In the martial world of Liyang, there was a saying: “Since the imperial relative Su Mao fell in battle outside the imperial city gates and Huang Zhentu died atop the walls of Donghai City, Shu has had no swordsmen worth mentioning.”
This spoke volumes about the current plight of Shu’s martial circles.
Especially after Xie Lingzhen of the Spring Scroll Cottage died mysteriously at the Kuai Xue Villa, his successor, the beauty Xie Xie from the Rouge Rankings, dazzled the world with her looks but failed to inspire genuine respect with her martial prowess. This only reinforced the perception that Shu lacked true grandmasters.
The middle-aged man slowly stepped forward, stopping about thirty or forty paces from Zhang Yun, and finally spoke: “My disciple has already explained the reasoning. Since you refused to listen, I won’t bother reasoning with you today.”
Zhang Yun was on the verge of tears. *How was I supposed to know who your disciple was? If we’d known he was the apprentice of a swordsman of your caliber, we’d have enshrined him like a Bodhisattva at the Sword Rain Pavilion! How could we have ignored his words?*
His mind raced. This man looked to be in his thirties or forties and seemed to have a grudge against the Sword Rain Pavilion. He likely wasn’t from Shu’s martial world—otherwise, he’d have given Zhang Yun some face. But the Sword Rain Pavilion’s influence was confined to Shu, and its disciples were generally restrained, rarely making deadly enemies. Even the few outstanding disciples sent beyond Shu to spread the pavilion’s name had never clashed seriously with major sects of Liyang. To be brutally honest, if they’d truly provoked Liyang’s top grandmasters, they wouldn’t have lived to tell the tale.
Zhang Yun was also puzzled. This man showed no trace of martial aura or imposing presence—he didn’t seem like the one who’d struck. Was there a hidden master behind him?
The middle-aged man’s gaze swept over the Sword Rain Pavilion’s members, lingering on the young woman who thrived on chaos. Beside her stood a woman with a similar face, her expression dark as she weighed whether to involve the authorities to intimidate them. The pavilion’s retainers, however, were on high alert, clearly aware of the gravity of the situation. Some things could be suppressed by official power, but others… not so much.
Zhang Yun, elegant in bearing and wearing the famed Shu sword *Huozhu* at his waist, bowed respectfully in a rare show of deference. “May I ask, honored elder, who your disciple is? If the Sword Rain Pavilion has indeed offended him, Zhang Yun will surely give you a proper explanation!”
The middle-aged man ignored the question, instead asking, “Which of you holds the Mountain Goblin Sword?”
The plump Yizhou Vice-Administrator narrowed his eyes and sneered, “Today was supposed to be a joyous occasion between Master Zhang and myself. I never expected someone to dare act so brazenly within Yizhou’s walls. Truly eye-opening!”
The Yizhou Deputy General, who commanded thousands of troops, added coldly, “In my jurisdiction, do martial artists dare flaunt their skills and defy the law?!”
Seeing the two Yizhou officials take such a firm stance, Zhang Yun felt reassured but still hoped to defuse the situation. Straightening after his bow, he stared at the uninvited guest. “Honored elder, could it be that our chief retainer, Hu Dachun, had a misunderstanding with your disciple?”
The middle-aged man ignored both the Shu officials and the deliberately submissive Sword Rain Pavilion master. Instead, he looked at the white-robed, white-haired, white-bearded swordsman who had earlier examined the main building’s plaque—his sword sheath as white as snow, exuding an immortal’s grace.
“Was it you who struck my disciple three times?”
This Shu swordsman, whose skill was no weaker than Zhang Yun’s, remained calm but silent—whether unwilling or unable to answer.
At the man’s question, the mother and daughter, along with the handsome young man, paled. The woman’s eyes grew venomous, the girl curled her lip, and the young man instinctively stepped back.
The middle-aged man said flatly, “One strike repaid with one strike.”
The moment the white-haired retainer holding the Mountain Goblin Sword reached for his hilt, his chest exploded in a spray of blood.
