Just as the crowd was about to knock on the door, a middle-aged man in clean, elegant attire but without a sword descended the steps from a suddenly opened side gate. A small red mole adorned his forehead as he clasped his fists apologetically and said, “My sincerest apologies to all of you. Our sect has recently closed its doors to visitors and cannot receive guests. We humbly ask for your understanding, esteemed friends who have traveled so far.”
The man was likely the steward of the Dongyue Sword Pool responsible for receiving guests. His gaze was warm and clear, neither subservient nor arrogant, striking the perfect balance. Naturally, the middle-aged man was also strikingly handsome, and given his undoubtedly profound mastery of the sword, he carried an air of extraordinary grace. The noble demeanor of the Song Clan of the Sword Pool was fully embodied in this single individual.
Wang Fumi and Liu Wanqing immediately wore expressions of deep regret. Ye Geng, whose face could never hide his emotions, grew visibly impatient. The Sword Pool was not just an eminent presence in Haozhou—even in the former Dongyue Kingdom, it had always stood as a transcendent and towering institution. Yet, perhaps precisely because of its proximity, few locals from Dongyue ever made the journey there. On one hand, they assumed that the Sword Pool, with its centuries-old lineage, must be aloof and unwelcoming, fearing they would only invite humiliation by being turned away. On the other hand, the Sword Pool itself truly disliked the pomp and ceremony of hosting guests. Sword practitioners, like mountain ascetics, required deep concentration and tranquility. How could one focus on martial training in a place bustling with crowds? Over time, the Sword Pool saw fewer visitors from Dongyue, with most guests being wandering warriors from afar who came to spar—though in truth, they were merely there to bask in the aura of the Song Clan’s legendary sword immortals. Once they left the Sword Pool’s gates, they could boast of being its honored guests, earning them no small measure of respect.
These “techniques” that had nothing to do with swordsmanship—whether used or not, used poorly or masterfully—could make all the difference in the world.
Feng Zongxi, the renowned “Divine Fist” of the Central Plains, was undoubtedly a grandmaster of this art, having refined it to perfection, akin to the realm of an earthly immortal.
Wei Gaowei, a disciple of Feng Zongxi’s lineage, had yet to reach the heights of his master’s direct disciples.
Wang Fumi found himself in the most awkward position. When he heard his benefactor, Brother Xu, intended to visit the Sword Pool, he, as a quasi-host, thought that since he couldn’t repay a drop of kindness with a flood, he could at least offer a drop in return for a flood. He never imagined this “flattery” would backfire spectacularly. Given his modest family background in Fulong County, he had no means to make the Sword Pool break its rules and open its doors for guests.
Wang Fumi could only pin his hopes on Wei Gaowei, who had boasted of knowing the Sword Pool’s Sect Master Li.
Wei Gaowei not only didn’t falter but also strode forward with confidence, clasping his fists in return and saying, “Esteemed sir, this humble one is Wei Gaowei. I once had the honor of fighting side by side with Sect Master Li on Pipa Mountain. I hope you might inform him of my presence.”
The refined steward pondered briefly, showing no trace of impatience, and nodded with a smile. “Very well. I shall report to the sect master at once. Please wait a moment, Young Master Wei and everyone.”
Xu Baozhao watched the middle-aged man’s retreating figure and whispered to Xu Fengnian, “Such impeccable manners. That kind of noble bearing can’t be faked. I think he could even serve as a steward in a governor’s or even a provincial inspector’s residence.”
Xu Fengnian chuckled but kept his thoughts to himself.
The middle-aged man, though unarmed, was a genuine martial arts grandmaster, just a hair’s breadth from the first-rank realm. This was likely why he hadn’t announced his name—doing so would have been too intimidating. With his grandmaster-level cultivation, not even the princes of Liyang could afford such extravagance as employing him as a steward.
If one were to nitpick, such individuals did exist—but they were now relics of the past.
