As Xu Fengnian leisurely took a step forward, the wide sleeves of his black-and-gold python robe swayed gracefully.
Not far away, Li Haoran, the first disciple of Qi Jiajie, who wielded the famed sword “Eight Nectars” and was renowned as a northern swordsman capable of unleashing eight Xuan-ranked sword techniques, remained utterly motionless.
The spectators lining the balconies and floors of the Xiamawei Posthouse couldn’t help but silently admire Li Haoran in their hearts—truly a young master who had earned his place in the capital of Tai’an. Even when facing one of the world’s four great masters, Xu Fengnian, he remained so composed. No wonder the enigmatic figures of the capital’s martial world often claimed that within a decade, Li Haoran might rival his master Qi Jiajie in martial prowess, and perhaps even ascend to the pinnacle of swordsmanship in his lifetime, glimpsing the same heights as legends like Li Chungang and Deng Tai’a.
The laymen watched for the spectacle, the experts discerned the essence.
The rejuvenated “youth” wielding a broadsword couldn’t help but sneer. This Li kid wasn’t calm and collected—he was petrified. More accurately, he didn’t dare move. Xu Fengnian’s step, seemingly unremarkable, was in fact an invitation to battle, his aura already suffusing the entire street. The challenge extended not only to the three Zhao Gou agents but also to the hidden masters lurking within the buildings on either side. The message was simple: since they had come to Xiamawei Posthouse, they were guests, and the Prince of Northern Liang, with his vast resources, could afford to entertain them all. Unfortunately, Li Haoran wasn’t among those invited.
Li Haoran, standing closest to Xu Fengnian, knew his predicament all too well. Though not yet a Xuan-ranked master, he could execute multiple Xuan-ranked sword techniques and was highly sensitive to qi fluctuations. Logically, facing a formidable opponent in such close quarters, his sword “Eight Nectars,” which resonated with its master, should have trembled eagerly in its sheath. Yet, instead of defiance, the sword had withdrawn like a turtle into its shell, lifeless, as if severed from its wielder—a stark separation between man and blade. Li Haoran, blessed with prodigious talent and years of disciplined training, had never encountered such a situation before, not even during his annual sparring sessions with his master Qi Jiajie or when he welcomed the Tangxi Sword Immortal Lu Baijie outside the city under Qi Jiajie’s orders. Only now did he realize a bitter truth: whether it was his master, who held high hopes for him, or the dignified Lu Baijie, they had always held back, sparing the younger generation.
The lame elder’s expression darkened as he turned to the qi-refining master beside him. “Aside from Chai Qingshan of Dongyue Sword Pool, are there other experts nearby?”
The qi-refining master, whose power had surged to the Great Heavenly Elephant realm, replied bitterly, “Apart from the three of us, I can only sense six distinct auras emanating from the Prince of Northern Liang. Four are within this posthouse, while the other two are elsewhere. But like you, aside from Chai Qingshan, I cannot identify the other five. In fact, if not for Xu Fengnian’s open challenge, I wouldn’t even have detected their presence.”
The lame elder frowned. “All the notable masters in the capital have already converged on the imperial palace and the Qin Tian Observatory. If the old master of the Wu Family Sword Mausoleum, who lives in seclusion within the city, came to Xiamawei to spectate, that would make sense. But who are these other five?”
At this, the lame elder couldn’t help but glance around, his face filled with disbelief. “Five! Five grandmasters whose allegiances are unclear?! If even one or two of them start fighting, wouldn’t the capital be thrown into chaos?”
Suddenly, the lame elder and the foremost qi-refining master of the north locked eyes, seeing deep dread reflected in each other’s gazes.
They had both thought of a terrifying possibility: what if one of these five was Cao Changqing? What if the Grand Official’s arrival signaled a tacit alliance between Northern Liang and Western Chu? And what if the other three chose to stand by and watch?
