The saying goes, “At the first watch they depart, and at the second they return. A slash capable of cleaving rivers and slaying dragons.” Yet in truth, it does not even require the passing of a single watch.
Old Li, without warning, severed the heavens with a single stroke, showing signs of returning to the ultimate peak of martial cultivation. Yet he felt no joy. He returned swaying to the bow of the boat, tossed the Xiu-Dong sword back to Xu Fengnian, gazed silently at the great river and the cliffs, as if resolving a lingering knot in his heart, smiled bitterly, then silently entered the cabin.
Lu Qiantang, who cultivated heavy swords while watching the river’s tide, was stunned by this slash, finally recalling a long-forgotten sight: an ancient, carefree swordsman striding atop the surging tides of Guangling. Let alone a mid-aged swordsman like Lu Qiantang, even Wei Shuyang, an aged martial cultivator who had abandoned swords for cultivation in later life, could not help but feel his beard and hair bristle with excitement. Which young swordsman would not wish to emulate the legendary Li Chuan Gang’s heroic and free-spirited swordsmanship across the martial world? True, Deng Tai’a had indeed become the new generation’s Sword God, but compared to Li Chuan Gang’s awe-inspiring might that won men’s respect, Deng seemed too ethereal, half-deity and half-demon, like a being who belonged to the heavens millions of miles above the earth. Since his cultivation debut, Deng has only exchanged blows a few times with men like Wang Xianzhi and Cao Guanzi, and only after the fact did fragmented tales of these bouts circulate, leaving others to ponder and speculate endlessly.
But the elder generation’s Sword God Li Chuan Gang had forged his titanic reputation stroke by stroke across the martial world. And especially his emotional entanglements with various women stirred endless dreams and longing in countless younger generations. For instance, the Daoist priest Wei Shuyang still vividly recalled how, at the height of Li’s martial prowess, a female poet, enamored with his otherworldly bearing, had composed countless poems praising Li’s flying sword shattering the summit of Zhongnan Mountain, acclaiming his courage like a green serpent hidden in his sleeve, and even declaring his three feet of swordplay as majestic as the sword techniques of the immortal Lüzu: “To reveal heaven’s injustice to the world.” But all that is long past. She has grown old and lost her beauty, her youth turned to white hair. She now lies buried in an isolated grave, and upon her death, had her descendants burn all her poetry.
In the martial world when Li, the Sword God, still lived, there were countless such women. They became the thousand rivers of worldly charm, yet Li never took even a single ladle from any of them. Many people and events of that era, just like those women, have lost their former glory.
Shu Xiu, who feared neither heaven nor earth, now found sweat beading at her nose as she stared at the river’s surface mending itself, the boat swaying less and less violently. Turning her gaze to Lu Qiantang beside her, she trembled as she asked, “So this old man is actually a senior swordsman who could rival the immortal Qi Xuanzhen?”
Even though Qi Xuanzhen ascended into immortality decades ago, and though they are not Daoists of Dragon-Tiger Mountain, every descendant who speaks of him still dare not utter his name directly, uniformly calling him Immortal Qi. Such is the strength that lies beyond the Heavens-Reflecting level.
Lu Qiantang, whose soul had nearly been shaken into pieces by that single slash, said grimly, “You don’t know who he is yet?”
Though Shu Xiu was already nearly thirty, whether due to her mastery of charms or her natural disposition, she always carried subtle traces of innocent girlishness. Habitually, she pouted in a coquettish manner and said, “How would I know? He can’t possibly be Deng Tai’a.”
Lu Qiantang was already upset that he had failed to discern even a trace of that mysterious sword slash and had never liked Shu Xiu’s affected manner anyway, so his tone grew harsher. “A mere southerner, nothing but a frog at the bottom of a well!”
Shu Xiu reached up and brushed a lock of black hair behind her ear, glancing sideways at him with a coquettish smile. “My, is Dongyue no longer considered the land of barbarians? So just how great must this old master be to earn such high regard from our Sword Sage Lu?”
Lu Qiantang turned his head darkly. Who in the world regarded him as a Sword Sage? Did this woman, who came all the way from the southern wilderness, really want to test the sharpness of his Chixia sword?
At that very moment, Wei Shuyang, standing nearby, shook his head without a word, making no attempt to mediate. He instead proceeded directly to the Prince, where Xu Fengnian sat at the bow of the boat, unfastening his twin sabers and placing them aside, amusing himself by playing with Jingu and Bodhisattva, the two little demon beasts. Their tongues were naturally studded with barbs, and a gentle lick would draw countless tiny scratches on one’s hand. Xu Fengnian could not stand the endless torture from the pair without enduring minor injuries. The ivory-white silk cuffs of his robe had already turned to rags. As a result, he picked up the Spring Thunder sword, letting the male cub Jingu grab it with all four paws while hanging in midair. It was obvious that this male cub was more lively. Wei Shuyang could not very well speak while standing over the seated Prince, so he sat cross-legged and sighed deeply, “Your Highness, an old Daoist like me has lived to read the Wudang sect’s “Shamans’ Records” and today witnessed Old Sword God Li’s feat of cleaving two hundred paces of the river with one slash. Truly, I can die without regrets.”