At this thought, Xu Fengnian smirked self-deprecatingly, recalling Qingliang Mountain and the Listening Tide Pavilion, and the steward named Song Yu.
Xu Fengnian was puzzled. Unusual occurrences often hinted at hidden schemes. Why was the Dongyue Sword Pool making such a grand display, even going so far as to station a genuine sword grandmaster at its gates?
Had enemies come knocking?
The Southern Dragon Palace, backed by the entire Ministry of Justice in the capital? Had Lin Hongyuan, with nothing better to do, decided to emulate the Purple Robe of Huishan?
Or perhaps the long-feuding Wu Family Sword Mausoleum? But hadn’t the temperamental Sword Crown and Sword Servant already caused trouble?
Xu Fengnian found it hard to imagine any other sect or faction in Liyang capable of making the Dongyue Sword Pool so wary.
Or was it some obscure grandmaster who had spent years in hiding, nursing a grudge against the Song Clan, now emerging to take advantage of the Sword Pool’s weakened state?
Originally planning to leave immediately, Xu Fengnian decided to wait and observe. He wanted to see who was stirring the waters.
What happened next took everyone by surprise—even Xu Fengnian was startled. The Sword Pool’s leader, Li Yibai, appeared in person, and he recognized Wei Gaowei at first glance. The dashing young sect master smiled and said, “It’s been years since we parted on Pipa Mountain, Brother Wei. You remain as spirited as ever.”
Even with a face as thick as a city wall, Wei Gaowei flushed slightly at this. During the battle between the righteous and the wicked on Pipa Mountain, most of the righteous fighters were esteemed sect leaders or elders, yet the outcome was far from glorious. The remnants of the Zhulou Mountain faction, though outnumbered, dealt the righteous heroes a bloody and painful lesson. The details were hushed up afterward. Wei Gaowei had stumbled into the fray by accident, contributing nothing—nor did he have the skill to meddle in those celestial-level clashes. In the end, the young wanderer had merely become a familiar face—and an unwelcome one at that. During the chaos, he failed to wound a single heretic but was instead taken hostage, causing a revered elder from Jiuhua Mountain’s Daoist sect to suffer serious injuries. Though the benevolent and immortal-like elder bore no grudge, many straightforward heroes were less forgiving. With the battle ending in defeat, Wei Gaowei had no choice but to slink away from Pipa Mountain in disgrace.
Wei Gaowei had intended to use the Pipa Mountain encounter as a bold claim, confident that the young sect master would never expose the truth. Given Li Yibai’s near-flawless reputation and his upbringing in a Jiangnan noble family, even if he saw through Wei Gaowei’s scheme, he would likely let it slide with a smile—a gentleman always helps others fulfill their wishes. He could simply cite a busy schedule, sparing the Sword Pool the trouble of hosting guests and Wei Gaowei the humiliation of groveling. A win-win for all.
But Li Yibai’s genuine warmth caught him off guard.
The young sect master truly lived up to the “white” in his name—dressed in white robes with a jade belt, his sword scabbard as pale as frost. Whether viewed from afar or up close, he seemed otherworldly.
Then came two men who bore a striking resemblance, though one was clearly a generation older. The elder was the refined “steward” with the forehead mole, whose mere presence was enough to put others at ease.
The younger, somewhere between adolescence and adulthood, resembled a half-unsheathed famous sword—radiant and sharp-edged.
The steward suddenly smiled and said, “Sect Master, since I happen to be free, why not let me guide them through the Sword Pool and find them a place to rest and enjoy the scenery? Our guests have traveled far—it wouldn’t do for the Sword Pool to deny them even a cup of tea.”
Li Yibai considered this and nodded with a smile. “As you wish, Second Uncle.”
Song Tinglu’s gaze swept over the group, and he seemed deeply disappointed, quickly losing interest.
Liu Wanqing and the others felt immensely honored, while Ye Geng clenched his fists in excitement, unable to contain his joy.
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