This earth-shaking, heaven-startling battle between immortals was truly no small commotion. Nearly everyone on Wudang Mountain, except perhaps the wife of a certain white-robed monk who continued to snore thunderously, had risen from their beds in haste. Yet without exception, none dared approach the spectacle to gawk up close.
The legendary duel between Li Chungang and Wang Xianzhi at the Martial Emperor City, the chaotic clashes of the three grandmasters—Xu Fengnian, Deng Tai’a, and Cao Changqing—in Tai’an City, and later Cao Changqing’s solo siege of the city, along with other near-peerless martial events, had all taught the martial world a bloody lesson: unless one stood at that pinnacle, it was best not to meddle, lest they become collateral damage. To presume to critique the techniques of those ranked on the Martial Rankings was as difficult as scaling the heavens.
True top-tier martial masters, when locked in life-and-death struggles, would never grant small fry the chance to cheer or gasp from the sidelines.
The white-robed monk, now without his string of prayer beads, sat quietly on a bench in front of his thatched hut, gazing up at the moon.
A woman, also clad in white and towering in stature, appeared before him.
The monk did not look at her, merely murmuring softly, *”The heart burdened by attachments is called suffering by the world. Only you and I find joy in it.”*
The leader of the world’s Qi Refiners nodded, then shook her head. *”We are alike, yet not the same.”*
The monk rubbed his bald head and sighed. *”My daughter picked up some nonsense at the foot of the mountain—something about how for women, ten years of cultivation earns them Song Yushu, a hundred years Xu Fengnian, and a thousand years Lü Dongbin.”*
The woman, a century old yet with the face of youth, whispered sorrowfully, *”He doesn’t understand.”*
The monk sighed. *”Worse, he feigns ignorance.”*
Suppressing her emotions, she turned to him. *”Regardless, as a Qi Refiner, I must follow my heart.”*
The monk merely said, *”Oh. Then I shan’t offer you tea.”*
She asked, *”Is that all?”*
Just then, a young girl’s crisp voice rang out: *”Mother! Wake up! Father is sneaking around meeting his old flame again!”*
The monk’s face paled. He leapt to his feet. *”Sect Master Tantai, don’t leave yet! Help me explain!”*
But the woman, who concerned herself only with upholding heaven’s will, paid no heed to such trivial domestic squabbles. In a flash, she was gone.
The monk turned stiffly to see his gleeful daughter, his drowsy, dim-witted disciple, and his furious wife charging out of the house with a cleaver.
Inspiration struck. He declared solemnly, *”That woman is over a hundred years old! She’s not even of our generation!”*
His wife paused. *”That old?”*
The monk nodded vigorously.
She rolled her eyes and turned away. *”I’m still in my prime—at worst, a fading beauty with lingering charm. Why would I compete with a centenarian?”*
Wiping his brow in relief, the monk glared at his daughter.
She stuck out her tongue. *”Mother pulled my ear so hard earlier, it still hurts!”*
The monk retorted, *”And whose fault was it for telling her about my secret savings? Serves you right!”*
The girl blinked. Just as the monk thought she might show remorse, she suddenly shouted, *”Mother! That woman may be old, but she looks younger than you!”*
From inside the house came a roar fiercer than a Buddhist lion’s roar: *”WHAT?!”*
The monk looked up at the moon, resigned. *Not even the Buddha can save me now.*
Indeed, the Buddha seemed unwilling to save this monk who drank wine, ate meat, and took a wife. But his dim-witted disciple suddenly showed rare wisdom, bravely explaining to his master’s wife until she finally retreated.
Having narrowly escaped death, the monk rubbed his cheeks and cheerfully called his disciple over. *”Nanbei, with the moon bright and our minds clear, I shall impart to you the profound teachings of the Dharma…”*
The young monk sighed. *”Master, really—at your age, you ought to know better. No wonder Mother keeps saying, ‘Flies don’t land on an uncracked egg.'”*
The monk glowered like a wrathful vajra.
But his disciple remained unfazed, reciting solemnly, *”The Buddha said: ‘To act against one’s nature breeds resentment. Observe the five truths to dispel it.'”*
Defeated, the monk could only sigh.
Li Dongxi made a playful pig face and sauntered back inside.
The monk sighed again.
Then Nanbei whispered, *”Master, Dongxi spent the whole night restringing your prayer beads. She didn’t dare light a lamp, fearing Mother would fret over the broken cord and lament life’s impermanence. She worked by moonlight.”*
The monk beamed. *”Of course—she’s my daughter!”*
In high spirits, he chuckled. *”Disciple, let’s resume the Dharma lesson.”*
The young monk, though youthful, had long been recognized as a Tripitaka Master of Liangchan Temple, a true enlightened monk by any measure.
But suddenly, he blushed and whispered, *”Master, perhaps the Dharma can wait. Could you lend me those three taels of silver hidden with Daoist Han? I’ll buy Dongxi that rouge from Yanliu Lane tomorrow.”*
The monk flicked his sleeves and strode toward the hut. *”The moonlight tonight is unfit for Dharma teachings!”*
Leaving behind only a sighing young monk.
—
At the foot of Wudang Mountain, the statue of the True Martial Emperor ascended the steps, purple qi swirling around it.
