The moment these words were spoken, Yin Changgeng, Han Xingyan, and their group, along with Li Yibai, Song Tinglu, and Shan Eryi, were utterly stunned.
To openly declare that Qi Jiajie—a grandmaster poised to become the pinnacle of swordsmanship—wouldn’t even be able to draw his sword from its sheath?
In the past thousand years of the martial world, only the legendary Lü Zu, who once passed through the Heavenly Gate but chose not to enter, could have dared to say such a thing.
Was this man, still clutching a book under his arm, planning to overwhelm Qi Jiajie with sheer force? Though Qi Jiajie wasn’t renowned for his boundless qi, he was still the foremost swordsman in the capital, his martial prowess second only to the fourteen on the Martial Rankings. The idea that he couldn’t even draw his sword was simply absurd.
Despite the palpable tension of an impending battle, Chai Qingshan—inexplicably dragged into the center of this storm—remained motionless. He showed no intention of leaving with Li Yibai and his two disciples, nor did he circulate his qi to guard against unforeseen dangers. Clearly, whether Xu Fengnian and Qi Jiajie fought within Taoshu Town or beyond it made little difference. Chai Qingshan was betting that their confrontation would be a gentlemanly duel, a contest of skill without collateral damage. Such a refined, high-level exchange was a rare opportunity for martial artists to hone their own insights. How could Chai Qingshan pass up this once-in-a-lifetime chance?
Qi Jiajie tilted the famed sword *Changjian*, forged in the Jinglong Sword Furnace, its full length three feet and three inches. His jade-like fingers didn’t touch the hilt, yet the blade suddenly emitted a dragon-like hum, unsheathing just under an inch. A frigid gust swept beneath the inn’s eaves.
After this brief “pause,” the blade surged outward, revealing over three inches of gleaming steel.
Twice, *Changjian* left its sheath with flawless ease.
But in this world, things may happen once, even twice—but never a third time.
The sword remained still. The three disciples of Dongyue Sword Pool, their hearing sharpened by martial training, caught the faint, incessant buzzing of mosquito wings.
Meanwhile, Yin Changgeng and the others noticed dust swirling outside the inn, forming miniature tornadoes that spun lazily, like yellow-robed maidens dancing gracefully.
*Changjian* finally inched out another sliver, slow enough for even Gao Shiqing to track with her eyes.
Yet Qi Jiajie’s pristine Shu brocade robe, usually untouched by dust, began to tremble faintly, as if a dragonfly had skimmed the surface of a still lake, sending ripples across.
Under Taoshu Town’s scorching sun, the spot where Qi Jiajie stood—half in shadow, half in light—revealed something extraordinary. Normally imperceptible rays of light became visible, twisting violently in an instant.
Song Tinglu and Shan Eryi blinked in unison, doubting their eyes. But the eerie, serpentine light remained.
Simultaneously, the dust tornadoes shattered and dispersed.
*Changjian* unsheathed another inch.
Unaware, Gao Shiqing was now drenched in sweat, her damp hair clinging to her flushed cheeks. Zhao Wenwei subconsciously wiped his sweaty palms on his robe.
The white-clad, sword-bearing girl, though an outsider, was even more tense than Gao Shiqing. She whispered to her fellow disciple, “Song Tinglu, do you think Qi’s sword can fully unsheathe?”
The boy, whose own sword was an unusually long four feet, pondered seriously before replying, “Call me ‘senior brother,’ and I’ll tell you.”
The girl, adorned with a violet sandalwood hairpin shaped like a sword, narrowed her willow-leaf brows—sharp as blades—before suddenly beaming sweetly. “Senior brother~”
Song Tinglu shuddered as if seeing a ghost in broad daylight, then grinned foolishly. “The answer is… I don’t know.”
Normally, the girl would have drawn her sword and chased the future sect master all over the mountain. But today, she took a deep breath and let it slide. Song Tinglu soon realized why—his usually spirited demeanor wilted like frostbitten eggplant. His junior sister was determined to maintain a ladylike image in front of *him*—the man admired by nearly every female disciple in the Sword Pool. The girl who’d never cared for makeup now lingered outside every cosmetics shop in Youzhou.
As the dust tornadoes dissipated, Xu Fengnian casually waved a hand, scattering the remnants.
Qi Jiajie’s grip loosened, his fingers curling into a loose hold as *Changjian* spun violently, as if thunder rolled in his palm.
The blade forced itself out another three inches.
Beneath the northern swordsman’s feet, the stone pavement cracked like a spider’s web, fissures spreading outward. Gao Shiqing hastily pulled Zhao Wenwei back.
Yin Changgeng and Zhao Chunyuan watched as Qi Jiajie’s white robe began to flutter, then whip violently, like a war banner in a gale.
Zhao Wenwei, who had been stealing glances at the maiden in white earlier, now clenched his fists, silently rooting for Qi Jiajie—hoping he would fully unsheathe the sword and teach the arrogant Prince of Northern Liang a lesson. Yet, truth be told, this notorious prince, despite his provocative words, appeared no different from the refined scholars Zhao Wenwei had encountered in the palace or the Imperial Academy. Handsome, poised, the kind of man one simply couldn’t bring themselves to despise.
