The southern border stretches with countless towering mountains and rugged peaks. A figure flitted across the summits like a dragonfly skimming water, vanishing in the blink of an eye. Behind him, a razor-sharp flying sword followed like a shadow.
Suddenly, he halted atop the highest branch of an ancient tree, gazing upward. The flying sword, too, ceased its pursuit, hovering mid-air with a faint hum. Nearby stood an unremarkable middle-aged man who sighed, then struck a crane stance, lifting one foot to shake out his hemp shoe.
The scholar, chased all the way from Tai’an City into the deep southern wilderness, burst into laughter. “Deng Tai’a, oh Deng Tai’a! Cao Changqing seeks his own demise, the Western Chu Empress Jiang Ni has left the capital, and soon even you will feel the collapse of Western Chu’s grand pillar of fortune! The ones who stand to gain the most? Aside from Tantai Pingjing, that old hag who stole part of my Xie Xie’s share, it’s none other than Chen Zhibao and Zhao Zhu! Once Chen Zhibao absorbs half of Western Chu’s fortune, as the key figure behind his rise, let’s see how you, Deng Tai’a, dare kill me!”
Among the top four grandmasters—no, among all fourteen on the martial rankings—Deng Tai’a, the Peach Blossom Sword God, might seem the least imposing at first glance. Yet this unassuming middle-aged man had relentlessly pursued Xie Xie, the top-ranked figure on the *Land Immortal Scroll*, reducing him to such a pitiful state.
Deng Tai’a slipped his shoe back on and curled his lip. “Are you saying that a pure martial artist like me, after ascending to land immortal status, would suffer backlash for killing someone bearing destiny? Well, back then, I slaughtered a certain old Daoist from Longhu Mountain right as he was ascending—and nothing happened.”
Xie Xie sneered. “How could I be compared to that Wu Lingsu from the Celestial Master Sect?”
Deng Tai’a rolled his eyes. “To me, there’s no difference.”
Xie Xie laughed. “Then I’ll wait and see how your cultivation crumbles!”
Deng Tai’a’s playful demeanor vanished as he spoke solemnly. “I don’t care who’s destined to suppress whom, or who should follow the heavens to oppose another. I don’t care where fortune flows in this world. None of it concerns me. Whether I ascend or remain a mere land immortal—I couldn’t care less.”
Xie Xie roared, “You madman! You’re even more unreasonable than Lü Dongbin and Li Chungang!”
Deng Tai’a turned to his ordinary-looking flying sword and grinned. “In this life, Deng Tai’a needs nothing but a three-foot sword.”
Xie Xie suddenly sensed overwhelming killing intent—swifter than lightning—before the mountain beneath him was sliced clean off by a single stroke!
Deng Tai’a didn’t pursue immediately. Instead, he gazed at the unnaturally low-hanging sea of clouds.
*Cao Changqing, oh Cao Changqing… Li Chungang is gone, Wang Xianzhi is gone, and now even you have left.*
Deng Tai’a suddenly laughed, soaring into the sky with his sword, piercing the clouds until he stood bathed in golden sunlight. He stood atop his blade, staring at the radiant sun, lost in thought.
Finally, he raised a thumb to the heavens before slowly turning it downward.
“Deng Tai’a has lived this life to the fullest. What can any of you do to me? Who dares ask for a single sword from Deng Tai’a?”
No celestial answered.
On the ground, Xie Xie muttered, “Madman… Deng the Madman… Cao Changqing was a madman, and so are you!”
—
A stern-faced official in a golden pheasant-embroidered court robe ascended the city walls. In his prime at just over forty, he would have stood out even in the stable Yonghui era of the Liyang court. To rise to the rank of Minister of Justice at such an age was no small feat. His name was Liu Yiyou, a *tong jinshi* graduate of the Yonghui era, though overshadowed by the famed “Yonghui Spring” scholars. With no illustrious family or remarkable talent—only a poetic name—Liu Yiyou was nonetheless known in Tai’an City as stubborn as a rock in a latrine. After nearly a decade as a low-ranking official, he rose to Vice Minister in the Xiangfu era and, just three days prior, became Minister of Justice, wielding authority over the martial world through the distribution of copper fish pouches.
Behind him followed sixty-eight martial experts—thirty-six famed swordsmen, eighteen blade masters, and fourteen fist grandmasters—their presence turning the already austere city walls even more somber.
