At the foot of Wudang Mountain, the small town of Taoshu had suddenly become bustling beyond measure. Originally an obscure settlement, it was now the starting point of the pilgrimage to the southern mountains and rumored to be the place where Qi Jiejie’s legendary “Sword of Ten Thousand Miles” had concluded its journey. With the Wudang Martial Arts Conference imminent, the town was teeming with visitors. The Taoist temples on Wudang Mountain were already packed to capacity, forcing many to seek lodging in Taoshu, where even the lowliest inn rooms were being sold at premium prices. The taverns were doing business so briskly that “earning a fortune daily” was no exaggeration.
Martial artists who had traveled from afar initially gasped in awe upon recognizing Wei Chuliangfu, the master of the Kuai Xue Villa, on the streets. But their astonishment only grew when they entered a tavern and spotted Zhang Chunlin, the young master of the Youyan Villa, sitting just two tables away. Then came whispers that the upper floor was occupied by the celestial beauties of the Jiangnan Dao’s Jiagu Terrace, followed by the dramatic entrance of the Purple Sandalwood Monk of Liaodong, one of the Sixteen Immortals. By then, the onlookers were utterly numb. In ordinary times, grandmasters of martial arts were as rare as phoenix feathers and unicorn horns—elusive figures glimpsed only in legends. But now, they seemed as common as cabbages in the market, impossible to avoid.
This tiny town of Taoshu was truly a den of crouching tigers and hidden dragons.
At this moment, no matter how illustrious a young prodigy’s sect or how formidable a regional warlord’s cultivation, none dared to speak loudly. The fear was that even an accidental spit might land on the robes of some martial grandmaster, inviting dire consequences. This was no exaggeration—just days prior, the Yulong Gang had issued a stern warning to the martial world: within the borders of Beiliang, sparring was permitted as long as it remained controlled, but private vendettas leading to injury were strictly forbidden. Violators would face immediate execution by the Xu family’s iron cavalry. Two unfortunate souls had already learned this the hard way. A mere glance exchanged over a meal had escalated into a duel, leaving one severely wounded and the other swaggering off—only to be hunted down and beheaded by local cavalry within the time it took an incense stick to burn. His head was displayed in the market as a grim reminder: in the martial world, especially the once-isolated Beiliang, one should never stare carelessly or act rashly—lest they pay with their lives. Many martial heroes had witnessed the cavalry’s ruthless efficiency firsthand. A renowned expert with exceptional lightness skills had been killed in a single charge by two hundred Beiliang riders. No amount of “water-treading” or “grass-gliding” techniques, nor the physique of a third-rank martial artist, could withstand the disciplined volleys of light crossbows. The cavalry’s coordinated assault—frontal charge, flanking maneuvers, and swift interception—was seamless. Compared to the slapdash skirmishes between government constables and outlaws in the Central Plains, it was like night and day.
By the official road outside the town stood a tea stall. At noon, it bustled with customers enjoying Wudang’s famous calming herbal tea and fragrant spring cakes. The roadside was lined with tall horses resting alongside their owners, and all six or seven greasy tables were occupied by out-of-town patrons, each exuding an air of martial prowess—clearly attendees of the Wudang Conference. Two tables were taken by eight young women with ancient zithers, konghous, and huleis. Another table seated burly, unarmed men whose piercing gazes and imposing postures marked them as accomplished external martial artists. A third table hosted four young men, each carrying a white-poled wooden spear—though seemingly practice weapons, their designs varied: the intricate Crow-Neck Spear, the streamlined Awl Spear, the Shu Brush Spear, and the Dongyue Horse-Splitting Spear. Unless they were mere posers, these four were undoubtedly disciples of prestigious schools.
These tables encircled a central “main table,” where three individuals of varying ages sat: a young woman with a translucent green jade flute at her waist, exuding grace; a middle-aged man with graying temples, carrying two cloth-wrapped bundles of differing lengths; and a shorter, stocky man who, despite his stature, radiated confidence.
The remaining two tables were occupied by outsiders, positioned closer to the road where passing carriages kicked up dust, making it unclear whether patrons were there for tea or dirt.
Just then, a carriage halted nearby, escorted by three riders. The young coachman turned to lift the curtain, revealing an elegantly dressed man in white who squinted at the distant outline of Taoshu. After a brief murmur, he retreated inside, and the coachman dismounted to take the reins from one of the escorts, who then assumed driving duties. The carriage continued toward town, leaving only one escort—a strikingly beautiful but cold-faced young woman with a sword at her waist—behind with the coachman.
The pair, likely servants of a wealthy household, led their horses toward the tea stall. Coincidentally, another young couple returned from a riverside stroll. The woman carried a pipa wrapped in Shu brocade, her delicate lips and petite mouth lending her an air of gentle charm. Her companion, however, was far less appealing—his toad-like face and prematurely aged appearance made him look more like a lecherous villain than a martial hero. As the two pairs approached the stall, the toad-faced man’s beady eyes roved over the sword-bearing escort behind the coachman. Though already “with meat in his bowl,” he clearly craved more, eyeing the “meat in the pot.” But with his fair companion present, he restrained his unsavory impulses and refrained from accosting the woman. When she shot him a frosty glare, he grinned and raised an eyebrow—only to tense as her hand settled on her sword hilt, poised to draw. His amusement grew. *A fiery one!* Normally, he’d relish such a challenge, and he couldn’t resist licking his lips out of habit.
The gesture earned a scornful laugh from the swordswoman. While the toad-faced man remained unfazed, the trio at the central table tensed as if two tigers had crossed paths. The stocky man growled, “Changfeng, come back!”
Simultaneously, the former coachman paused and patted his companion’s shoulder, causing her murderous aura to dissipate instantly.
