It was once again the winter solstice, and the city was dressed in silver snow.
Qian Ping’an had his hands tucked into the sleeves of his gray padded jacket, exhaling white vapor as he trudged through the snow-covered streets toward his usual teahouse, the snow crunching beneath his feet.
Today was his employer’s wedding day, so the rice shop had not opened, and he had the day off early. He was looking forward to listening to the storyteller recount the latest wonders reported in the newspapers.
Over the past year, the world had changed dramatically, but to Qian Ping’an, a mere employee at a rice shop, life seemed largely unchanged. The goods from the south that had once been rare and expensive were now increasingly common and cheap. Even his usually frugal employer had acquired a string of southern pearls and had a monk bless them at the temple.
Otherwise, everything remained the same, except that the stories told by the storyteller had become more intriguing. The distant martial arts world, which had once seemed far removed from his life, now felt close at hand. He, who barely knew his neighbors, could now name the greatest martial artists like a connoisseur. In fact, the phrase “like a connoisseur” was one he had learned from the storyteller, making him feel educated and worldly-wise, like a hidden master wandering incognito among the common folk. This was all thanks to something called the newspaper.
These newspapers, transported via teleportation arrays, spread martial arts news far and wide. Chen Xiusheng at the alley entrance said this was what was meant by “knowing the world without leaving one’s home.”
“Recently, the master has been frowning and worrying a lot. He keeps muttering about southern rice being harvested three times a year. Goodness, three times a year! How much grain would that be?” Qian Ping’an mused as he thought about recent events. The price of rice in the capital had dropped three times in a single ten-day period, and his employer had grown a few more gray hairs. In response, he had hurriedly arranged for his son to marry, hoping the good news would lift his spirits.
The young master, however, seemed rather cheerful. Qian often saw him at the teahouse listening to the stories. He always comforted his father, saying that every disadvantage had its advantage, and every strength its weakness. If rice could be harvested three times a year, it must surely be inferior in taste. Eventually, different types of rice would command different prices—some for the poor to fill their stomachs, others for the wealthy to savor. Things wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Qian especially liked hearing this. If the rice shop went out of business, he would have to find another way to make a living.
Lost in thought, Qian Ping’an entered the teahouse. It was much warmer inside, though not as luxuriously heated as a tavern with copper basins burning charcoal. There was no spring-like warmth here—the tea house served cheap tea and couldn’t afford such extravagance. Only someone like Qian, who could get by on just a few coins, would come here for tea and stories.
The only source of heat was the copper brazier beside the storyteller, its red glow casting away the chill.
The storyteller had a goatee. Because he could read and was the first to recount the latest martial arts news from the “Wulin Express” and other newspapers, he was held in high esteem by the local poor. Now sipping a special pot of bamboo-leaf green tea, he swayed his head, closed his eyes, and appeared to hum a tune as he waited for the next story.
Qian Ping’an took a sip of his large bowl of tea, feeling warmth rise through his body as the icy coldness melted away like snow. It was indescribably pleasant.
For someone like him, being able to come here occasionally for tea and stories was already a luxury. If he were married, he probably wouldn’t have the time or money to do so.
Just then, several horses came galloping like a whirlwind, suddenly halting in front of the teahouse. Several men in cloaks, armed with swords and blades, dismounted.
“Waiter, bring five bowls of good tea—hot and strong!” The leader, wearing a fur hat, held a three-foot-long sword inlaid with gold and jade. A scar ran across his brow, making him look like a deity with a third eye.
“Strange eyes and a scar, the scabbard adorned with seven jewels—could this be Gao Fuchen, the ‘Divine-Eyed Sword’ of Yuexi?” Qian Ping’an thought to himself.
Inside the teahouse, some customers had already murmured in recognition, identifying him as the “Divine-Eyed Sword” Gao Fuchen, a top-tier martial artist who had appeared several times in the “Wulin Express.”
Regular listeners of the storyteller were as familiar with him as with their own neighbors.
“The Divine-Eyed Sword who was defeated by ‘Heartbreaking Palm’ Gu Wenxiang?” a tea patron asked skeptically.