Despite being a mere scholar, Liu Yiyou’s aura matched even the legendary figures standing beside him: the ancestral master of the Wu Family Sword Vault, Chai Qingshan of Dongyue Sword Pool, and the unruly Xuanyuan Qingfeng of Daxueping.
Wu Jian stood with hands behind his back, grave-faced. Chai Qingshan, borrowing the sword *Qing Li* from the girl Dan Eryi, stood poised in meditation. The purple-robed Xuanyuan Qingfeng sat carelessly on the battlement, arms crossed, gazing afar.
Facing these three martial grandmasters who could scoff at kings, Liu Yiyou spoke calmly. “The Ministry of Justice offers sixty-eight men to buy you three a chance. I ask only that you cooperate to stop Cao Changqing from rampaging through our capital.”
Wu Jian remained silent. Chai Qingshan nodded slightly. Only Xuanyuan Qingfeng scoffed. “I fight Cao Changqing because he’s worth fighting. You? You dare command me?”
Liu Yiyou, unfazed, replied coldly, “As long as Daxueping remains in Liyang, as long as Jianzhou is Liyang territory, I, Liu Yiyou—”
Before he could finish, Xuanyuan Qingfeng lunged. Chai Qingshan intercepted, yet a streak of blood still appeared on Liu Yiyou’s cheek, a lock of hair falling.
Liu Yiyou didn’t wipe the blood. He pushed Chai Qingshan aside and stared at the notoriously arrogant beauty. “You can kill me. I can die. But as long as you stand on these walls, you *will* fight. Not because I threaten you with the Ministry’s authority, nor because I beg for your help. In this city, only His Majesty is irreplaceable!”
Xuanyuan Qingfeng tilted her head, finally regarding the young minister. “So you’re Liu Yiyou, the poor scholar from Guangling? Or did I misremember your hometown?”
Liu Yiyou’s eyes darkened—whether from bureaucratic restraint or scholarly composure, he showed no anger. “Our paths diverge.”
Xuanyuan Qingfeng smirked. “Oh?”
The Wu Family elder frowned, effortlessly deflecting an unseen strike. “Girl, with that temper, you’ll never be number one.”
For some reason, Xuanyuan Qingfeng held more respect for the elder than for Chai Qingshan. She ignored the advice, turning back to the horizon as her aura surged, purple robes billowing. Seated on the battlement, she was a solitary figure in the martial world—unpredictable, untamed.
Perhaps she was just a parentless, unruly child who refused reason. Yet her talent, her meteoric rise, her fortune—none could force her into the demure role of a refined lady.
She looked up at the rolling clouds, her eyes narrowing with sorrow. She loved someone but didn’t know how—or dare—to tell him.
*Then let him remember her name. Let her deeds echo across the rivers and lakes, battlefields, and courts, wherever he roamed.*
If he couldn’t love her as her father loved her mother, she’d rather have nothing at all.
Without warning, Xuanyuan Qingfeng shot from the walls, ignoring the Ministry’s forces, disregarding Wu Jian and Chai Qingshan.
She came to Tai’an alone. She left alone.
The purple figure crashed toward Cao Changqing with fearless fervor.
Even Liu Yiyou couldn’t help but admire her.
*With women like her, the world would never be dull.*
Cao Changqing smiled, ignoring her charge, his gaze fixed on the chessboard. “In dreams unawakened, how does one know life?”
—
Years later, in a world where only Di Long and Gou Youfang remained, a secret decade-long pact endured.
Every ten years, she emerged from seclusion, sitting atop Daxueping’s Queyue Tower in purple robes, retrieving a ten-year-old osmanthus wine, waiting for someone to fulfill their promise.
Three times passed. The fourth, amid torrential rain, he never came. Only the wine remained, battered by the storm.
By the window, the purple-robed woman sat before a mirror, strands of white now visible in her reflection. *Better not to meet.*
Her skirt knotted, an old umbrella at her feet, she drowsed at the dressing table, smiling as if in a sweet dream.
An ageless man entered unannounced, shaking off his wet oil-paper umbrella. “The rain outside could drown fish. Care to watch?”
She slept on, unawakened.
—
In Tai’an, all witnessed the absurd scene: the purple figure collided with Cao Changqing—yet passed right through him. Cao Changqing remained seated, while Xuanyuan Qingfeng stood frozen yards away, as if in deep meditation.
Cao Changqing picked up a chess piece, placing it gently. “Time to wake.”