Yet this silent “sword strike” didn’t stop there. Two more bursts of crimson bloomed at the *Juque* and *Qihai* acupoints on Hu Dachun’s body.
Before he could even draw his sword—before his fingers could close around the hilt—Hu Dachun toppled backward.
One strike could kill, but three strikes meant three strikes repaid.
To the onlookers, the middle-aged man never moved, his hands remaining behind his back. Zhang Yun was certain—this man emitted no martial aura whatsoever.
Zhang Yun, his limbs icy with fear, abandoned all pretense of dignity and scanned the surroundings, desperate to find the hidden master. His voice trembled with barely concealed terror. “This junior, Zhang Yun of the Sword Rain Pavilion, humbly requests the honored elder to show himself! I am willing to offer sincere apologies!”
The middle-aged man turned to the two Yizhou officials. “I don’t care what offices you hold. Even if Chen Zhibao stood here today, he couldn’t stop me from killing whom I please. If you doubt me, go ahead and summon your troops—thousands, tens of thousands, I’ll wait. If you don’t, I’ll kill you now. If you do, I’ll still kill you. Just remember—when you die, don’t try reasoning with me.”
Of course, the world didn’t know that even Xie Guanying, the shadow behind Shu’s King Chen Zhibao’s dragon-hunting, had fallen to his sword.
The woman snarled, “Such arrogance! To dare disregard even our King of Shu! My grandfather is close friends with the Shu Circuit’s Military Commissioner—”
The middle-aged man cut her off. “Then invite your grandfather and the Shu Circuit’s Military Commissioner to the Sword Rain Pavilion. I’ll wait. If they don’t come, I’ll visit and kill them myself.”
As the woman prepared to retort, her usually meek husband Zhang Yun roared, “Shut your damn mouth!”
Trembling, the Sword Rain Pavilion master looked at the middle-aged man with bitter resignation. “Dare I ask if the honored elder hails from the Wu Family Sword Tomb or the Dongyue Sword Pool?”
Without any visible movement, the stunned Yizhou Vice-Administrator collapsed dead on the spot.
The middle-aged man’s tone remained flat. “I have some ties to the Wu Family, none to the Dongyue Sword Pool.”
The Yizhou Deputy General gasped, “You actually killed the Vice-Administrator?!”
The man replied with a humorless joke, “If you prefer to think it’s fake, that’s fine. But a word of advice—if you don’t summon troops soon, you’ll be next.”
The general, voice quivering, uttered an even greater absurdity: “Honored swordsman, we have no quarrel! You… you can’t just kill indiscriminately! This has nothing to do with me—I’ll stay out of it! Kill whoever you want in Yizhou! If you’d rather not dirty your hands, this lowly general will do it for you. How’s that?”
The middle-aged man said nothing.
Since leaving the Wu Family Sword Tomb, he’d never much liked the martial world. But his disciple did, so he’d treated its people and affairs with courtesy.
Of the four grandmasters on the Martial Rankings—himself, Deng Tai’a; Xichu’s Cao Changqing; Beiliang’s Xu Fengnian; and Beimang’s Tuoba Pusa—only Deng Tai’a was truly free and unfettered.
So if the martial world troubled him, he could overlook it. But if Deng Tai’a decided to trouble the world, no one could hide.
Thus, Xie Guanying—ranked first on the Land Immortals List—had fled thousands of *li*, from the northern capital of Tai’an to the southern coast, yet still failed to evade death by his sword.
Just then, two more Sword Rain Pavilion retainers who’d merely *thought* of killing him dropped dead.
Zhang Yun, utterly lost, looked at this still-nameless man and pleaded despairingly, “Honored elder, I don’t know what’s happening, but after Hu Dachun, none of these others deserved death!”
The Yizhou Deputy General suddenly bolted, desperate to flee the Sword Rain Pavilion, Yizhou, anything—to seek refuge at the Shu King’s palace, no matter the cost.
