The chill gnawed at the pale golden glow, layering upon itself, making Meng Qi feel as if he had returned to his childhood. Every winter, he had to dress in thick, cumbersome clothing, his movements slowing, his agility gone. In a battle between experts, victory or defeat is decided in an instant. Before he could shake off the cold and sluggishness, he saw the punch approaching. He could only retreat—compelled to retreat.
His figure shifted as he moved with the punch, retreating swiftly, while Wu Jizhen, somehow already off the pleasure barge, now stood upon the sea itself, his feet pressing into the blue-black ice, leaving two transparent trails behind him. His fist showed no hesitation, and the distance between them rapidly closed.
As Meng Qi retreated, his inner world transformed, manifesting the radiance of a great sun. Flashes of firelight danced across his skin, melting the chill, easing his sluggishness, resisting the encroaching yin cold.
Only at this point did Meng Qi have the capacity to draw his blade.
Yet, as his right hand reached for the hilt, Wu Jizhen subtly adjusted his punch. The harmonious unity of heaven, earth, man, and blade was instantly invaded, hijacked by an uninvited force that left Meng Qi feeling as though he could not draw his sword—any attempt to do so would invite a thunderous counterattack.
Wu Jizhen’s inner world had become like a separate realm. This punch carried an entire “world” with it, making it nearly impossible to face head-on.
Meng Qi opened the acupoints across his body, attempting to connect with the heavens and earth, striving to draw his sword. But Wu Jizhen’s punch shifted accordingly, elusive and unpredictable. The heavenly and earthly forces transformed once more, layers of cold condensing into invisible, unbreakable ice, severing Meng Qi’s connection to the cosmos.
He kept shifting, deploying one wondrous technique after another, but Wu Jizhen’s punch always anticipated his moves, seizing control of the vital energies, forcing Meng Qi to abandon his attempts midway. Again, he could only retreat—compelled to retreat.
All illusions and realities were within his opponent’s grasp! Meng Qi took a deep breath, abandoning all illusions and concealment. His primordial form sat in meditation as his inner world descended into chaos—no longer distinguishing between illusion and reality, existence and nothingness.
Initially, since their agreement was for ten exchanges without intent to kill, Meng Qi had no desire to reveal the unique nature of his “Indestructible Primordial Form” domain. He had intended to rely purely on the path of sword and blade. Yet, under the “moonlight,” he had no secrets left. Without manifesting the Primordial Domain, this chaotic, formless state, he likely couldn’t even endure a single strike.
As the chaos emerged, Wu Jizhen’s punch wavered slightly, losing its absolute certainty. Meng Qi seized the moment. His long blade unsheathed, carving half a Taiji circle, striking sideways at Wu Jizhen’s punch, avoiding the direct force, redirecting immense power with minimal effort.
Wu Jizhen flicked his wrist, the punch dispersing like a snake handler’s fluid motion, shifting deftly to grasp Meng Qi’s blade. Heavy claw shadows coalesced, like mirages amidst the falling snow.
Meng Qi flicked his blade upward, slipping free of the claw shadows. Yet Wu Jizhen’s transitions between palm, finger, fist, and claw were relentless, never lagging behind Meng Qi’s blade techniques. The blade and bare hand danced like a pair of butterflies, weaving a breathtaking, graceful spectacle—lightning and snowflakes soaring together, the icy sea and thunder flashing in unison.
Dozens of miles of ocean solidified into ice, extending unknown fathoms downward, while thunder crackled in the sky, competing with the moon’s brilliance.
After several exchanges, neither blade nor hand had yet clashed directly. Then, Wu Jizhen’s left hand, which had remained behind his back the entire time, suddenly shot forth.
Instantly, Meng Qi felt snowflakes drifting into nothingness, the distant sea vanishing, the high floating clouds vanishing—everything vanishing. Only a desolate, empty snowy expanse remained, evoking the sorrowful solitude of “gazing into the endless sky, shedding tears alone.”
Wu Jizhen stood proudly within this world, as if its sovereign. His punch and claw filled every space, leaving Meng Qi nowhere to evade. Every direction felt solid, offering no illusions to exploit. It seemed only one choice remained—endure the blow directly.
Meng Qi inhaled deeply. His body suddenly expanded, emulating heaven and earth. Lightning danced along his blade, “Heaven’s Wound,” converging at the tip. A vortex-like pinpoint emerged, crackling and rumbling as if a thunder god descended to punish the heavens. With an overwhelming, domineering blade force, he met the punch and claw head-on.
Just before impact, Meng Qi’s blade light abruptly scattered. The sky became a sea of violet and indigo lightning, flickering and flashing, concealing the blade, confusing the fists and claws.
The “sea” parted. The blade light surged forth like a carp leaping through the dragon’s gate, piercing through the punch and claw with thunderous brilliance, aiming directly at Wu Jizhen’s face.
Wu Jizhen bent his elbows inward, layers of cold condensing into deep blue ice, inexhaustible and delaying Meng Qi’s blade, forcing him to shift tactics.
Then, Wu Jizhen’s right hand swept back, fingers splayed like a blooming plum blossom, brushing Meng Qi with graceful elegance, evoking infinite beauty.
The icy silence, the monotonous desolation, contrasted with the “vibrant” plum blossom, expressing the intensity of life.