When Qi Jiajie finally raised his right hand, two fingers hovering an inch above *Changjian*, his aura transformed. If before he’d stood like the Five Sacred Mountains, now he was the surging Guangling River, roaring toward the sea.
Chai Qingshan whispered to his disciples, “Observe carefully. Witness how others perceive the sword within the tides. Qi Jiajie beheld the Guangling tides at eighteen, twenty-seven, and thirty-six, finally mastering this primal surge of qi. Among today’s martial masters, none can rival his instantaneous eruption—not even I, nor Xuanyuan Qingfeng.”
He snorted. “You two have been to Guangling twice. What did you learn besides stuffing your faces?”
Song Tinglu stuck out his tongue behind his back.
The girl said solemnly, “Next time, I’ll focus!”
Chai Qingshan blinked, then smiled wryly.
Song Tinglu muttered, “Fake it all you want.”
Shan Eryi flushed crimson, her hand darting behind her back toward her newly forged sword, *Fuji*.
Every Sword Pool disciple must forge their own blade before venturing into the world. Thus, alongside genius swordsmen, Dongyue also produced master smiths. Shan Eryi, handpicked by Chai Qingshan, was prodigious in both swordsmanship and smithing. Though only a fourth-rank martial artist, her insights into the sword rivaled second-rank masters.
Song Tinglu hastily begged, “Not here! With so many outsiders, how will I ever build my ‘undefeated’ reputation?”
Shan Eryi ignored him. The fool idolized that fleeting figure from the capital, Wen Busheng, who’d sworn to remain unbeaten rather than chase victories. If not for the sect’s rule, Song Tinglu would still be wandering around with a wooden sword.
As Qi Jiajie’s qi erupted like a tidal surge, *Changjian* nearly fully unsheathed, leaving only the tip within.
Zhao Wenwei cheered softly—only to shrink under Shan Eryi’s glare.
At this critical moment, Xu Fengnian strolled into the street, gazing toward Wudang Mountain.
There, near the Elephant-Washing Pond, stood a young Daoist in ordinary Longhu Mountain robes and a scholarly man squinting at an ancient text.
The latter murmured, “Focus. This… is hardly the act of a gentleman.”
The Daoist replied flatly, “Master Bai, though it conflicts with my heart, I am still surnamed Zhao, a disciple of the Heavenly Master’s lineage. My uncle has preached in the capital for years, yet now even his position as ‘Green Verse Prime Minister’ wavers. And you know—if Wu Lingshi gains power, it spells disaster not just for Buddhism, but for Daoism itself.”
The scholar, eyes nearly pressed to the page, sighed. “Choosing the lesser of two evils?”
He shook his head. “I won’t lecture. We scholars, once we know too much, can’t help expounding. Sometimes, I annoy even myself. Go ahead. Don’t mind me—this book is excellent. I’ve searched for years.”
Zhao Ningshen hesitated. “Even united, we can only sever the fate he’s gathered in the Western Regions. But you shouldn’t have come. If he rages, my death is one thing—but you, Master Bai, should surpass even Xun Ping’s legacy.”
Bai Yu licked his finger, turning a page. “Ambition breeds appetite. And appetite… harms the body.”
Zhao Ningshen sighed, stepping forward, eyes closed, fingers forming a seal.
In Longhu Mountain’s Heavenly Master Manor, the highest bud of the golden lotus bloomed—then withered instantly.
On a Qingzhou naval ship, a scholar sat cross-legged before a water bowl, a white pebble between his fingers. “Since events have unfolded thus… blame not Xie Guanying for adding stones to a drowning man’s burden.”
The pebble struck the water.
Simultaneously, a white streak flashed from southeast to northwest.
Xu Fengnian, having looked north, now turned east.
Deprived of its supporting qi, *Changjian* slid back into its sheath.
Qi Jiajie removed the sword, tossing it carelessly onto the street.
Yin Changgeng and the others were baffled.
So were Shan Eryi and Song Tinglu.
Even Chai Qingshan, who’d seemed a mere spectator, stepped forward.
Xu Fengnian smiled toward the horizon. “A new sword forged by Dongyue Sword Pool’s full might, with Qi Jiajie as its master, the remnants of Liyang’s qi practitioners, Zhao Ningshen’s coordination, and Chai Qingshan’s support. This ‘borrowed sword’ from thousands of miles away… is far grander than the one I used to kill Han Shengxian.”
Qi Jiajie whispered, “Shameful.”
Chai Qingshan stayed silent.
Xu Fengnian, still holding *The Green Pavilion’s Sixty-Year Sword Study*, showed no anger. “Wudang isn’t far. Its prayers are potent. Best pray I don’t catch this sword.”
The Sword Pool girl piped up timidly, “Xu Fengnian, doesn’t the martial world say you’re the reincarnation of the True Martial Emperor? Would our prayers even work?”
Xu Fengnian chuckled. “Fair point.”
He glanced at her and the boy who so resembled Song Nianqing—now gripping his sword hilt tightly, wary of the prince’s infamous habit of “borrowing” blades without asking.
The girl, however, blinked mischievously, as if offering her own sword freely.
Xu Fengnian exhaled softly, facing east. “No need to borrow. I have my own swords now.”
He shot skyward.
Above, a swarm of swords gathered like locusts.
**I have swords—two thousand and four!**
**My qi stretches six thousand li!**
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