The middle-aged man didn’t even glance at the fleeing general. He eyed Zhang Yun. “I told you—I didn’t come to reason.”
Zhang Yun, heart like dead ashes, asked, “Does the elder truly fear neither the Shu Circuit’s authorities nor the entire Shu martial world?”
The man, who killed as he pleased, smiled. “If Chen Zhibao were here, he’d never say such a thing.”
Zhang Yun laughed bitterly and gripped *Huozhu*’s hilt. “This junior knows I’m no match for you. But whether for the Sword Rain Pavilion’s centuries of reputation or my family’s lives, I must dare to fight you.”
To his surprise, the man shook his head. “I won’t kill you today. My disciple said you’re an honorable man with a chivalrous reputation. For that, you live.”
The handsome young man knelt by his father’s corpse, wailing, “You madman! Why kill my father?! May you die horribly!”
Zhang Yun’s daughter, seeing her beloved’s anguish, tearfully tried to comfort him, only to be shoved away. “Get lost! You jinx! My father died because of you! If not for you and your mother egging me on, how would a Vice-Administrator’s son like me have repeatedly harassed that nobody? How would I have used my office to make Hu Dachun attack him?!”
Zhang Yun stood thunderstruck, his face blank as he turned to his wife and daughter. “Explain. At this point, at least let me die knowing why.”
The once-graceful woman, now monstrous in her fury, shrieked, “Zhang Yun! How was I to know that pauper’s master was so powerful? Blame that Li brat for pretending to be a fool! If he hadn’t hidden his identity and mocked our Sword Rain Pavilion, why would I have opposed our daughter’s match with him?! Hah! My only regret is not having Hu Dachun kill him outright!”
Zhang Yun stared at his deranged wife with Stranger and disgust before turning back. “Honored elder, may my death spare the innocent of the Sword Rain Pavilion?”
The man shook his head. “No.”
Zhang Yun’s lips trembled, speechless.
The man added, “Rest easy. Today, I came only to kill Hu Dachun. Now it’s just him, that corpse, and the fleeing deputy. The others died because they thought of killing me—they paid for their intentions. While your wife and daughter deserve death, my disciple never wished it. I won’t let him bear that guilt.”
Zhang Yun could no longer comprehend this man.
Just as he’d never understood, since childhood, why the same sword in the hands of those legendary immortals depicted in the pavilion’s portraits could pierce the heavens or shake the earth with a single stroke.
But the man continued, “From today, the Sword Rain Pavilion closes. ‘Swords falling like rain’—what a farce, insulting the very blades you wield. Any sword, in a true swordsman’s hand, would disdain such gimmicks. Li Chungang’s *Muma Niu* was like this, as is the most ordinary blade. If those painted masters on your top floor have spirits, they’ve long died laughing. A sword sheathed should only sound for injustice; drawn, it must answer to conscience. Not for spectators’ applause.”
Zhang Yun smiled bitterly, then steadied his gaze. “The elder speaks wisely. But the Sword Rain Pavilion is my ancestors’ centuries of toil. Today, Zhang Yun may die and the pavilion fall, but the pavilion cannot fall while Zhang Yun lives!”
For the first time, the middle-aged man truly looked at him.
Zhang Yun tightened his grip on *Huozhu*, his mind now clear. “The Sword Rain Pavilion once hosted Lü Zu on his crane, Sword Emperor Su Xiu’s critiques of the world’s swordsmen, and even Sword God Li Chungang instructing my grandfather. If I retreat today, the pavilion truly dies! Zhang Ningjing, Zhang Zhiyuan, Zhang Danbo, Zhang Mingzhi—remember this! After my death, the Sword Rain Pavilion’s people may perish, its plaque may fall, but its name must never vanish! Never be shamed!”