“Exactly him! It only took three sword strikes for Gu Wenxiang to send Gao’s Seven-Jewel Sword flying,” someone confirmed.
“Gu Wenxiang is one of the top martial artists in the world, one of the ‘Eastern Palm, Western Blade.’ It’s normal for the Divine-Eyed Sword to lose to him.”
“Of course it’s normal to lose to Gu Wenxiang, but back then Gao was arrogant about his sword skills and challenged him voluntarily. Tsk tsk…” The whispers buzzed like mosquitoes, spreading rapidly as they discussed the battle that had first brought Gao Fuchen into the spotlight in the “Wulin Express.”
Gao Fuchen, a young prodigy and well-known swordsman, had extremely sharp hearing. He had heard every word, and now his blood boiled, his face flushed with shame and anger.
It was one thing to be talked about by fellow martial artists—he had indeed been too arrogant, rashly challenging the Heartbreaking Palm. But now, even ordinary civilians with no martial arts skills were gossiping and mocking him wherever he went. It was utterly humiliating.
He had wanted to become famous across the land, but not like this!
The emergence of the “Wulin Express” had transformed the reputations of martial artists like him in strange ways. In their words, they had become “public figures,” every action as visible as a star in the night sky, drawing the gaze of the entire world. Thus, they had to be even more careful with their image. The more distinctive their style, the more they were revered.
This kind of martial arts world just felt… wrong.
Gao Fuchen was furious, almost wanting to draw his sword and kill these noisy commoners. But if he did something so impulsive, unless he killed them all, a few days later the “Wulin Express” would surely run headlines like:
*”The Divine-Eyed Sword Falls into Madness, Slaughtering the Innocent”
*”Fame’s Burden: Has Gao Fuchen Gone Mad?”
*”Inside the Mind of the Killer Gao Fuchen: What Kind of Martial World and Rules Drove Him to Such Extremes?”
*”At Seven, He Knocked Over a Beggar’s Bowl; at Nine, He Peeped on a Girl Bathing—The Twisted Life of Gao Fuchen…”*
Just thinking about these headlines made Gao Fuchen shudder. It was worse than being hunted across the land. His reputation would be completely ruined. At least being labeled a demonic cult carried some fear and mystery. But this? It would make him a laughingstock, a clown.
And if he tried to retaliate against the “Wulin Express,” just thinking about the mysterious teleportation abilities of its publisher made him hesitate to draw his sword.
In the vast martial world, few could remain indifferent to fame and fortune.
Taking a deep breath, Gao Fuchen chose to ignore the whispers and turned to leave.
At that moment, his companion whispered to him telepathically: “Gao, brother, only those who can endure great praise can also endure great disgrace.”
Gao turned to look at his companion and nodded slightly before stepping forward again, sitting at a table.
This companion, Ren Xiong, was fond of literary pursuits among martial artists and greatly appreciated certain lines from the “Wulin Express,” often quoting them. Some of them were actually quite insightful.
“Don’t be angry. The enemy will laugh,” his companion said again, quoting one of his collected “famous sayings.”
Gao sat quietly, his mind filled with thoughts of the newspapers. This new phenomenon had sprung up like bamboo shoots after rain, appearing everywhere and involving all levels of martial artists. Unlike before, when the “Wulin Express” had limited space and mainly featured the top martial artists, now even those with moderate fame who had done something impactful could not escape coverage. Their reputations spread far and wide.
He had heard that the lord of “Fox Valley Manor” had bribed local newspapers and the editors of the “Wulin Express” to cover up his accidental defeat by his own disciple during a sparring match… Gao couldn’t help but feel envious. Unfortunately, his challenge had been against the “Heartbreaking Palm,” a highly publicized event that no local editor could suppress.
*Bang!*
The storyteller struck the wooden block, snapping the entire room back to attention and silencing all chatter.
“Today’s front page of the ‘Wulin Express’ is a serial story from ancient times—about the Sword that Shocks the Gods. The title is ‘Wandering the World with a Sword.'”
Gao Fuchen perked up. The ‘Wulin Express’ was dedicating its front page to a historical tale?
