If someone could soar through the skies and gaze down upon the Imperial Astronomical Observatory, they would see what appeared to be a fine silver thread effortlessly slicing through a vast swath of heavy black cloth.
Xu Fengnian and the “grandly descended” progenitor of Longhu Mountain, who had made his grand entrance into the mortal realm, together shattered the infantry formation of the Li family’s iron-armored troops.
Li Shouguo, the Archery Commander of the Capital Garrison, who had led the charge, happened to be positioned directly in front of the formation. The military officer’s chest was struck as if by a battering ram, sending him crashing to the ground over twenty meters away. Around him lay his similarly afflicted soldiers. Even clad in heavy armor, most of the warriors were instantly knocked unconscious, with only the occasional faint moan of pain breaking the silence. Dazed, Li Shouguo shook his head vigorously, biting his lips bloody to clear his mind. Straining to open his eyes, he turned his head with great difficulty to look at the two culprits who had torn through the formation—one a figure clad in plain white mourning robes instead of the usual python-patterned attire, who had already sheathed his blade and flicked away the chaotic purple lightning lingering at its tip. His back was drenched in crimson blood, stark against the white like blood on snow.
Then, to Li Shouguo’s horror, he noticed a fist-sized hole in the chest of the sword-wielding immortal, gaping empty and abrupt. Yet, even more bewildering was the immortal’s utterly indifferent expression, as if having his body pierced through was no more significant than a woman pricking her finger with a needle.
The old Daoist in the lotus crown stood beside the sword-wielding immortal, who stared intently at the young prince, who was holding his breath. The immortal smiled faintly and said, “No matter. This fellow still hasn’t tapped into the fortune of Beiliang. Since he’s so arrogant, enduring seven or eight more strikes won’t be an issue. Trading lives like this—I’m not at a disadvantage.”
Unlike the auspicious auras of other immortals, the old Daoist in the lotus crown wore a plain, antiquated robe, devoid of the imperial purple and gold hues typical of the Celestial Masters of Longhu Mountain. This was unsurprising, as he was the first Guardian of the Nation during the old Liyang era, a time when Longhu Mountain had yet to rise to prominence. Though it had proclaimed itself the ancestral seat of Daoism, the world still recognized Wudang as the true Daoist stronghold, where generations of true masters had flourished during the Dafeng dynasty. Back then, the Zhao family’s Daoists of Longhu Mountain had not yet adopted the tradition of wearing purple and gold.
Though the old Daoist’s two strikes against Xu Fengnian could be described as thunderous, his demeanor throughout was entirely different from the domineering arrogance of most Zhao family immortals. Now, gazing at the young prince who had yet to catch his breath, the old Daoist sighed, “Why must you go to such lengths? Xu Fengnian, do you realize how much you’ve discarded on this path? The Dharma Body of Zhenwu, the imperial aura of Qin—these are distant matters spanning centuries, but now you’re even disregarding your very life in this lifetime?”
Xu Fengnian ignored the old Daoist’s question, instead looking up at the Observatory’s towering platform, which defied Liyang’s ritual propriety.
Both sides knew full well that the moment Xu Fengnian took a breath would be the instant the sword-wielding immortal and the lotus-crowned Daoist launched their full assault. Whether Dao would prevail over demon or vice versa, each would reveal their divine powers. The old Daoist’s leisurely conversation with the young prince was not out of goodwill but merely to buy time, increasing their chances of victory. Their immortal bodies, untainted by worldly filth, could shatter like jade but could not be wounded. Xu Fengnian, however, was different. What mortals called “land immortals” were, in the end, still human. Even the once-heaven-scourged transcendent Gao Shulu could not compare to a true immortal in terms of physical resilience.
What truly baffled the two Longhu Mountain patriarchs was that Xu Fengnian, with his knowledge, clearly understood the immortals’ flawlessness—no weapon, no matter how divine, could harm them. But if they were “tainted,” it would be fatal, directly eroding the accumulated merits and virtues of multiple lifetimes. Thus, Xu Fengnian’s true weapon was not his ordinary Beiliang blade but the very fortune of Beiliang itself!
Xu Fengnian withdrew his gaze and suddenly smiled. “Old True Master, I am deeply grateful for your earlier techniques—‘Cleaving the Mountain’ and ‘Ascending to Heaven.’ It would be impolite not to return the favor…”
Before the word “favor” could leave his lips, Xu Fengnian vanished from his spot, reappearing without warning before the lotus-crowned Daoist, his blade sweeping horizontally toward the old man’s head.
The old Daoist chuckled lightly, hands clasped behind his back, stepping back lightly with each footfall leaving lotus blossoms in its wake. His robes remained perfectly still, his movements ethereal.
Heavenly beings do not overstep their bounds.
The young prince seemed utterly unaware of his futility, continuing his relentless assault.