Originally, with Tai’an City’s formidable defenses, even Cao Changqing couldn’t have achieved his goals over the past two decades—only Wang Xianzhi of Wudi City might have been an exception. Though Han Shengxuan, Liu Haoshi, and Qi Jiajie were no longer present, leaving the four layers of the city—the palace, imperial, inner, and outer—without their crucial guardians (save for the lame elder, who still guarded the outer city), the Wu Family’s sword grandmaster Wu Jian had stepped in to replace Liu Haoshi. Combined with the hidden talisman arrays reinforced by generations of Longhu Mountain’s celestial masters and the grand formation crafted by the Sage of Yansheng’s lineage with the help of Yuan Benxi and Xie Guanying, Zhao Gou had dared to assure the emperor that even if the new Martial Emperor Xu Fengnian entered the palace alone, he would meet a grim fate—though the collateral damage, whether a thousand, two thousand, or more, remained uncertain.
But if Xu Fengnian were accompanied by another grandmaster of similar stature, and if the northern qi-refining masters in Tai’an were decimated, weakening the two great formations, and if Wu Jian of the Wu Family refused to fight to the death—the consequences would be unimaginable.
The broadsword-wielding youth gripped the hilt of the short blade on his back and sneered. “Enough dithering! Regardless, I’ll take the lead in this fight!”
Before the lame elder could respond, the youthful-looking Zhao Gou leader had already charged forward. He didn’t rush to draw his blade but leaned forward, each step light as a dragonfly skimming water.
At some point, the conspicuous python-robed young prince had appeared beside the ever-“unshakable” Li Haoran, standing shoulder to shoulder—one facing the street, the other the posthouse gates.
In the blink of an eye, the crowd felt a disorienting shift, only to see the unknown broadsword youth frozen stupidly before the young prince, still gripping his half-drawn sword.
The spectators, eagerly anticipating a genuine clash of titans, were utterly baffled.
Not long ago, that scoundrel Wu Laifu had at least managed to fully draw his blade against the Prince of Northern Liang. But you—despite your valiant charge—why did you freeze the moment you reached him?
What kind of man are you? Not some lovestruck female admirer of the prince, yet you stand there like a wooden chicken!
Jeers erupted from both sides of the street, raining down mercilessly.
Outside Xiamawei Posthouse, only the lame elder and the qi-refining master could discern the truth. Those who understood the stakes avoided the windows, while the eager onlookers who had secured prime spots for the spectacle were disappointed—they had hoped for earth-shattering exchanges, the more dramatic the better.
Almost no one noticed that the youth’s sword-wielding hand was now a mangled mess of flesh and blood, with bone visible where it gripped the hilt.
The sleeve of that arm was in tatters.
Facing the young prince, the Zhao Gou leader’s lips were stained with blood, his face twisted in disbelief and unwillingness.
Beside them, Li Haoran—who had adhered to the principle of “not moving unless the enemy moves, and still not moving even if they do”—was drenched in sweat. He only heard the Prince of Northern Liang say to the other man with a smile, “I know you’re hiding a trump card. But the reason you’re still alive now…”
The “unassuming” Zhao Gou leader instantly shed all pretense. At that moment, he stared blankly downward.
A slender arm pierced through his chest.
It slowly withdrew.
The battle-hardened Zhao Gou leader turned with difficulty, catching only a glimpse of an old sable hat and a delicate face—a girl munching on half a scallion pancake.
Killing and eating, multitasking effortlessly.
He recognized her.
A top-secret Zhao Gou dossier had vaguely mentioned her—the assassin who had killed Wang Mingyin, the Eleventh Under Heaven, outside Xiangfan in Qingzhou.
A madwoman who had repeatedly intercepted Wang Xianzhi’s attempts to enter Liang alone.
A killer slain by a killer.
Xu Fengnian casually pushed aside the corpse, then adjusted the slightly oversized sable hat obscuring the girl’s brows, giving it a gentle pat.
Xu Fengnian smiled. “If you’re really worried, just stand behind me from now on. No need to intervene. Well, maybe a little farther back.”
