Imagine during the time when Song Nianqing and Chai Qingshan were in charge, how could such a humiliating disgrace ever occur?
Similarly, the Wu Family Sword Mausoleum, which also lacked an elder grandmaster as its backbone, had the previous generation’s Sword Crown Wu Liuding in seclusion to prove his path to becoming a Sword Immortal, while his sword attendant Cui Hua’s reputation was at its zenith. Who would dare provoke the Wu Family Sword Mausoleum?
The difference between these two foundational sword sects was immediately apparent.
Clearly, it all came down to the current Sword Pool Sect Master, Li Yibai, being utterly unfit for his role.
Inside Qingmei Fang, after brazenly committing murder, Huang Xiaohe fixed his gaze on He Shanxi, whose eyes were bloodshot, and reprimanded sharply, “Assassinating a court official in broad daylight—does the Song Clan of Sword Pool wish to be exterminated?!”
Outside Qingmei Fang, the “assassin” who had already fallen seemed to have an “accomplice.” She knelt on one knee, gently extending her hand to close the unseeing eyes of her fallen senior brother.
He Shanxi bit her lip until it bled, then turned and shouted, “Mu Xin! Go back and report this to the Sect Master!”
The woman named Mu Xin was around thirty, more striking in appearance than He Shanxi. Though not a peerless beauty, she was undeniably alluring—tall, curvaceous, with an especially impressive bust, and an innate sensuality. Perhaps it was her overwhelming charm, but no matter how dignified her demeanor, she hardly resembled a swordsman from the Dongyue Sword Pool. Instead, she looked more like the top courtesan from a high-class brothel in Jiangnan.
No one expected this seemingly delicate Sword Pool disciple to be so unyielding. Slowly drawing her sword, she faced the Ministry of Justice expert whose swordsmanship clearly surpassed He Shanxi’s. “From this moment on, I, Mu Xin, am no longer a disciple of Sword Pool! I stand alone, and my life and death are my own responsibility!”
Tragic yet inevitable.
Huang Xiaohe remained expressionless.
He Shanxi roared, “Mu Xin, don’t throw your life away for nothing!”
Mu Xin declared resolutely, “As Senior Sister said, the sword’s path is straight!”
Even the steadfast He Shanxi felt her eyes moisten.
The Dongyue Sword Pool, a massive sect with nearly a thousand disciples divided between the main family and outsiders, had always harbored subtle internal strife—though mostly gentlemanly disputes. The master swordsmiths Zheng Jingde and Zheng Jingyang were pillars among the outsiders, while several septuagenarian elders had long withdrawn from worldly affairs. Below them were figures like He Shanxi, and then Mu Xin and her peers—second-rate swordsmen by jianghu standards, but everyone knew that even a “second-rate” expert in the wider world was nothing to boast about within the Sword Pool.
The martial world had its depths and shallows. Loaches had their domain, and dragons had theirs. Why did the Wu Family dare let each generation’s Sword Crown and attendant roam the world with their blades? The answer was simple: the Wu Family Sword Mausoleum, which assimilated the techniques of countless sword schools, was deep enough. Every pair of Sword Crown and attendant who emerged from its trials possessed the strength to protect themselves.
The young official sneered, “What a grand declaration—’my life and death are my own responsibility.’ If every jianghu rat could just shout ‘I’ve left my sect’ before assassinating a court official and thus wash their hands of consequences, then the courts of Liyang would see officials dying every day, wouldn’t they?”
He smirked, glancing at the voluptuous woman’s chest. “You’re Mu Xin, right? Do you realize that with your words alone, I could drag your entire sect into ruin?”
He Shanxi’s face paled.
Mu Xin replied calmly, “I care only for drawing my sword to right wrongs. If my actions truly implicate the entire Sword Pool…”
He Shanxi bellowed, “Mu Xin, don’t act recklessly! Our Sword Pool is already on shaky ground…”
To everyone’s surprise, Mu Xin—known for her gentle temperament—took a step forward. “Then so be it! For centuries, has any Sword Pool Sect Master or grandmaster ever cowered before false accusations?!”