Drawing *Huozhu*, he strode toward death, smiling. “Before I die, I thank the elder for letting me draw my sword. As for your disciple, that young Li Huainian—since death nears, I’ll speak frankly. I liked him, not just for his unremarkable roots but his profound insights into swordsmanship. He reminded me of my own youthful passion, willing to risk all for love. I’d meant for him to suffer a few rejections, as I once did. But then my daughter suddenly changed her mind. At the time, I was puzzled but didn’t dwell on it—never imagining Hu Dachun would attack him.”
He turned to the aging beauty, his voice tender. “You weren’t always like this.”
The woman looked blank.
The middle-aged man finally lowered his hands, watching Zhang Yun assume his stance. “Strike freely. I’ll ensure you die only when your strength is spent.”
The Western Shu Sword Rain Tower claimed to have collected over a thousand exquisite sword techniques from across the world. In reality, most of these techniques were merely the creations of past tower masters and their outstanding disciples, hardly exceptional in the grand scheme of the martial world. However, after centuries of accumulation, some of the hidden, treasured techniques were indeed first-rate sword arts of the era. Unfortunately, Zhang Yun himself knew that while many of these techniques reached the pinnacle of brilliance, he had failed to grasp their true essence. After all, the legacies of countless sword masters were diverse and fragmented, their sword intents scattered and contradictory. Zhang Yun had yet to reach the realm of returning to simplicity, like encountering a mountain of gold but only able to carry away a few hundred pounds with bare hands.
The middle-aged man stood with one hand behind his back and the other extended.
Zhang Yun’s swordplay was a spectacle of ever-changing grandeur—now as majestic as the rising sun, now as delicate and lingering as the misty rains of Jiangnan, now as heavy and solemn as the deep snow of midwinter, now as light and ethereal as a sparrow flitting among branches. What was even more remarkable was how seamlessly he transitioned between these vastly different sword intents, never appearing abrupt or forced.
It was worth noting that the first line of the Sword Rain Tower’s family motto made its purpose clear: *The sunrise over Kunlun, the bright moon over the vast sea, the waters of Spring God Lake, the great tides of Guangling, the rosy clouds of Chicheng, the flying snow of the two Liao regions, the yellow sands of the great desert—all these wonders contain sword intents. Merge them into one, and you reach the pinnacle of the sword path!*
Yet no matter how Zhang Yun unleashed his techniques, the middle-aged man merely flicked the tip of his *Huozhu* sword with his fingers, each vibration abruptly cutting short one of Zhang Yun’s exquisite sword intents.
The absurdity of the scene was akin to a refined scholar reciting timeless verses, only to be crudely interrupted by a vulgar peasant shouting, “Bullshit!”
In the square, sword energy surged like a rainbow.
Zhang Yun and his sword became a blur, yet the middle-aged man remained rooted in place, casually flicking his fingers. Even the most inexperienced disciples of the Sword Rain Tower could see the vast gulf between their sword mastery.
Their master—or even their grandmaster—Zhang Yun, the head of the Western Shu Sword Rain Tower and one of the Ten Great Masters of Western Shu, was someone even Liu Yuewei, the top-ranked elder of the Spring Scroll Cottage, would never dare to face with just two fingers, let alone while standing motionless.
The sudden appearance of this middle-aged man not only shocked everyone with his legendary, almost divine prowess but also unwittingly painted a grand and lofty martial path for the Sword Rain Tower disciples who aspired to reach the pinnacle of the sword.
Everyone present felt a mix of emotions. Faced with such a life-and-death adversary, who could turn the tide? Today’s humiliation was inevitable, but could they truly redeem themselves in ten or twenty years?
As Zhang Yun’s swordplay weakened and he faced certain death, he felt no resentment. Instead, he was exhilarated to have displayed his lifelong skills, even if they amounted to nothing more than a flick of this man’s fingers. The only regret was failing his ancestors. Yet, in this fleeting moment, his sword heart achieved a clarity and serenity he had long sought, leaving him without regrets.
“Master, don’t kill anyone! Killing is against the law!”
