A garden-like building stands quietly amidst the bustling East Market Street, where every inch of land is extremely valuable, hidden within the prosperity yet detached from the mundane clamor.
This is the headquarters of the “Wulin Express,” whose rise has astonished everyone, changing people’s daily lives and broadening their horizons.
Most martial artists do not know who the true owner of the “Wulin Express” is, nor can they figure out how its news spreads across the land instantaneously through transmission arrays. Only a few individuals, either immensely powerful or with far-reaching influence, know the name “Shang Jiuming,” aware that he came from a declining sect, accidentally acquired an immortal’s hidden treasures, and suddenly rose to prominence, experiencing an inexplicably smooth path to success, shrouded in mystery.
On East Market Street, the “Faceless Slayer” strolls leisurely, occasionally trying theatrical masks or picking through increasingly affordable goods from all over the country, indistinguishable from any ordinary person.
He has been waiting here for a full three months, simply for the appearance of Shang Jiuming, and he believes he can keep waiting.
Patience is an innate trait of his. Once, he spent three years as a disciple just to learn swordsmanship; another time, he disguised himself as a beggar for nine months to kill a target. Sometimes, even he himself is moved by this extraordinary patience.
In fact, he spotted Shang Jiuming last month, but did not choose to strike because the encounter was too sudden, the distance too great to close beforehand. If he had attacked, the success rate would have been less than fifty percent. Thus, he waited again, without the slightest impatience.
He believes he will definitely seize the next opportunity.
“These prayer beads are really from the South Sea?” the “Faceless Slayer” asked, picking up a string of beads.
As he spoke, his peripheral vision caught sight of a man across from the “Wulin Express” headquarters. The man had a cold demeanor, with a deep scar between his brows, as if his third eye had been opened.
“Gao Fuchen?” The Faceless Slayer was no stranger to famous martial artists.
Gao Fuchen, his sword held behind his back, stared coldly at the entrance of the “Wulin Express” headquarters, scrutinizing the people coming and going, waiting for the appearance of a renowned editor.
Recently, Gao Fuchen had been living in frustration. The fact that the monk “Zhen Ding” could not be found was not important; the real issue was the attitude of newspapers like the “Wulin Express.” He had hired scholars to write articles refuting the absurd claim that the “Startling Sword” was the reincarnation of the Devil Lord, but after submitting them to various newspapers, they vanished without a trace. Although each newspaper ostensibly maintained neutrality by publishing both sides of an argument, the pro-articles were always incoherent, repeating the same few phrases over and over—how could anyone be convinced by that?
Moreover, recent articles had turned increasingly threatening, denouncing dissenters as heretics who deserved execution and public display of their heads, pushing neutral observers to the opposing side. Many people liked to assign origins to powerful martial artists to gain psychological comfort, convincing themselves that it wasn’t their own inadequacy but simply bad luck in birth. The idea that the Startling Sword was the Devil Lord’s reincarnation perfectly aligned with this mentality, gradually gaining traction.
Many of his friends had begun to believe this, lamenting the mysterious power of the Devil Sect’s techniques, which could transform one’s soul into a demonic seed hidden inside another’s body, taking root and sprouting anew, thus achieving transcendence. No wonder the Startling Sword had shocked the world upon his debut, as if he had begun training in his mother’s womb, while people like themselves remained obscure at that age.
So that’s how it is! That’s how it is!
As his fellow martial artists’ perception of the Startling Sword gradually changed, Gao Fuchen struggled in vain to stop it, his heart growing increasingly desolate.
How many kindred spirits remain in this vast world who, like him, still uphold the truth? How many others are there like him, striving to voice their opinions in newspapers but unable to do so?
Gao Fuchen’s gaze toward the entrance of the “Wulin Express” gradually turned sharp. At this point, words are useless—only the sword can argue the point.
If you won’t let me “speak,” then you won’t be allowed to speak either!
Gao Fuchen had always been confident in his sword, even after suffering a crushing defeat at the hands of the “Heartbreaking Palm.” He never wavered—sooner or later, he would unleash the legendary sword strike that would sweep away all evil.
The editors of the “Wulin Express” have forgotten that the most important thing in the martial world is strength. Today, he would make them remember!
Five steps away, and the enemy is as powerful as a nation. Empty words are no match for the sword!
Clatter, clatter, clatter—a simple yet dignified carriage rolled out from the “Wulin Express” headquarters, exuding a quiet nobility. The driver was full of vitality, his eyes concealing sharpness, his every movement graceful and natural.
“A master not much weaker than myself…” Gao Fuchen made a firm judgment.
And the person important enough to have such a master drive his carriage must be a pivotal figure within the “Wulin Express,” perhaps even the mysterious owner himself!
There is nothing more satisfying than defeating a rival of equal strength and then killing the hated enemy! Gao Fuchen’s heart suddenly burned with excitement, as if he had returned to his youth, facing danger for the first time with his sword in hand.