But just as the old Daoist was about to settle into position, another Xu Fengnian appeared before him, mirroring the same motion—the blade sweeping toward the immortal’s head.
The old Daoist sidestepped again, evading the blade’s edge with effortless grace.
Though his body was akin to the “indestructible diamond” described in Buddhist scriptures, the old man did not believe this young man surnamed Xu would foolishly persist in slashing at him with a mere blade until he exhausted himself to death. This young prince of the northwest, who had ascended to the pinnacle of the mortal world at such a tender age, was a formidable adversary with an endless repertoire of techniques. Having slain even Wang Xianzhi, who knew what trump cards he might still hold? The old man was content to observe calmly, responding to the ever-changing with unchanging patience. It was Xu Fengnian, burdened with injuries, who should be growing desperate. The old man needed only to wait for the critical moment when the young man could no longer restrain himself from making a reckless move.
The lotus-crowned Daoist tread the steps of the Big Dipper, compressing the vastness of heaven and earth into mere inches. Each shift in position, though seemingly a simple two or three steps, ensured the blade missed its mark.
With the two combatants moving at blinding speed, the Observatory’s plaza was soon filled with over a hundred Xu Fengnians, while the Zhao family immortal of Longhu Mountain remained at ease, weaving effortlessly through the increasingly cramped space like a carefree fish in a vast river.
The founding patriarch of Longhu Mountain, wielding the talisman sword Yulei, was in no hurry to intervene. For one, his assistance was unnecessary, and secondly, each passing moment tightened the noose around Xu Fengnian’s neck—a noose the young prince was pulling himself.
Holding the sword upright before him, the immortal bent his thumb and lightly pricked his index finger, then began inscribing a talisman on the peachwood sword said to have slain countless demons.
The blood that flowed from his finger was not red but a radiant white, glowing like moonlight suspended at his fingertip.
Several suppressed energy veins beneath the grand buildings of Tai’an City surged toward the Observatory.
Once the talisman was complete, victory would be assured.
The eternally youthful immortal’s lips curled slightly. *I inscribe this talisman openly—can you endure it?*
—
To the Liyang armored soldiers, whose martial prowess was unremarkable, it seemed that in the blink of an eye, dozens of North Cool Kings appeared in the plaza, and with another blink, the number surpassed a hundred. The remaining thousand or so Li family soldiers who hadn’t been knocked unconscious stood dumbfounded, utterly helpless.
Deep down, these elite Liyang soldiers harbored complex emotions—more awe and fear toward the arrogant young prince than hatred. Though it seemed absurd, the reasoning was simple: in the early days of the martial world, how many beauties didn’t admire Li Chungang? How many martial artists didn’t revere Wang Xianzhi? As long as no irreconcilable enmity existed, most couldn’t help but feel admiration. Liyang revered martial prowess, having conquered the realm with iron hooves and blades. Why else could a commoner like Qi Jijie become the instructor of many imperial descendants in Tai’an City? Why did the Sword Immortal of Tangxi, Lu Baijia, break convention to serve as Minister of War, earning cheers from every alley? And with the recent shocking news that the young North Cool King had once fought the Northern Barbarian’s War God, Tuoba Pusa, across a thousand miles of the Western Regions, the soldiers, regardless of what the scholars and officials thought, couldn’t help but feel a tinge of regret—*why didn’t you just kill that Tuoba Pusa outright? If you’d brought back his head, we’d at least curse you a little less.*
Conversely, the Li family soldiers, who had initially revered the immortal as divine, quickly grew hostile. Xu Fengnian’s ruthless slaughter of hundreds of cavalry was undeniably brutal, but the sudden transformation of the mysterious heavy cavalry into golden-armored immortals was chilling. Facing a formidable enemy was one thing—dying in battle was honorable—but dying in such an inexplicable manner was humiliating. Who could rest in peace like this?
—
On the high walls, Luoyang dangled a wine jug between two fingers, swaying it lightly as she chuckled, “Cao Changqing can’t intervene, but you, Deng Tai’a, at least share some kinship with him. Are you just here to watch the show?”
With no one else around, Deng Tai’a—never one to put on airs—squatted beside Cao Changqing and retorted irritably, “That tiny bit of connection was exhausted back in the Eastern Sea.”
Cao Changqing teased, “Don’t give our Peach Blossom Sword Immortal a hard time. In this fight, of course I can’t intervene, but the truth is, no one can. Just like yesterday at the Xiaguan Posthouse, it might’ve seemed like Deng Tai’a and I were ganging up on one, but as you well know, at our level, numbers mean little. Though, face does matter too.”
Deng Tai’a suddenly recalled something. “Speaking of connections, shouldn’t that elusive Patriarch Lü be the one to help?”
Luoyang hesitated before revealing the truth, “Back then, that man’s relationship with Gao Shulu was like Wang Xianzhi’s to Li Chungang—and now, his to Wang Xianzhi. So, who’s next?”