She said nothing, walking expressionlessly to a spot ten paces behind him.
Xu Fengnian turned, exasperated.
Reluctantly, she flitted to a dragon-clawed locust tree outside the posthouse, perching on a branch and brushing her arm against it.
Xu Fengnian exhaled softly, then raised his voice toward the distance. “Cao Changqing, Chen Zhibao, Deng Tai’a, Xuanyuan Qingfeng—who among you will step forward first?”
Half the city heard him.
Li Haoran swallowed hard and ventured timidly, “Your Highness, should I… step aside?”
Xu Fengnian chuckled. “No need. Just stay behind me.”
The lame elder said gravely, “We should leave.”
The qi-refining master nodded regretfully.
The two vanished in an instant.
This muddy water was too deep for them. Those who could wade through it could be counted on one hand in the entire world.
The Zhao Gou agent’s failure to draw his blade had conveyed a brutal truth from Xu Fengnian: below the Heavenly Phenom realm, one move was all it took.
The qi-refining master had no desire to test whether “below the Land Deity realm, it’s also just one move.”
※※※
In a certain tavern, a scholar in blue robes smiled faintly and poured himself a cup of wine.
Across the street, a man in white frowned. Seated beside him, a clean-shaven man hesitated, words dying on his lips.
On the city walls of Tai’an, a woman in purple hesitated briefly before darting across the rooftops as if they were flat ground.
From the southern city gates to Xiamawei Posthouse, thunder rumbled across the earth.
The young Song Tinglu of Dongyue Sword Pool flushed with anger. “Master! How dare he overlook you?!”
The girl carrying multiple swords on her back covered her mouth, giggling.
Her allegiances clearly lay elsewhere.
Chai Qingshan sighed. “Since I didn’t draw my sword at Wudang’s Summer Escape Town, I’ve lost the right to challenge him in this lifetime. No need for anger. Tinglu, if you resent this on my behalf, then focus on your training. Talent alone won’t sustain you forever in the martial path.”
The girl stuck out her tongue teasingly.
The youth snorted.
At the inn’s window, the old master of the Wu Family Sword Mausoleum laughed ruefully. “That brat!”
An elderly man inside the room, his voice shrill, reminded sharply, “Don’t forget your duty.”
This was none other than the Chief Eunuch of the Ceremonial Directorate who had once delivered the imperial decree to the Prince of Northern Liang.
Wu Jian didn’t turn, his smile fading. “Oh?”
The eunuch, not wearing his crimson python robe, instinctively stepped back.
Wu Jian’s tone was indifferent. “This old man and the King of Shu are here merely to ensure Cao Changqing doesn’t seize the chance to enter the palace. Don’t overstep.”
※※※
On the strictly hierarchical North-South Imperial Avenue, a man leading a donkey along the outermost lane called out to a young swordsman hurrying past, “Young man, might I borrow your sword?”
The youth, eager to reach Xiamawei Posthouse, snapped impatiently, “Why should I?!”
The middle-aged man bargained playfully, “Because I’m Deng Tai’a?”
The young swordsman gaped, then burst into laughter. “Screw you! You? Deng Tai’a? Leading a donkey doesn’t make you the Peach Blossom Sword God! I’m the Prince of Northern Liang! Buddy, wanna spar right here?”
The donkey-leading man sighed. “Kids these days.”
The youth glared. “Got a problem?!”
The man patted his donkey’s back. “Old friend, wait here. I’ll be back soon. I just need to borrow this sword to greet Cao Changqing—to bid him farewell.”
In that instant, along the straight path from Tai’an’s southern gate to Xiamawei Posthouse, every swordsman—man or woman, young or old, whether wearing or carrying their blade, long or short—found an unremarkable middle-aged man standing beside them, gripping their now-unsheathed swords.
Cao Changqing finally set down his wine cup and rose to his feet.
※※※
A streak of violet lightning shot toward Xiamawei Posthouse, crashing straight into Xu Fengnian.
As if intent on mutual destruction.
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