Two women of the Sword Pool: He Shanxi, with her master-level strength, bore her grievances with silent fury, stirring indignation.
Mu Xin, far inferior in swordsmanship, displayed a stubborn, almost naive resolve that inexplicably inspired.
The young official clicked his tongue in amusement. “Interesting. On my journey south, I’ve met quite a few so-called ‘heroines’ and ‘immortals.’ Most were meek, serving tea like maids—very… accommodating.”
He murmured to himself, “Too accommodating, and thus dull.”
The youth from the empire’s grandest capital circled the wine table and strode leisurely toward Qingmei Fang’s exit, brushing past He Shanxi, Gao Tingquan, and Ye Geng. Crossing the threshold, he was followed by Huang Xiaohe—who could kill with sword aura—two burly men sheathing their military sabers, and the Ministry of Justice official.
As the young man surnamed Liu reached the threshold, Mu Xin rose from her senior brother’s corpse, sword in hand, advancing with steady, fearless steps.
He Shanxi’s gaze was complex as she made one final plea: “Mu Xin, don’t act on impulse!”
Mu Xin looked at her once-admired senior sister, the “Mountain-Carving Sword” He Shanxi. She remembered her first jianghu excursion, led by this very woman. They had roamed proudly, clinking bowls atop wild peaks, crossing rivers in white robes, drawing blades against injustice—what glorious days those were.
Shaking her head, Mu Xin said, “On Wudang Mountain, there was once a sword fanatic named Wang Xiaoping, who intercepted Wang Xianzhi of Wudi City at Guangling River. He said, ‘A man may die, a sword may break, but neither man nor sword shall retreat.’ Though I, Mu Xin, am mediocre and will never reach Master Wang’s heights, his sword’s path… is one I revere!”
Gripping her hilt, she murmured as if to herself, “I revere it all the same.”
Huang Xiaohe showed neither pity nor bloodlust, stating flatly, “If you seek death, then die.”
A light cough broke the tension—untimely.
Huang Xiaohe, who had remained unflappable against the famed He Shanxi and killed with a flick of aura, now felt an unnatural stagnation in his qi flow, like a stream blocked by a boulder. Harmless, yet jarring.
If accidental, fine. If deliberate… then his true opponent had arrived—inside Qingmei Fang.
He Shanxi sensed something amiss; Mu Xin, oblivious, paused, puzzled by Huang Xiaohe’s sudden turn.
Huang Xiaohe spun fully to face a plain-looking man in his thirties, his qi undetectable—the sort who’d blend into a crowd of spectators.
But Huang Xiaohe trusted his instincts.
Though obscure in the Central Plains, Huang Xiaohe was no lightweight in the capital or Liaodong’s martial circles. His senior brother, Zhang Luantai, was renowned as the “World’s Best Left-Handed Sword,” alongside the capital’s top swordsmen like “Sword Sage” Qi Jiajie and Liu Jianzhi—all elite northern masters. Huang Xiaohe, equally gifted, obsessed over “the fastest draw, not the grandest path,” content to linger in obscurity. Only insiders like He Shanxi knew how swift his blade truly was.
Recruited by the Liyang court, Huang Xiaohe had operated covertly in Liaodong and Ji Province, crossing swords with many experts—even slaying two second-tier masters.
In his life, only four figures had made him hesitate to draw his sword: the capital’s gatekeeper Liu Haoshi, the Wu Family’s secretive patriarch, the “Great Scholar” Cao Changqing who once besieged a city alone, and a nameless southerner who once traveled Liaodong with a green-clad child.
Now, Huang Xiaohe stared at the unremarkable drinker, his dantian’s qi boiling, pounding his abdomen like muffled drums.
An ordinary observer would miss the faint ripple in his robes.
The strike would come in an instant.
Yet at that moment, the man sharing the table suddenly stood, gazing at Mu Xin with delighted surprise, his voice tender:
“Immortal Sister?!”
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