Even Deng Tai’a was stunned, glancing at Cao Changqing, who nodded slightly.
Deng Tai’a suddenly grew angry, cursing uncharacteristically, “Damn it, how tragic is this kid?! He was supposed to be subdued by Lü Zu’s reincarnation?!”
Luoyang sneered, “What else did you think?”
Then she glanced at the sky. “The cycle of heaven, the justice of heaven.”
Cao Changqing said slowly, “Since Lü Zu could even retreat from the Heavenly Gate, he might not act according to this logic.”
Deng Tai’a scoffed, “What a ‘might not’!”
Luoyang smirked. “Not happy?”
Deng Tai’a took a deep breath. “Forget it. Even if I were willing to help, that kid wouldn’t accept it.”
Luoyang took a sip of wine, her expression serene. “Exactly.”
Deng Tai’a suddenly stood, shaking his wrist. “The grudge at the Observatory is Xu Fengnian’s to settle. If he dies here, it’s his fate. Even if he survives today, his future might not be any brighter. But that old rabbit Xie Xie—this time, I, Deng Tai’a, will chase him down properly.”
—
Beyond Qingzhou’s Xiangfan City, the Guangling River reached its middle and lower reaches.
A young Daoist sat cross-legged by the riverbank with his young disciple, meditating in silence.
The young disciple, however, soon dozed off mid-meditation.
The young Daoist—none other than Wudang’s current sect master, Li Yufu—did not scold him, merely steadying the boy each time he swayed backward.
Li Yufu and his disciple Yu Fu had been following the Guangling River to escort the dragon fish on its journey to the sea.
Suddenly, Li Yufu shuddered as a gentle voice whispered in his ear, “Yufu.”
Turning slowly, he saw a young Daoist sitting beside him, smiling warmly.
The Daoist sat to his left, while his disciple Yu Fu sat to his right.
Tears welled in Li Yufu’s eyes as he rose to bow respectfully.
The man quickly waved his hands. “No, no, we on the mountain don’t stand on ceremony.”
But Li Yufu insisted, bowing deeply. “This humble Daoist, Li Yufu, greets Sect Master Little Uncle.”
The young Daoist—whom Li Yufu addressed as “Little Uncle”—sighed in exasperation. “You’re just like Elder Yu. Back on the mountain, even the Discipline Master wasn’t as strict as Elder Yu. Whenever the Young Master got into fights and handed out those books… well, you know, the ones with more pictures than words, the Discipline Master would confiscate them but couldn’t bear to throw them away. Only Elder Yu would scold me, pulling my ears. So, Yufu, if you ever catch a young disciple hiding such books, just scold them—no need to hit them… Well, if you must, at least tell them you’ll return the books once they achieve enlightenment. That’s what the Discipline Master told me, and look—I turned out alright, didn’t I?”
Li Yufu wiped his eyes and smiled knowingly.
Wudang’s young grandmaster, Li Yufu’s “Little Uncle,” could only be the one who once rode a green ox and smiled at everyone—Hong Xixiang.
The young grandmaster gazed at the vast Guangling River, lost in thought for a moment before speaking. “Last time, I left in a hurry—there was no other way. This time, besides wanting to greet you in person, I also need to borrow a sword from you.”
Li Yufu showed no confusion, only nodding solemnly.
Hong Xixiang looked up at the sky. “I didn’t go back then, and I won’t go in the future. So, that matter will have to fall to you.”
Li Yufu’s gaze was clear and resolute. “Rest assured, Little Uncle.”
The two stood together, and Hong Xixiang patted Li Yufu’s shoulder. “You’re far more responsible than I was. If only you’d come to the mountain earlier, I’d have lent you my books.”
Li Yufu laughed.
Not once did the towering image of his Little Uncle crumble in his heart.
This was exactly the Little Uncle he knew.
Li Yufu removed the peachwood sword from his back and handed it to his Little Uncle.
Hong Xixiang took the sword, glanced at the young disciple, and suddenly said, “Yufu, don’t let the pursuit of ‘longevity’ mislead your path. Cultivation isn’t about becoming an immortal at the cost of being human. Remember this—and remind me of it too.”
Li Yufu replied firmly, “I will!”
Hong Xixiang lightly tossed the ordinary Wudang peachwood sword into the Guangling River, smiling as he said, “Eight hundred years of cultivation, yet never once drew a sword to take a head. Go!”
The moment the sword left his hand, thunder roared, drowning out the river’s roar.
As if an immortal high in the clouds bellowed furiously at the mortal realm: “Lü Dongbin, you dare?!”
Hong Xixiang threw his head back and laughed. “This humble Daoist has been daring for eight hundred years!”
The sheathed peachwood sword hovered briefly above the river before vanishing in a flash.
The heavenly voice fell silent.
Li Yufu stared at the river, not turning his head.
His Little Uncle was gone.
Three feet of spirit.
A legacy of a thousand years.
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