The carriage turned north, and Gao Fuchen began to follow. At that moment, he saw a dazzling, extremely refined sword beam erupt from the hand of an ordinary passerby near the carriage.
Past obscurity only highlights today’s brilliance!
Suddenly, Gao Fuchen felt inferior. He could not have struck such a perfect blow; his sword techniques still had flaws!
Who is this person?
Why have I never heard of him?
The “Faceless Slayer’s” eyes brimmed with deep emotion. This was his most perfect strike, a sword beam that could rival the legendary Nanhai Divine Sword.
The more obscure his past, the brighter his future would shine!
Before the carriage driver could react, the sword pierced through the carriage window, shredding the curtains.
Suddenly, the Faceless Slayer saw a sword—a longsword of ancient design.
It seemed to have been waiting there all along, like the last glow of sunset, overshadowing all brilliance, drawing his wrist forward willingly.
Puh!
Pain shot through him, and his sword flew from his hand. Instinctively, he stepped back, but he saw a meteor—a dreamlike meteor—illuminating his vision, perfectly striking his forehead.
This strike was countless times more beautiful than his own… Again, the Faceless Slayer felt moved. To witness such a sword technique, death would be no regret.
His eyes moistened as he whispered with difficulty:
“What sword technique is that?”
Shang Jiuming held his sword across his knees, his eyes filled with reverence:
“The Startling Sword Technique.”
“So that’s it…” The Faceless Slayer fell backward, his eyes frozen in relief and emotion.
No wonder it was left behind by one who shattered the void…
Gao Fuchen stared at this scene, his entire being as if plunged into an ancient ice cave, growing colder and colder.
Could there truly be such a sword technique in this world? It seemed more like the work of gods or demons!
Faced with such a sword technique, he couldn’t even bring himself to draw his sword!
So this is the Startling Sword Technique?
The owner of the “Wulin Express” clearly inherited the “Startling Sword Technique,” yet why does he defame the Startling Sword? Could he know some hidden truth?
Gao Fuchen stood there in a daze, watching the carriage disappear into the distance. It took him a long while to snap out of it. He felt both dejected and dispirited, while also beginning to harbor doubts and wavering thoughts.
Perhaps I was wrong to persist?
Another month passed, and the fragmented image of the “Sword of Divine Shock” began to merge, evolving towards the direction of the Demon Lord’s reincarnation.
Inside the Divine Sword Puppet, Meng Qi sensed the resonance of heaven and earth. He felt the subtle illusory connection fully take shape, linking his true self with the “image of the Divine Sword of Awe,” bridging the Real World and this realm.
The time has come!
The time has come to transform projected images into imprints!
Around the Divine Sword Puppet, light and shadow suddenly swirled, coalescing into a human figure. Clad in pristine white robes, his demeanor was cold and stern, yet his eyes held a joy untainted by sorrow. In one hand, he cradled the crystal containing the Demon Lord’s essence, while the other firmly grasped the legendary Hundred-Year Shocking Divine Sword.
Shang Jiuming stared dumbfounded at the scene, as if he had anticipated it all along. Then he saw the white-clad swordsman unleash an unparalleled sword light—one that shattered the void, cleaved heaven and earth, calmed the four symbols, and condensed the five elements.
With a single sword strike, the heavens and earth trembled. Meng Qi channeled his divine sense, leveraging resonance to imprint this ethereal image upon the world—like the Pure Land of the Sambhogakaya—becoming part of the very fabric of the laws.
The illusion dissipated, the subtle connections converged, and the brand transformed into a mark. As long as Meng Qi remains alive, as long as this world endures, the legend of the God-Startling Sword shall never fade!
The brilliant sword light faded, and Shang Jiuming saw the motionless wooden puppet of the divine sword. Numerous new sword holes now marked its back, revealing the secrets of the true qi’s flow.
An experience so magical it felt unreal had come to an end, yet nothing could ever return to how it was before… Shang Jiuming let out a long sigh. To protect the life he had now, the most crucial and fundamental thing was still to diligently practice swordsmanship.
……
Kunlun Mountain, Jade Void Palace.
Meng Qi, seated cross-legged on his cloud-like bed, suddenly exuded an ethereal and elusive aura, as if simultaneously existing in other universes.
“Finally managed to leave a mark by the winter solstice. It’s a pity this method won’t work forever—after all, there are too few worlds where legends can be left behind…” Meng Qi opened his eyes and suddenly felt something, lifting his gaze toward the horizon.
Above the East Sea, a magnificent tower ship sailed through the midair, floating upon the undulating sea of energy, existing somewhere between reality and illusion. At the bow stood a woman clad in feathered robes and a starry crown, emanating an oppressive creaking sound that resonated with the surrounding world, as if different realms were colliding.
This is a celestial fairy.
This is the envoy from Jin’ao Island.
Winter has arrived.
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