A frantic voice suddenly rang out from afar. To the Sword Rain Tower disciples, this once-mocked voice now sounded like heavenly music.
As for the content of the words, no one found it ridiculous anymore.
The middle-aged man flicked Zhang Yun’s sword away, forcing him back dozens of steps, then turned to his hurriedly arriving disciple and said with exasperated amusement, “Since when has killing ever *not* been against the law?”
The young man ran up to him and whispered, “Law or no law, killing in front of so many people is bad for your reputation! ‘The Peach Blossom Sword God massacres the Western Shu Sword Rain Tower’—doesn’t sound great, does it?”
The old gatekeeper, who had been searching the streets for the young man, had unwittingly saved the Sword Rain Tower.
The middle-aged man sighed. “Since when have I cared about reputation?”
The young man retorted righteously, “*I* care! A lot!”
The middle-aged man chuckled and let it go.
Drenched in sweat, Zhang Yun sheathed his sword and clasped his hands in a deep, sincere bow. “This junior now understands your identity. For the Sword Rain Tower to be erased from Western Shu by your hand, Zhang Yun has no regrets in this life! Nor does the Sword Rain Tower!”
His words sent shockwaves through the entire Sword Rain Tower, from the elders to the disciples.
In the martial world, personal reputation was paramount, especially for orthodox sects. Zhang Yun’s shocking statement implied that this unremarkable-looking middle-aged man held a place in the sword path akin to the Wu family head speaking of flying swords with the authority of the Sword Tomb, or Chai Qingshan representing the Dongyue Sword Pool in matters of sword forging.
Otherwise, no matter how high this man’s martial prowess or how disdainful he was of mortals, Zhang Yun—who had been ready to die for his sword—would never have uttered such words.
The middle-aged man showed no reaction, accepting it calmly—or more accurately, ignoring it entirely.
The young woman who had been pushed aside earlier now clung to her mother, her delicate face tearful and pitiable. Seeing the wandering swordsman with whom she had once sworn undying love, she took a few steps forward, gazing at him with tender remorse. “Huainian, I was wrong. Please forgive me. I never forgot you, but my family…”
Li Huainian turned to look at the girl he had asked to wait in the distance. She stood there holding her bamboo flower basket, craning her neck to watch.
The basket was empty of apricot blossoms, with only a few peach branches left.
He smiled, then turned back, his expression cooling as he glanced at the Sword Rain Tower woman without a word.
The middle-aged man asked, “Finally given up?”
The young man nodded vigorously. “Yeah.”
Suddenly, he looked suspicious. “Master… you didn’t trick me into coming here on purpose, did you?”
The middle-aged man remained impassive.
The young man sidled up to him and muttered, “Master, I never took you for the scheming type. If you’d been this cunning earlier, your reputation would’ve long surpassed Wang Xianzhi and Cao Changqing—let alone that Xu Fengnian.”
The middle-aged man lazily replied, “Your business is settled. I still have a small matter to attend to—a deputy general of Yizhou needs killing. Though I doubt he can outrun that Xie fellow.”
He glanced at Zhang Yun, who was bowing as if seeing a reincarnated ancestor, and hesitated before adding, “Swordsmen shouldn’t prioritize victory over life. A dead man can’t wield a three-foot blade. Hmph. One last thing—your swordplay is passable, but your sword intent isn’t bad. At least you’ve shown me one thing: after Su Xiu and Huang Zhentu, Western Shu still has swordsmen. So keep the Sword Rain Tower running. But what happened today stays within these walls. If grudges spill outside, my next visit won’t be so polite.”
Zhang Yun, overwhelmed with relief and gratitude, bowed deeply once more.
Master and disciple turned to leave.
“Master, those last words… truly had the bearing of a grandmaster. Did you learn that on your last trip?”
“…”
“Master, if we ever get into another fight, just follow that script. Can’t go wrong!”