The toad-faced man sulked as he and his thin-lipped companion joined their elders’ table. Nearby, a group by the road settled their bill and left, allowing the couple to take their seats and order two bowls of calming tea.
The swordswoman murmured, “That ageless woman is Lu Jiejun, sect master of the Piaomiao Peak in Huainan Dao. A second-rank grandmaster with ties to northern qi cultivators, she possesses two Xuan-level divine abilities and maintains good relations with Huishan’s Great Snow Terrace and the Liyang Ministry of Justice. The man who spoke is Feng Zongxi, recorded in Fushui Fang’s intelligence as having lost to Lin Quan, the fist master of Wudi City, in over forty exchanges during the late Yonghui era. The martial world calls him the ‘Divine Fist of the Central Plains,’ ranking among the Sixteen Immortals alongside Lu Jiejun and the Purple Sandalwood Monk. As for the man with the spear bag, judging by his and his disciples’ gear, he’s likely Li Houzhong, the ‘Spear King’ of the Twelve Xiangfu Champions and one of the Four Sages. Fushui Fang has no prior records on him—he’s a recent rising star. Of the three, only Li has real skill.”
Her companion was none other than Xu Fengnian, escorting Bai Yu from Qingcang City to Taoshu. Bai Yu, the White Lotus Scholar, had once crossed verbal swords with the white-robed monk Li Dangxin during the decade-long Dragon-Tiger Mountain Buddhist-Taoist debate. Moreover, news had just arrived that his close friend Qi Xianxia was traveling to Liang with Chai Qingshan of the Dongyue Sword Pool. Thus, Xu Fengnian had no intention of missing this Wudang gathering. Facing away from the table, he nodded. “Though far from Xu Yanbing’s level, he’s likely on par with Han Laoshan—both favor bold, sweeping styles and matured late. He has the potential to become a grandmaster like the ‘Spear Immortal’ Wang Xiu. Against him, your odds aren’t great.”
The woman, a Fushui Fang leader alongside Mi Fengjie, said coolly, “I only know I could definitely kill him.”
Xu Fengnian chuckled. “A life-for-life trade isn’t something to boast about.”
Fan Xiaochai fell silent.
Xu Fengnian glanced at the lone young man in green at a nearby table. “No records on him in Fushui Fang?”
Fan Xiaochai blinked. “None.”
Xu Fengnian explained, “Unlike Qi Jiejie of Tai’an City, Huang Qing of Northern Mang, or Lou Huang of Wudi City—who exude sword energy when facing worthy foes—most accomplished swordsmen prioritize energy over intent. Even when they conceal their prowess, it becomes obvious upon striking. But a rare few are born with innate sword talent—’natural sword embryos.’ Once awakened and blessed with fortune, they can ascend to terrestrial sword immortal status. Throughout history, most sword path leaders were such prodigies.”
Fan Xiaochai studied the unremarkable youth from the corner of her eye. “Him?”
Xu Fengnian nodded. “With so many sword grandmasters gone in recent years, new talents must rise. If Gu Jian or Lu Xuanlang of the Southern Territories were to die suddenly, someone would likely emerge within five or six years.”
Fan Xiaochai gave him a peculiar look. *If you, a blade-wielding grandmaster on the martial roll, were to die, who would inherit your vast fortune? Your disciples Wang Sheng, Yu Dilong, and Lü Yunzhang? Or that Jiang woman, also a sword embryo, helping her ascend to terrestrial immortal status?*
Reading her thoughts, Xu Fengnian glared.
Fan Xiaochai sipped tea with one hand while the other rested on her sword hilt beneath the table. Once delicate fingers now wielded a bloodthirsty blade.
She asked suddenly, “Really not going up the mountain?”
Xu Fengnian shook his head. “Not me. But if you want to join the excitement, you don’t have to follow me to Jubei City. I’ll clear it with Chu Lushan. You should visit Wudang Mountain—such a spectacle may never come again.”
Fan Xiaochai smirked. “No mountain is higher than you.”
Xu Fengnian rolled his eyes. “Flattery won’t work. Even if I die young, I won’t pass my fortune to you.”
Fan Xiaochai shrugged and drank her tea, genuinely calm now.
Then she abruptly gripped her hilt, her killing intent erupting so fiercely even the toad-faced man felt it.
This was Fan Xiaochai’s way—she killed openly, seeking not victory but death.
The young swordsman she couldn’t fathom stood and approached with his tea bowl, sitting unceremoniously across from Xu Fengnian.
Xu Fengnian smiled, unbothered by the intrusion.
The man solemnly declared, “Never thought I’d meet someone as handsome as myself. A pleasure.”
Fan Xiaochai’s lip twitched. She’d met shameless people, but this took the cake.
He turned to her. “Your blade is fine, your technique better, but your momentum… lacking.”
Fan Xiaochai smiled sweetly. “Oh?”
Lifting his bowl like a lecturing scholar, he said, “My hometown produces ‘pressure-hand’ teacups favored by noble ladies. The rim fits snugly in the palm, perfectly weighted. But you—your physique is unremarkable, relying on inherited skills or sect resources to compensate. Forced momentum harms the body. True power flows naturally. You’re like a lightweight woman pretending to swig from a giant bowl—unsustainable.”
Fan Xiaochai deadpanned, “Are you my father?”
He pondered. “No, but I could be your husband.”
Xu Fengnian nearly spat out his tea.
Fan Xiaochai’s smile didn’t waver, but her blade slid an inch from its sheath.
The man, who’d kept his left hand on his knee, suddenly raised it.
A simple gesture, yet it sent chills down the seasoned killer’s spine.
*If my blade leaves its sheath, I die.*
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