Xu Fengnian laughed and said, “Grandfather Wei, tell me, was that slash from old Li the manifestation of the ‘Zhixuan’ technique or the ‘Tianxiang’ state?”
Wei Shuyang shook his head: “It nearly borders upon the might of a land-bound immortal. An old Daoist dares not recklessly speculate upon the skill of the old sword sage.”
Leaning against the wooden wall, Xu Fengnian joked, “With such a slash, could he break the armor of hundreds? If in battle, three or four old men like Li were to rush the enemy line first, how could any foe withstand?”
Wei Shuyang smiled gently: “Your Highness, tell me, in the past century, how many Li Sword Sages have appeared? And how many cultivators at the Zhixuan or Tianxiang stage would willingly submit to military discipline? Being bound to an army is ill-suited to martial cultivation.”
Xu Fengnian nodded, “Indeed, who could ever persuade Wang Xianzhi or Deng Tai’a to charge into battle? In the wars of the Spring and Autumn periods, it was said that the imperial uncle of Western Shu, with swordsmanship beyond compare, chose death to halt the enemy, personally slaying six hundred iron cavalry. Yet he was unable to withstand the next wave of armored cavalry and died by the arrows and formation of the battlefield. The martial world is like the river we’ve just seen: beneath the surface are hidden reefs and sharp rocks, while on the surface, peaks compete for prominence. No one interferes with another’s rise. As for who could rival the lofty heights of Lu Dongxuan, that is a matter of skill alone. Yet the military is like a vast expanse of water, into which a thousand streams and ten thousand rivers converge, all for the purpose of waging war. Unless one is like Xu Xiao, a general elevated to the level of island standing alone amidst storm-tossed seas, no matter how formidable one’s abilities, one would still fall beneath the trampling hooves of a host of thousands and ten thousands. Before Xu Xiao led his troops to trample upon the martial world, martial cultivators and soldiers alike looked down upon each other, neither side conceding superiority. Today’s martial world, however, has utterly lost the confidence to challenge the army. The Dragon and Tiger Mountains were appointed to lead all the Daoist sects under heaven. The Two Chan Temples produced the black-robed monk who became friends with the Emperor, thus reviving the Buddhism’s waning power. The three doctrines of Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism continue to balance each other, each standing firm in its own pillar. The sages within these three teachings all seek detachment from the world, occasionally intervening to turn the tide of chaos, stirring up storms across the heavens, only to retreat and vanish into obscurity as swiftly as they emerged. In Xu Xiao’s army, few among the martial cultivators who sympathize with the North Liang actually wield military command tokens.”
Wei Shuyang seemed lost in the lingering echoes of the old swordsman and his legendary slash. He looked somewhat dazed, but clearly, his old face was alight with joy, like a child who had been given a string of candied hawthorns—simply, without any grand the principle or truth to speak of. It was hard to imagine that a man like Wei Shuyang, of such high standing within the Nine-Grain Daoism sect and of such advanced years, could still possess such childlike innocence. Regardless of Li Chuan Gang’s ragged and unkempt appearance, Wei Shuyang could only recall those three legendary slashes: water droplets forming a line that pierce through the water armor, a small umbrella wielded like a sword to make immortals kneel, and now this divine sword slash of today. In the old Daoist’s eyes, this truly and completely lived up to the poetic appraisal of ‘a sleeve filled with the courage of a green serpent.’ No wonder the world remains unsettled, and the martial world remains turbulent—because everyone dreams of wielding the sword of justice like Lu Dongxuan and Li Chuan Gang, striking down injustice to attain peace.
Jiang Ni found it difficult to defeat the two young demon beasts, so she found the once enchanting river scenery no longer appealing. Disheartened, she returned to the cabin and saw Old Li sitting there, silent and half-asleep. She picked up a secret martial arts manual absentmindedly, flipped through it briefly, and softly asked, “Are you planning to teach him swordsmanship now?”
Li Chuan Gang lifted his eyelids slightly and said with a smile, “Teaching him a few simple tricks won’t be a problem. I treat him kindly mainly to ensure you won’t get bullied so much. As I’ve always said, if you’re willing to train under me, even if Xu Xiao masters the art of swords until the end of time, you’d still be able to kill him.”