Xuanyuan Qingfeng jolted awake as if from a forty-year dream, tears streaming unnoticed.
She didn’t turn, stretching lazily as she wiped her face. “What a lovely dream.”
Cao Changqing smiled. “Good.”
As she hesitated to thank him, he returned to the board. “I’m fine. Don’t follow my path. The world is vast—gentle breezes and bright moons over Jiangnan, golden sands and fierce winds in the northwest. See it all before deciding life or death. Life is hard; death is easy. Between them, fate weaves tales. Live a life brighter than autumn grass.”
Xuanyuan Qingfeng nodded. “As long as I live, I’ll spare every Western Chu refugee I can.”
Cao Changqing chuckled dismissively.
She vanished.
In her dream’s final moments, though unawakened—or already dead—she saw the umbrella-bearing fool standing alone at the door, wordless, grieving.
Xuanyuan Qingfeng suddenly laughed wildly at the sky. “You old bastard!”
Her abrupt departure didn’t delay Liu Yiyou’s order. Sixty-eight martial experts surged from the city like birds from a high branch.
Cao Changqing placed a piece at the board’s edge, then pushed it forward with two fingers.
Between him and Tai’an, a torrent of energy like the raging Guangling River erupted.
The sixty-eight struggled as if crossing floodwaters, many collapsing mid-air.
Chai Qingshan lunged, his sword severing the energy river.
Cao Changqing moved another piece, sweeping rightward.
A sword aura surged left to right, scattering the remaining challengers.
Cao Changqing once again picked up a piece and placed it on the board from top to bottom.
A dazzling pillar of light, grand and majestic, descended vertically from the sky.
Between heaven and earth, one horizontal and one vertical—two sword auras.
They struck Chai Qingshan of Dongyue Sword Pool and Wu Jian of the Wu Family Sword Tomb respectively.
Cao Changqing did not hurry to pick up another piece. Instead, he gazed at the board and murmured to himself, “I, Cao Changqing, also possess the Sword of Haoran.”
Chai Qingshan, holding a broken sword, landed twenty zhang north of Cao Changqing, his chest stained with a large patch of blood.
Wu Jian stood a dozen zhang ahead of Chai Qingshan, his shoulder robes shredded. The old man extended his right hand, fingers curled as if gripping something, and in his palm materialized a three-foot-long snow-white sword aura. He said solemnly, “Cao Changqing, are you truly willing to risk annihilation of body and soul just to finish this game?!”
Cao Changqing did not answer.
On the city wall, Minister of War Liu Yiyou pressed his trembling hands against the battlements.
A humble scholar from Guangling Dao, he recognized Cao Changqing—not in the Western Chu, but in Liyang, the enemy state of Western Chu, right here in Tai’an City.
But before Cao Changqing and the Western Chu Empress Jiang Ni arrived in the capital during the Xiangfu era, Liu Yiyou, an obscure official in the Ministry of Justice, had only known a wandering Confucian scholar he met by chance—a man who would treat him to wine whenever he visited the capital. Unable to afford a house, Liu Yiyou rented a small, remote courtyard in the southeast of the city. In those years, whenever he saw that smiling middle-aged man standing at his desolate doorstep, Liu Yiyou was always filled with joy and surprise. The usually reticent Liu Yiyou loved to vent his frustrations to this refined scholar, confiding in this man he only knew by surname—Mr. Cao. Once, drunk, he confessed that his mentor was the Chief Grand Secretary, whose disciples were spread across the land. Though he had ranked first in the imperial examinations, his final placement was only as a “Tong Jinshi.” He believed the Chief Grand Secretary, Zhang Julu, had deliberately slighted scholars from Guangling, which was why the world knew only of Zhang’s famous disciples like Yin Maochun, Zhao Youling, and Yuan Bo, but never of Liu Yiyou. And Zhang himself never acknowledged him as a disciple, let alone a favored one.
After hearing Liu Yiyou’s examination essay word for word, Mr. Cao smiled and remarked that it bore striking resemblance to Zhang Julu’s youthful style—avoiding lofty yet scattered arguments and empty, distant themes. It was a fine essay, but precisely because of that, Zhang had deliberately made him endure years of obscurity, just as he himself had. “So, Liu Yiyou,” he advised, “you must not grow impatient.”
