers at Zhao Wenwei. This brat was practically ogling his junior sister—what was he playing at? Did he want a taste of his sword?

Under Song Tinglu’s scrutiny, everyone noticed Zhao Wenwei’s dazed stare at the white-robed girl with the peculiar name. Zhao Chunyuan, his elder sister, couldn’t help but chuckle. Her foolish little brother, who had always preferred reading, calligraphy, and painting, had finally awakened to love?

Zhao Wenwei asked softly, “Your name is Three-Two-One?”

The girl, long accustomed to such reactions, replied coolly, “My surname is Shan. ‘Shan’ as in ‘fishing bait,’ ‘Eryi’ as in ‘clothing.’ Not ‘Three-Two-One.'”

That simple, polite sentence would stay with Zhao Wenwei for the rest of his life—a man who would one day earn the posthumous title “Wenzhen.”

Song Tinglu snorted. “Kid, don’t get cozy with my junior sister. A bookworm like you? I could knock out a hundred of you without using my hands. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

With this commotion, the tension beneath the eaves—already heightened by the arrival of the mysterious youth and Qi Jiejie—eased slightly, the three youngsters each lost in their own thoughts.

The scholar, who had just tucked his book under his arm, found himself caught in this absurd situation. Far from angered, he grinned and gave Song Tinglu a thumbs-up.

The seemingly naive Zhao Wenwei chuckled. “You know ‘don’t say I didn’t warn you’? So you’re a scholar too!”

Yin Changgeng rapped his brother-in-law lightly on the head. “Reading and writing aren’t for petty arguments.”

Chai Qingshan, standing at the foot of the steps, studied the young man beneath the eaves. He lacked Yin Changgeng’s scholarly air and Li Yibai’s martial flair, yet neither Yin Changgeng, Li Yibai, nor even Chai Qingshan and Qi Jiejie themselves could suppress the latent aura radiating from him. Only Li Yibai, with his keen swordsman’s intuition, sensed it faintly. To the others, unversed in the martial world, it was like failing to recognize a deity in their midst.

Shan Eryi suddenly asked curiously, “You have sword qi. Are you a swordsman too?”

The man pulled the book from under his arm and waved it. “The Green Water Pavilion’s Sixty-Year Sword Manual. Heard of it?”

The girl nodded seriously. “Master mentioned it. Among the world’s sword manuals, The Green Water Pavilion is praised for its systematic approach. Pity the author’s talent was limited—he never glimpsed the heights beyond the Finger Profound realm. So while the manual has grandeur, it lacks true spirit.”

The man sighed. “When I first practiced with The Green Water Pavilion, an old man critiqued it much like you just did.”

Chai Qingshan finally spoke, his voice grave. “I never imagined that parting with Li Chungang by the Guangling River would be our last meeting.”

The man tucked the book away again. “If not for Grandmaster Chai’s intervention that day—and the fact that timing matters more than speed—that old man in sheepskin and I might have made it to the riverside review platform.”

Chai Qingshan’s expression remained impassive. “One who eats the ruler’s grain serves the ruler’s will. As a guest of the Chunxue Tower, it was my duty to stop Li Chungang. The means mattered little.”

Qi Jiejie’s words cut like a blade. “Grandmaster Chai, shouldn’t we observe first come, first served?”

Chai Qingshan, who had traveled from the southeast without a sword, glanced at Qi Jiejie’s “Chang Jia” but said nothing.

Yin Changgeng gently squeezed his wife Zhao Chunyuan’s hand, soothing her nerves.

This was the Northwest Prince, Xu Fengnian! Even a capital socialite like Zhao Chunyuan had heard countless legends about him—twice wandering the Liyang martial world, once venturing alone into Northern Mang, twice journeying west, and one great battle within Beiliang itself.

How many lofty masters had fallen to this young man’s hands?

Years ago, the Butcher led his iron cavalry to trample the martial world, shattering its courage.

Now, his son had nearly single-handedly shattered the revitalized Liyang martial world once more!

The Martial God City was now mere history. Yang Taisui died at Iron Gate Pass. The Human Cat, Han Shengxuan, met a violent end. Song Nianqing perished in a foreign land. Liu Haoshi vanished without a trace. Xie Lingzhen of the Western Shu Spring Scroll Pavilion died inexplicably by Lake Chun Shen. The promising young Zhao Ningshen of the Dragon-Tiger Mountain’s Heavenly Master Mansion was cast down into the dust…

Gao Shilian and Han Xingyan swallowed hard, their eyes meeting in shared dread.

Even the fearless Gao Shiqing took a few steps back.

Xu Fengnian, who had descended from Wudang Mountain to Taoshu Town in a single leap, showed no trace of tension facing two sword grandmasters. Glancing toward the bloody skirmish at the street’s end, he turned to Gao Shilian beside Yin Changgeng. “You’re the son of Duke Yan, Gao Shizhi, correct? My intelligence mentioned your arrival with Qi Jiejie and the others, so when his sword qi flared, I came. Aside from telling Qi Jiejie not to overstep, I also wanted to thank you. Gao Shilian, do you remember Kong Wuchi? A Beiliang youth who reached Tai’an before Yan Chiji. Now in the Ministry of War, I heard he faced much hostility upon arrival—until you stepped in. Later, when Yan Chiji followed Yan Jiexi and Yan Dongwu to the capital, you were among the first nobles to befriend him.”

Gao Shilian felt no flattery, only a desperate urge to vanish. His friendships with Kong Wuchi and Yan Chiji were genuine—what did they have to do with this Beiliang prince? Spare me your thanks! Better to knock me out now than let rumors flood the capital and earn a thrashing from my hot-tempered father!

Yet all he could do was stand there, silent and obedient.

Qi Jiejie asked, “Finished?”

Xu Fengnian shook his head. “No rush. I’m waiting for someone here. What, Qi Jiejie, are you stepping in for those wastrels like Wang Yuanran? But let me be clear: their antics are trivial. Take Liu Chengfeng, sneaking in from Hezhou—past grudges are just that. Wang Yuanran, who once crossed me at Jiujiu Restaurant, is much the same. But if you, Qi Jiejie, interfere, their petty debts will become yours to bear.”

Xu Fengnian smiled faintly. “Truth be told, you and I do have unfinished business.”

Qi Jiejie tightened his grip on “Chang Jia,” the sword that had been his companion for over a decade, and laughed heartily. “Then let’s settle it together!”

Young Zhao Wenwei clenched his fist in silent admiration. Master Qi was truly Master Qi! Even facing one of the world’s top four grandmasters, the Prince of Beiliang, his demeanor and presence remained unshaken!

Xu Fengnian, his back to the inn and his gaze fixed down the street, said softly, “Very well. Then draw your sword first.”