At the summit, two figures stood in confrontation. Xu Fengnian held the Mountain-Sealing Talisman Blade, its edge shimmering with light.
The Zhang Family Sage remained composed, his sleeves fluttering as he chuckled. *”Truly, you refuse to yield until you hit the wall.”*
Xu Fengnian did not charge like thunder. Instead, as if employing the Daoist art of shrinking the earth, he appeared before the Sage in an instant, leaping high and twisting his body to deliver a diagonal slash.
His sleeves billowed like an immortal riding the wind.
The Sage raised a finger, smiling. *”The benevolent find joy in mountains.”*
Xu Fengnian’s blade, laden with crushing force, halted mid-air, unable to touch even the old scholar’s fingertip. Between them lay an insurmountable range of peaks—a hair’s breadth, yet worlds apart.
In mid-air, Xu Fengnian murmured, *”Open the mountain!”*
His intent mirrored Li Chungang’s creed: *”If the mountain won’t come to me, my sword shall cleave it.”* His technique, however, was Sword Nine Huang’s *Six Thousand Li*.
The blade pressed forward—not swiftly, but inexorably.
The Sage, one hand behind his back, seemed reluctant to truly engage the talisman blade housing a dragon. As the tip neared his finger, he frowned and intoned, *”The wise find joy in water!”*
His hidden hand flicked subtly. From the Elephant-Washing Pool halfway up the mountain, a colossal water column, thick as a well, surged toward the summit.
At the same time, the Sage denied Xu Fengnian any chance to retreat, shifting from a single-finger block to a two-finger grip. *”Let’s see if you’re fit to lead the Northern Liang Iron Cavalry!”*
Xu Fengnian, left hand on the blade, remained calm. His right hand rose and struck downward.
Thunder roared in his palm.
*The Immortal’s Touch to Sever Longevity!*
The Sage, who had intended to strike Xu Fengnian’s chest with the water dragon, adjusted its trajectory to meet the descending palm.
Earlier, the old scholar had effortlessly dispersed the Twin Green Serpents with a single palm, his dominance unquestionable.
Xu Fengnian’s counterstrike was no less formidable. Between them, thunderclaps echoed like two cavalry forces clashing head-on—neither yielding an inch.
Moments later, the Elephant-Washing Pool, churned by the Sage’s vast aura, boiled violently, its waters receding by over ten feet.
Both men exhaled sharply, resetting their qi. The water column dissipated. The Sage slid back several steps, while Xu Fengnian landed lightly, blade in hand.
Just then, the True Martial statue reached the summit, lunging at the Sage’s back.
Without turning, the Sage locked eyes with Xu Fengnian, whose brow now gleamed violet-gold. He laughed. *”Let me teach you what Confucian self-cultivation truly means—how the The Aura of Righteousness resonates with heaven and earth!”*
He stamped his foot lightly.
Ordinary martial artists, especially external-style masters, prided themselves on *”inch-force penetrating earth to kill snakes and rats”*—a stomp that could crush creatures deep underground.
But the Sage’s step seemed utterly mundane, like a farmer idly pressing his foot into soil.
Yet as the True Martial statue neared, a colossal clay effigy—tens of feet tall, seated majestically, level with the Great Lotus Peak’s summit—materialized behind the Sage!
This statue, holding a scroll, was far more widely recognized than the Northern Xuanwu Emperor, worshipped only in Northern Liang.
It stood in Zhang family ancestral halls, imperial palaces, Confucian temples, academies—everywhere across Liyang.
The Sage flipped his palm casually and proclaimed, *”The vicissitudes of time, as clear as palm lines!”*
The clay sage behind him swung its scroll at the True Martial statue.
The scroll shattered. The True Martial statue exploded in turn.
Xu Fengnian whispered, *”Rise!”*
From the debris of earth and wood emerged a towering golden-armored figure, hair unbound.
One stood, one sat.
One was the Daoist Demon-Subduing Heavenly Respected, the other the Confucian Sage revered by scholars.
The clash of civil and martial!
The Sage smiled. *”So this is the Heavenly Phenomena realm Gao Shulu spoke of—* Law of Heaven and Earth*? I’m surprised you can sustain this with your dwindling fortune. But it’s just a poor man’s extravagance!”*
His grin widened. *”‘When scholars meet soldiers, reason falls on deaf ears’? What nonsense!”*
The clay sage raised an arm, pointing.
The True Martial figure crossed its fingers into a fist and smashed downward!
The Sage said calmly, *”I too have insights into the Finger Mystic realm to share with the world. Scholars read to serve the realm when prosperous, to guide nations from court; when destitute, to refine themselves, never forgetting their Original Heart.”*
Where the clay sage pointed, pillars of white qi, thick as temple beams, shot forth. The True Martial figure’s arms were pierced repeatedly, riddled with black holes.
By the time its fists struck the clay sage’s head, they were already spent.
Both arms shattered, dissolving into the air.
The clay sage merely swayed slightly, its essence unharmed.
Xu Fengnian’s violet-gold aura faded further, while the Sage’s presence remained unshaken, his clay effigy unscathed.
But what happened next stunned the old scholar.
The armless True Martial figure tilted its head back, planted a foot on the steps, leaned forward—and headbutted the clay sage with all its might!
The entire Wudang Mountain trembled.
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