Jiang Ni hesitated for a moment, then changed the subject: “The way you wield your sword really is quite frightening.”
Old Li burst into laughter: “Little Jiang, from now on, you won’t say the old man brags, right? But I’m telling the truth. That slash just now was a rare occurrence, the result of perfect timing, favorable terrain, and harmonious elements. That’s why it carried such power. The things that don’t go our way are as numerous as the hairs on an ox, and how many can we even speak of? Thus, of the countless slashes thrown by ordinary men, the immortal swords of true sword immortals must be rare indeed. And my slash, called the realm of the sword immortal in the martial world, cannot last long. The old man today sees things clearly, no longer aspiring to be a land-bound immortal. I only wish to pour out all my knowledge to teach you swordsmanship. If I can raise a female sword immortal, it would also benefit my reputation, you know?”
Jiang Ni responded flatly: “Then maybe it’s better if you teach him swordsmanship.”
The old man was unfazed, muttering to himself: “There’s a line that Master Lü once left as a warning to future sword cultivators: ‘The three-foot blade within the scabbard rarely sings; it is only passed on when kindred spirits meet.’ I deeply agree. In my entire life, I’ve encountered countless sword-wielding juniors, not lacking those whose talent and potential were extraordinary. But none matched my temperament. Even if you were Deng Tai’a, you wouldn’t be able to learn my Two Sleeves of Green Snake technique. The Wu clan’s Sword Tomb abandoned sword intent in pursuit of heavenly crafted sword techniques, holding all sword techniques of heaven in contempt. Yet it is precisely my skill they respect—it’s not just unmatched in sword intent, but also in sword techniques, reaching the peak of subtlety. Back in the day, even the half-dead members of the Wu clan had to admit defeat….”
Jiang Ni frowned tightly, sighed heavily, slammed the book shut, and glared: “Again?! Here we go!”
Li Chuan Gang scratched idly at the charm dagger pinned atop his hair knot, feeling a little awkward. Outside the cabin, anyone who heard those words would surely treat them like imperial decrees. But before him stood this stubborn, headstrong girl who utterly refused to buy into the old sword sage’s reputation. Still, Li Chuan Gang did not grow annoyed. He picked up a handful of hickory nuts from the table and stepped out of the cabin. He ignored the helmsman, who revered him almost as the Dragon King and was nearly reduced to kneeling, as well as the martial heroes like Lu Qiantang who admired him and the Northern Liang light cavalry who feared him. He walked straight to where Xu Fengnian and Wei Shuyang were, plopped down with careless ease, and stretched out a foot to kick away the young demon beast that had just fallen from the Spring Thunder sword. The sister, Bodhisattva, wanting to avenge her brother, dug four small holes into the ground with her sharp claws, crouched, and roared. Xu Fengnian placed a hand on her head to calm the protective little creature. The young female demon turned her head to look at her brother, her face filled with an unmistakably human expression of wronged helplessness. Xu Fengnian shook his head with a smile, and the clever female cub scampered off to soothe her younger brother.
Old Sword Sage Li scratched his head in confusion: “Have you stepped in some dog sh*t? Where did you find these creatures that rival the black tiger of Immortal Qi? In a few more years, each of them will rival a first-tier martial expert. Pity you can’t live two or three hundred years like they can.”
Xu Fengnian, equally perplexed, asked, “Do you need something from me?”
The old man lazily tossed the hickory nuts in his hand onto the deck and spoke stiffly: “Boy, that morning in Qingyang Palace, your clumsy sword form was a real eyesore. Take out your thinner Xiu-Dong sword and do as I say.”
Xu Fengnian didn’t hesitate. He sat up straight and drew the Xiu-Dong sword, which had a blade as thin as a cicada’s wing. Du Sicong, a renowned swordsman who authored “The Thousand Swords Compendium,” once stood in the snow for three days just to gain a word of guidance from Li Chuan Gang. Xu, who never put on airs, immediately unsheathed the longer, slimmer Xiu-Dong blade. Compared to the heavier Spring Thunder, the Xiu-Dong was more slender and delicate. Training with it tested one’s control of sword energy, for a difference of a mere hair’s breadth could result in a massive deviation in blade momentum. Later on, the fox-faced swordsman lent him Spring Thunder, surely in part because he saw through Xu’s intentionally concealed left-handed blade techniques, and partly because Spring Thunder was more suited to the Overbearing, heavy-blade style. With his deep foundation in the Great Huang Ting technique and a year of dedicated blade practice—not to mention his extensive study of martial secrets—Xu had already entered the hall of martial cultivation. Using Spring Thunder now only enhanced his power, showing great care and consideration, effectively acknowledging Xu as an intimate friend and confidant. Naturally, Xu held this rare friendship in the highest regard.