The Sword that Shocks the Gods was a revered senior he greatly admired, whom he considered the greatest swordsman in history.
Qian Ping’an, however, looked confused. His knowledge of the martial world had only begun in recent months. Knowing the names of today’s famous martial artists was already an achievement. How could he possibly know about the legendary figures of the past?
Most of the tea patrons were like him.
The storyteller’s expression turned solemn as he began:
“Throughout history, only a handful have reached the pinnacle of martial cultivation and shattered the void. The most recent among them were the Sword Emperor and the Sword that Shocks the Gods.”
“The Sword that Shocks the Gods began his martial arts training in childhood, mastered his skills in youth, and later sought enlightenment from nature, catching a glimpse of the Heavenly Dao. He entered the martial world to escort Lu Guan to the capital, defeating the poisonous and erratic, pacifying the Mountain God’s Temple at night, encountering the Evil Sovereign by the river, shaking the capital with his sword, and then discussing the Martial Dao with the Sword Emperor. Realizing that martial cultivation could not be entrusted to others, he renounced wealth and fame, vanishing into the distance. Many years later, he returned to pursue the supreme martial path, reappeared in the martial world, and found no one capable of opposing him. He battled the Sword Emperor atop Sunset Peak, and together, they shattered the void and departed.”
The brief summary left Qian Ping’an and the others deeply moved. This was what a true martial grandmaster should be like. Compared to him, the top martial artists they had known before seemed like ordinary men, lacking the grandeur of a true master.
The storyteller began the main tale: “The Sword that Shocks the Gods left no specific name behind, only the nickname ‘Xiao Meng.’ But once he entered the martial world, his name no longer mattered, for the world would only remember his sword—the Sword that Shocks the Gods.”
“To learn swordsmanship, he endured many hardships and long periods of solitude. Thus, he cherished his body dearly, patiently waiting for the right moment to draw his sword—the moment when a single strike would resound across the world.”
“At that time, both he and his sword were unknown. No one knew what kind of brilliance lay hidden within his scabbard. But when he had gathered enough strength and waited for the right opportunity, he picked up his sword and stepped out from the silence of the ancient mountain temple. The world was stunned. Who was he? Where had he come from? How could he possess such terrifying sword skills?”
Before long, he had become one of the two most famous swordsmen in the martial world.
From obscurity to fame, all it took was one strike of the sword. From then on, no one dared to look him in the eye.
Qian Ping’an had never heard such a story before, nor had he ever known of such a figure. For the next month, whenever he had spare money and time, after the rice shop closed for the day, he would go to the teahouse to listen. If he couldn’t make it, he would chat with familiar tea patrons and hear them retell the story—from “Escorting General Lu for a Thousand Miles, Slaying Six Guardians” to “No One Deserves My Sword” and all the way to the “Battle of Sunset Peak.” He was utterly captivated, longing to have known the Sword that Shocks the Gods and to have witnessed his legendary feats.
“If I had known about the Sword that Shocks the Gods earlier, I would have surely tried my best to learn martial arts…” Qian Ping’an sighed.
This “Chronicle of the Sword that Shocks the Gods” was much more detailed than the scattered fragments from the past. The image of the Sword that Shocks the Gods was now more complete. Although he was somewhat different from the previous “cold swordsman” image, this new portrayal felt more human, more relatable to how a swordsman might live his daily life. Even devoted followers like Gao Fuchen, who had revered the Sword that Shocks the Gods, not only accepted this new image but quickly embraced it, slightly adjusting their previous understanding.
This was the Sword that Shocks the Gods as a real person!
Inside Shang Jiuming’s study, among the wooden effigies of divine swords, Meng Qi used his divine consciousness through this change, through the medium of the wooden effigy, to sense the feedback of heaven and earth and the shifts in connection.
“…I should adjust things in this direction,” Meng Qi thought, having gained new insights.
The next day, when Qian Ping’an entered the teahouse again, the front page of the “Wulin Express” in front of the storyteller had changed to:
*”The Sword is Merciless, But the Man Has Feelings: The Romantic Secrets of the Sword that Shocks the Gods.”*
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