After that, Liu Yiyou was half-relieved and half-resigned. He settled into his role as a minor official in the Ministry of Justice, working diligently. But what truly crushed his spirit was when, even as Zhang Julu faced disgrace, he braved public scorn to visit his mentor—only for Zhang to refuse him at the door, sending a message: “Who is Liu Yiyou? Do I, Zhang Julu, have such a disciple? I don’t recall.” That evening, Liu Yiyou returned to his humble courtyard and drank himself into oblivion.
But.
But after Zhang’s death, Qi Yanglong, upon Liu Yiyou’s promotion to Vice Minister of Justice, sent him an utterly ordinary book, claiming it had been found in someone’s home by chance.
Inside, Liu Yiyou discovered two yellowed examination papers.
Though the essays were only a thousand characters long, they bore sixteen annotations totaling over five hundred words.
At the end was the line: “Fine timber from Guangling can still become a pillar of the state. I shall nurture it with care. When I die, then shall it be put to great use.”
Tears welled in Liu Yiyou’s eyes as he stood on the city wall, staring fixedly at that figure in blue robes.
“Mr. Cao, I was born in Great Chu and dare not forget my roots. So in the future, I shall strive to secure peace for all Western Chu remnants in the court.”
“Mr. Cao, as a disciple of Zhang Julu, I dare not forget his kindness. So today, I must stand here—as your enemy.”
Cao Changqing suddenly turned to look at this Minister of War, who had risen swiftly through Liyang’s bureaucracy, and smiled faintly, his eyes filled only with warmth.
Some things needed no words.
“To die heroically for a single nation or name is inferior to living humbly for the sake of the people. Liu Yiyou, as a scholar, do not follow my example.”
Cao Changqing straightened his robes and sat upright once more, fixing his gaze on the board.
Utterly still.
Heaven and earth resonated.
Mind and world forgotten.
—
In Tai’an City, the eccentric Sun Yin, who had again found an excuse to skip work today, galloped through the streets on horseback. First, he sought out the young Director of the Imperial Observatory, then dragged the boy straight to the Hanlin Academy to find Fan Changhou, Liyang’s sole “Ten-Dan National Master” of Go. After procuring two boxes of stones, they commandeered a cluttered room by the window and squatted on the floor to reconstruct Cao Changqing’s game. The young Director explained where Cao had “placed his stones,” while Fan Changhou arranged them methodically, expounding on their profundities. But after twenty moves, both Fan and the boy agreed that the “black player” was mediocre at best—relying on memorized patterns from old Western Chu masters. At this level, he wouldn’t even qualify for Liyang’s Go academy, let alone challenge Sun Yin.
Ignoring their mockery, Sun Yin fell into deep thought. Fan Changhou clutched a handful of mixed stones, ready to place them, while pinching his chin, brows furrowed.
Sun Yin muttered, “Cao Changqing, undisputed as the world’s best endgame player—is this really his final game? Struggling for a hundred moves against such mediocrity?”
Fan Changhou remained silent.
The young Director sneered, “What do you know? Can you even recognize how many standard patterns Black has played? Cao’s opponent is clearly a hack who only memorizes moves—probably someone who frequented Western Chu’s Go masters. From Li Mi, who once made Western Chu players exclaim ‘Heaven above!’, to Wang Qingxin, who only needed Li to concede first move, to Gu Shiyan, whom Wang could beat even giving a stone handicap—every signature move of Western Chu’s masters has been clumsily forced into this game. Strangely, this chaotic, unreasonable play has somehow balanced the game. That’s only because Cao, playing White, allowed it. Otherwise, who in the world would dare place Black’s first stone at Tengen against Cao Changqing? Not my grandfather, not Huang Longshi—no one! Not even in a thousand years!”
Sun Yin looked at Fan Changhou, who nodded slightly.
Slapping his forehead, Sun Yin was speechless.
Tai’an City continued to tremble.
With each quake, Fan Changhou placed stones under the young Director’s guidance.
Suddenly, Fan looked up and asked, “The game’s nearly over. Aren’t you going to say goodbye?”
The boy ignored him, muttering, “Heaven’s secrets must not be revealed. I want to live a few more years, maybe even leave this city someday.”
Sun Yin, sharp-eared, teased, “Kid, you’re not just foul-mouthed and punchable—you’re also slippery as hell.”
The boy, nicknamed “Little Bookcase,” shot back, “Kitten Boy, I don’t even want to talk to you!”
“Kitten Boy” was the boy’s crude nickname for Sun Yin—a play on his name.