“…”
“Master, let’s settle accounts clearly. You can’t just play the lofty expert and walk away without a care. You can’t leave me to fend for myself in Yizhou! I plan to stay here long-term… A’cao’s family is poor, and my sword skills are weak. You just told me yesterday to live a stable life. I’m not even asking you for silver or betrothal gifts anymore, but you can’t leave me and A’cao with a mess…”
“Shut up!”
“Take care of that stubborn donkey yourself!”
“Hah, the sun’s nice today.”
Watching the master and disciple reunite with the flower-selling girl and walk away, Zhang Yun was filled with mixed emotions.
Wang Xuanlin, the Sword Rain Tower’s eldest disciple—once praised by Xie Lingzhen of the Spring Scroll Cottage as “destined for greatness in twenty years”—approached cautiously. “Master, was that senior also a swordsman?”
Zhang Yun didn’t answer. Instead, he stared blankly at the gate before finally smiling. “Last winter, you youngsters were all excited about picking an auspicious day to hang the Peach Blossom Sword God’s portrait in the top floor. If I recall, you insisted on placing it between Lü Dongbin and Li Chunyang. Have you chosen the date?”
Wang Xuanlin blinked. “But our tower’s ironclad rule is to only hang portraits of unparalleled sword masters *after* their deaths…”
Zhang Yun murmured, “For his parting words—‘Western Shu still has swords’—I’d hang his portrait even if our ancestors called me unfilial. And what’s one exception for the Peach Blossom Sword God, who nearly became our in-law?”
Wang Xuanlin stood dumbfounded.
Suddenly, Zhang Yun barked, “Sword Rain Tower disciples—draw your swords! Assume the *Inverted Tai’e* stance!”
Finally, he turned to the gate and declared, “The 324 members of the Western Shu Sword Rain Tower send off the Peach Blossom Sword God with our three-foot blades!”
The woman murmured dazedly, “Peach Blossom Sword God… Deng Tai’a… So it’s you…”
The young woman wept bitter tears. “Why… why did you have to be his disciple…”
Outside the Sword Rain Tower, the innocent flower-selling girl tugged Li Huainian’s sleeve. “Who’s this ‘Peach Blossom Sword God’ they’re talking about?”
Li Huainian stifled a laugh and rolled his eyes.
The girl glanced at Uncle Deng, the middle-aged man who had entered their courtyard yesterday leading a donkey, and smiled brightly. “Big Brother Li, that title… sounds really impressive. I’ve heard storytellers talk about great heroes, but none of their titles compare to Uncle Deng’s.”
Deng Tai’a plucked a peach blossom from her basket and grinned. “How impressive can a guy be if his disciple got beaten so badly he spent two or three months in bed? So this ‘Peach Blossom Sword God’ is just a fancy title.”
The girl peeked at the young man, her lips curling.
The young man flushed with embarrassment. “One copper per branch!”
The middle-aged man shrugged. “No money. I’ll owe you.”
The girl suddenly blushed. “Uncle Deng, I…”
As if reading her thoughts, he shook his head with a smile. Then, tucking the peach blossom between his lips and clasping his hands behind his head, he turned and said gently, “My disciple, Deng Tai’a, has already married the finest woman in the world.”
The girl’s face burned, but his words eased the anxiety she had never dared voice—the fear that she could never be worthy of Big Brother Li.
She thought to herself, *This Peach Blossom Sword God, so unpretentious and kind… maybe he really isn’t one of those larger-than-life martial heroes?*
Then she felt guilty for doubting him and Big Brother Li, sticking out her tongue sheepishly.
That spring, as Li Huainian’s master, Deng Tai’a—now practically family with A’cao’s parents—worked as a shop assistant in their store, greeting customers and saving up less than ten taels of silver. Before leaving Western Shu for Northern Liang’s border, he shamelessly borrowed twenty more taels from his disciple to buy an ordinary iron sword.
On the journey north, the Peach Blossom Sword God Deng Tai’a—who had drawn his first sword from the Sword Tomb in his youth—walked with a blade at his waist for the very first time in his life.
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