This brush embodied the terror of death and the splendor of life, carrying reflections on life’s passion and death’s contemplation. It shifted unpredictably, making Meng Qi feel utterly defenseless. His blade and martial techniques seemed riddled with gaps, like using a net with holes the size of bowls to catch fish as thick as fingers, offering an open path to his opponent.
Meng Qi retreated again, swiftly, slicing his blade forward—dividing one into two, two into four, four into eight, none stronger or weaker, none thicker or thinner—forming an inescapable net, attempting to neutralize the brush stroke layer by layer.
Clang! The vibrancy of life could not withstand the silence of ice. Wu Jizhen’s brush stroke caused the layered blade lights to strangely recede, striking precisely at the blade’s back.
A piercing chill surged forth. The violet lightning dancing across “Heaven’s Wound” froze into ice. Meng Qi’s fingers flickered with pale gold, frozen to the hilt, unable to resist the cold.
Meng Qi’s expression shifted. He shook his right hand, severing it at the wrist, removing the cold’s anchor. His left hand grasped the Jade-Cutting Blade. His figure moved swiftly, launching four consecutive strikes from all directions before Wu Jizhen could react—some swift, some heavy, some soft, some fierce. He poured his entire cultivation and understanding into these four strikes: splitting the heavens, summoning thunder, drifting with ethereal clarity, bearing crushing weight. And since it was his left hand, the strikes carried an unpredictable, offbeat quality.
Wu Jizhen clasped his hands, as if forming a seal, releasing icy essence from within, swallowing all four blade strikes into a blinding white expanse.
Suddenly, Meng Qi withdrew his long blade—contradicting logic—and seized the pivotal moment, striking once more.
Crack! The white expanse split. The blade struck Wu Jizhen’s body.
Ice shattered. Coldness surged. Wu Jizhen’s body, like a statue of ice, fragmented.
Behind Meng Qi, white mist coalesced. Wu Jizhen reappeared, his right thumb pressed against his index and middle fingers. He sighed deeply, filled with sorrow, gently pointing toward Meng Qi.
This point carried a strange heaviness, condensing infinite sorrow and obsession. Meng Qi’s heart swayed, recalling the malice of the Six Paths, the feeling of fate in another’s hands, remembering Gu Xiaosang’s words about friends and family. His heart grew heavy, struggling painfully, as if bound by countless chains, longing only to draw his blade and sever everything, attaining ultimate freedom and liberation.
No good! Suddenly, a golden Buddha appeared, towering and touching both heaven and earth. Meng Qi regained clarity—just now, he had been manipulated by long-suppressed emotions, creating a grave opening.
“Only I am supreme!” Meng Qi prepared to counter the point, but suddenly, he saw Wu Jizhen’s eyes—filled with longing, passion, and deep contemplation.
Only separation brings such sorrow!
In this moment, Meng Qi felt an inexplicable sensation—Wu Jizhen saw him differently than he saw himself. He could not block this point!
Normally, in battle, one sees only forms, physical bodies, bloodlines, techniques—the application of cosmic power, mastery of laws. But now, Meng Qi believed Wu Jizhen saw something else entirely. Like a flower, Meng Qi saw petals, stamens, roots, soil, pot, sunlight, and veins, seeking its pivot. Wu Jizhen saw vitality, death, intensity, dependence—entirely different “forces.”
Unless he could match Wu Jizhen’s “vision,” he could never understand where this point would strike, nor could he defend.
Meng Qi abandoned all else. His Primordial Form activated the Yin-Yang Seal, shifting yin and yang, circulating life and death, attempting to disrupt. He retreated swiftly, increasing the distance, planning to sever their connection with an area-wide attack.
“Ai.” Wu Jizhen withdrew his hand, not attacking further. Standing on the frozen sea, his expression was filled with desolation.
“There’s no need to continue. You might endure ten strikes, but…” He shook his head, appearing disinterested. “But you lack the heart of martial cultivation. It’s meaningless.”
Hands clasped behind his back, he slowly walked toward the pleasure barge.
“The heart of martial cultivation?” Meng Qi, unprepared for this outcome, asked in astonishment.
How could he possibly lack the heart of martial cultivation?
Wu Jizhen didn’t turn. Calmly, he said, “You have a strong desire to grow stronger, the drive to act upon it, and the pressure of restraint and danger. To ordinary people, this may seem like the heart of martial cultivation. But you lack passion for the martial path, lack the ‘pursuit’ of the Dao. To you, it is merely a tool, a weapon—nothing more.”
He raised his head, gazing at the sky, murmuring, “What is the Great Dao? What is life?”
“How does one transcend life and death, breaking through eternal silence with a fleeting brilliance, comprehending the vastness of heaven and earth…”
“All techniques, all cultivation methods, beyond their appearances, are expressions and pursuits of these very things…”
Meng Qi frowned slightly. Weren’t these matters meant for rational contemplation?
“One cannot understand the beauty of the Dao, the beauty of life and death, the beauty of emotion and hatred without experiencing the world, without pouring in deep feeling, just as one cannot speak of ice to a summer insect…” Wu Jizhen shook his head. “Wait for me at the Three Immortal Isles. From time to time, the Su Nu Sect will have matters requiring my assistance.”
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