Fan Changhou scattered the stones, laughing. “Let’s not play this out. Cao’s skill can only be judged by the old Director and… well, just two people. As for what Cao’s doing beyond the board, that’s even further beyond us.”
Sun Yin stared at the boy, now dressed in plain white instead of official robes. Hesitant, the boy glanced outside before finally speaking: “Liyang’s Zhao lineage has lost much of its fortune—if not, I’d have long gone to complain to the Empress. It seems Cao Changqing intends to scatter his own fortune into Guangling Dao. How pointless. If he knew this, why even restore the kingdom…”
Sun Yin suddenly roared, red-eyed, “Shut your mouth!”
Fan Changhou sighed softly. “Little Bookcase, enough.”
The boy stormed off in a huff.
Sun Yin crouched, chin resting on folded arms, murmuring, “Cao Changqing wants Liyang to know—‘He who holds Guangling holds the world.’”
Fan nodded. “A good thing. Fewer will die in Guangling Dao.”
Sun Yin said woodenly, “Sentiment can’t fill your belly. But without it, life’s like tasteless rice and bland vegetables—eventually, you lose all appetite. Some flavors make you cry from spice, tremble from sourness, or ache from bitterness. That’s sentiment.”
Fan silently began gathering stones.
Sun Yin asked, “Why mock those with sentiment?”
Fan pondered. “The too-clever disdain it. The too-dull can’t grasp it. So neither welcomes it.”
Sun Yin grinned. “I’m the former.”
Fan leisurely returned stones to their boxes, smiling. “I’m the latter.”
Sun Yin’s gaze sharpened like a blade. “And Huang Longshi?”
Fan’s expression didn’t change. “And Xu Fengnian?”
They shared a knowing smile.
Some things were better left unsaid.
The earth shook violently.
This time, the tremor was especially fierce. Both men toppled over, gasping for breath as dust rained from the rafters.
Sun Yin sprawled on his back like a starfish.
Fan continued gathering stones.
—
Outside Tai’an City, before Cao Changqing, the black and white Go boxes each held one final stone.
Wu Jian of the Wu Family Sword Tomb and Chai Qingshan of Dongyue Sword Pool still could not breach that one-zhang distance.
Cao Changqing remained serene.
Tai’an City quaked again and again.
Outside the walls, not a single cavalryman could stay mounted—how could they charge?
Archers’ arms trembled, their quivers empty—how could they rain arrows?
Chai Qingshan was drenched in blood, though the man in blue had never once deliberately targeted him.
Wu Jian’s palm was a mangled mess, bone visible beneath.
Spitting blood, Chai Qingshan smiled bitterly. “First, I witnessed Xu Fengnian receive that sword. Now, I’ve seen your unshakable presence, Cao Changqing. This life has been enough. If you rise now and enter the city, I cannot stop you. I’ll step aside.”
Hunched and aged, Chai turned and slowly walked back to the gates.
Wu Jian, who had stood between Cao and the city, yielded the path. “I still have one sword left, but it won’t stop you. The Wu Family has done its part for the Central Plains. It’s time to step back. Better to save this last strength—it may yet prove useful.”
As Cao Changqing ceased placing stones, the world fell silent.
He smiled at the board.
The last black stone leaped from its box, hesitating, swaying—unwilling to land, or perhaps unsure where.
Cao leaned forward slightly, one hand holding a stone, the other pointing to a spot on the board. Softly, he said, “Why not place it here?”
The black stone obeyed.
Cao set down his hand, smiling wordlessly—as if conceding.
Over two hundred stones hovered motionless in the air.
Cao Changqing closed his eyes.
You’ve won.
But I, Cao Changqing, have never felt defeated.
This game is my life’s proudest achievement.
His lips curled slightly. With a flick of his sleeve, the stone in his hand shot south to north—through the city, down the long Imperial Way, smashing through the palace gates, the throne hall doors, until it shattered the dragon throne of Liyang’s emperors into dust.
Cao opened his eyes, tears streaming, yet his face bore no sorrow. Slowly, he extended a hand.
Only then did blood soak through his aged blue robes.
A breeze swept the land, scattering the stench of blood—and the last traces of his grace.
Cao’s fingers began to dissolve, then his arm, his body.
The hovering stones vanished like smoke.
At last, outside Tai’an City, the man in blue was gone.
The world would never again see Cao Guanzi.
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