Xu Fengnian unsheathed Xiu-Dong, but seeing the old sword sage remain silent, he felt puzzled and murmured softly: “Then what?”
Wei Shuyang, who was watching intently by his side, was even more cautious. The man beside him was none other than the legendary Old Sword Sage Li! Though Li had once been defeated by Wang Xianzhi, and Wei had angrily hung up his sword to retreat into Daoist cultivation, in their generation’s eyes, regardless of how illustrious or formidable Deng Tai’a had become, he could never match the awe and respect the old Sword Sage Li held in their hearts. Had Deng Tai’a actually defeated Li Chuan Gang? Without even a single bout between them, how could he be called a Sword Sage?
Li Chuan Gang yawned and asked Xu Fengnian to hold the blade at a fixed height, saying impatiently: “Boy, try to break one of these hickory nuts by snapping your finger against the blade.”
Xu Fengnian composed himself, narrowed his eyes, and flicked a finger against the blade. With a crisp *ding*, the blade bent into a curve. Wei Shuyang, watching intently beside, saw that the blade came within an inch of the nut on the floor, but fell just short. Undeterred, Xu Fengnian ran his fingers lightly across the blade, zeroing in on a precise point. With a flick, the blade arched like a drawn bow. *Ding!* Followed by a *pang!* The nut was instantly crushed, and the floor beneath bore a slight indentation.
Wei Shuyang instinctively reached for his beard, but realizing the presence of the old sword sage, he refrained from the motion, though he could not hide his admiration for the Prince’s flick of the blade. After all, the Xiu-Dong blade was thin and delicate, not something everyone could bend with such elasticity.
Old Li, with one hand propped against his cheek, continued: “Now, try to crush the nut without leaving any mark on the floor.”
Xu Fengnian furrowed his brows slightly, not hastening to flick his finger but instead running his hand along the edge of the Xiu-Dong blade. In the Green Water Pavilion at Wudang Mountain, while studying the Sword Manual of the Jiazi, he had carved chess pieces while contemplating the essence of the sword, gaining invaluable insight. This helped him develop early awareness of controlling the flow of internal energy that powered his blade strikes. Now, to break the nut without marking the floor was no longer a simple matter of adjusting the force applied. It was akin to a master swordsman’s seemingly casual slash that concealed layers of intricate techniques. The timing and location to unleash the stored momentum had to be precise—down to how much force was released, how many jin or muans, or even how many tons. It was a complex and profound matter of study. Xu Fengnian refrained from flicking, and the old man continued to prop his chin in his hand, leisurely watching. He took two fingers, pinched a nut from the pile, tossed it before his eyes, sucked it into his mouth with a light breath, and mumbled through a mouthful of nut, “Hurry it up, boy. I haven’t got time to watch you space out.”
Xu Fengnian offered a Bittersmile, calmed his mind, and snapped his finger. The blade arched beautifully once more, a strangely aesthetic sight, the nut cracked, but once again, the floor bore a tiny mark.
Snap after snap, it was the same result.
The old sword sage wore an expression of disdain: “Wasted the chance to read the《Thousand-Blade Manual》. Is this how you listen to lectures? You’ve wasted Jiang Ni’s spit.”
Xu Fengnian closed his eyes and recalled the image of sword-like water droplets.
The old sage stood up, dusted off his backside with a cold smile, “One day you’ll manage. Then try stacking two nuts on top of each other. Aim to crush only the lower one, keeping both the floor and the upper nut untouched. But I doubt even that simple task will be within your poor grasp. If you can’t even do that, forget about training with Lu Qiantang.”
Xu Fengnian said nothing, lost in thought. Perhaps because he looked too much like someone from the Sword Seated of Wu Clan, the old sword sage’s mood soured further. Without even turning his head, he went back into the cabin.
Wei Shuyang quietly left the bow, ensuring that no one would disturb him.
He sat there motionless until dusk, and then into the moonlit night.
In the dead of night, Yu Youwei came, draped a coat over Xu Fengnian’s shoulders.
Xu Fengnian merely pointed at the scattered, broken nuts covering the ground. Without a word, Yu Youwei immediately fetched another handful, stacking them in front of him.
At the break of dawn, old Li, bleary-eyed from sleep, wandered to the bow. He saw Xu Fengnian mimicking his pose, chin in hand, spacing out. He approached and exclaimed in surprise—had this kid switched from the Xiu-Dong to the Spring Thunder? And on the ground before him, stacked no less than three nuts!
On the river, several crimson carps leapt from the water.
Such is a common sight upon great rivers.
The old sword sage turned and left. Only when he was a good distance away did he murmur to himself: “That’s a fine lad. The carp has leapt the Dragon Gate. This time I misjudged. But we’ll see how many times he can leap in the coming ten years!”
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