The Heavenly Gate swings wide open!
Faintly, celestial maidens scatter flowers; indistinctly, ethereal chants linger in the air. The immortal bells and chimes resound endlessly.
Naturally, this grand display is meant to forcefully “recruit” the elderly Zhang, the founding patriarch of Confucianism.
This spectacle resembles the grand opening of a noble household’s ceremonial gates, welcoming an esteemed guest.
At this critical moment, the old man, his sleeves billowing, still finds the leisure to turn his head and smile at the young prince: “This old body of mine, buried in the earth for centuries, can’t withstand such rough treatment from you!”
Then, shifting his gaze eastward, he bursts into laughter: “You, the so-called ‘Peach Blossom Sword God,’ are truly petty. As a junior in the martial world, you show no respect for your elders. Holding no grudges overnight—you seek vengeance the very same evening?”
Xu Fengnian’s expression darkens. Deng Tai’a, wielding over two hundred thousand flying swords from the Wu Family Sword Mausoleum, charges toward Beiliang in a mighty procession. Unlike Qi Jiejie’s previous approach—where the swords arrived after the man—Deng Tai’a must expend an unimaginable amount of energy to make the swords precede him.
Even though Deng Tai’a is hailed as the foremost killer of the era, the unparalleled master of the Zhixuan realm, and the greatest swordsman in a millennium, commanding the entire ancient arsenal of the Sword Mausoleum at once is a feat Xu Fengnian knows must be excruciatingly difficult.
The more this is so, the heavier Xu Fengnian’s burden becomes.
Especially when the old man before him appears so composed—hardly someone struggling on death’s door.
The Zhang Sage slowly withdraws his gaze and fixes it back on Xu Fengnian, leisurely remarking, “Young man, let me offer you a piece of advice: ‘Deep affection shortens life; extreme wisdom invites harm.’ You embody both—hardly a recipe for a peaceful end. In life, one must learn to muddle through, to embrace ignorance when necessary. Only then can one find ease.”
The swarm of flying swords, originating from the Sword Mausoleum, blankets the sky like an unbroken mountain range, blotting out the moonlight.
Xu Fengnian no longer conceals the rapid circulation of his qi, his spirit soaring to its peak. Like a lone candle burning in eternal night, he draws the moths to the flame.
Faced with Xu Fengnian’s resolute determination, a flicker of complexity passes through the old man’s eyes. Gone is his mockery of the young prince. He doesn’t even glance at the Heavenly Gate, which to him is no different from a dragon’s den or a tiger’s lair. Instead, he lowers his gaze to the ground beneath his feet, where the bluestone slabs crack like a spider’s web.
Raising his head, the old man turns his back to Xu Fengnian and says calmly, “They say scholars need not leave their homes to know the world’s affairs. I’ve long heard of your battle with Wang Xianzhi. That Jiang woman’s attempt to force Wang Xianzhi through the Heavenly Gate with her sword—how could such a trick send me to the celestial court? Moreover…”
The old man, his temples fluttering wildly, suddenly turns his head, his gaze icy as he emphasizes, “Moreover, if Lü Dongbin could pass through the Heavenly Gate and return, why couldn’t I? It’s not that I can’t—it’s that I won’t!”
The old man pivots, now facing the young man with his back to the Heavenly Gate. “Trees wither, men exhaust their strength! Today, I’ll show you that even if you, Xu Fengnian, command invincible cavalry and rank among the world’s top martial masters, there are times when you must bow to fate!”
A fierce wind buffets Xu Fengnian’s face, yet he smiles carefreely. “Do you know that later generations mocked you as ‘one who persists in the impossible’?”
Xu Fengnian continues, “And do you know that the Confucian sage second only to you once said, ‘Though ten thousand stand against me, I shall go’?”
The old man’s expression remains placid. “Both are noble words—far better than your ‘stray dog’ remark.”
Xu Fengnian locks eyes with the Zhang Sage. “To aspire, even if unattainable, is still worthy of aspiration. In his later years, Xu Xiao once confided in me: though he never warmed to scholars, he couldn’t help but admire those early days when they strode into court, jade pendants chiming at their waists, brimming with vigor. It was a sight to behold, a sound to cherish.”
Finally, the old man asks, “‘All things cry out when unjustly oppressed’—this saying encapsulates the truth. So, Xu Fengnian, do you have any last words for this world?”
The sealing talisman on the Liang blade has already dissipated. Xu Fengnian re-sheathes the sixth-generation Xu family blade. “Countless heroes have died for Beiliang. Every household wears mourning white. Most left no last words—mine won’t be missed.”
The old man shakes his head. “That’s only because you haven’t truly despaired yet.”
Unfazed, Xu Fengnian raises a hand, as if grasping something.
The Zhang Sage sneers. “Deng Tai’a’s flying swords are formidable, but they must reach Wudang Mountain first!”
The old man also raises his arm and presses downward. “Swords—fall!”
The first wave of swords, already nearing Youzhou in Beiliang, plunges into the earth like spent arrows.
At the border of Youzhou and Hezhou, an awe-inspiring scene unfolds: under the slanting wind and rain, the flying swords arc downward, embedding themselves in mountains, rivers, fields, and deserts—like snow settling in all the desolate places.
The young man guiding the swords to Beiliang now has a crimson thread of blood seeping from his brow.
Yet this blizzard of swords inches ever closer to Wudang Mountain. The latest wave lands less than a hundred li from the Great Lotus Peak.
Blood now streams from the young prince’s ears, nose, and mouth.
After pressing his palm downward, the Zhang Sage, once immovable, slides back a step—closer to the Heavenly Gate.
When a thousand swords land on Green Bamboo Peak to the right of Great Lotus Peak,
the young man’s eyes begin to bleed.
His face is now a mask of congealed blood.
When one last rusted, nameless ancient sword plunges into the abyss beyond Great Lotus Peak,
Xu Fengnian’s features are no longer recognizable.
Yet that sword, *Man Jia Xue*, is the final one of the two hundred thousand from the Wu Family Sword Mausoleum.
The Zhang Sage, though seemingly backed against the Heavenly Gate, remains with both feet planted firmly outside its threshold.
A single step separates heaven and earth—celestial court from mortal realm.
The old man glances down at the three-foot sword *Man Jia Xue* and lightly presses his free left hand against it.
The bloodied young man twitches the corner of his mouth.
Though the old man doesn’t look at him, he seems to divine the truth. “I know you have one last sword. But no matter how you scheme, you’d never guess that while you could borrow that sword anywhere else in Beiliang’s four provinces, here on Wudang Mountain—the Daoist sanctuary, the northern ancestral seat of Taoism since the Great Qin—your connection to the Xu family’s celestial resonance is weakest. Had we been beyond Liangzhou’s borders or at Hulu Pass in Youzhou, not only would I have failed to stop you from wielding Deng Tai’a’s final sword, you might have already hurled me through the Heavenly Gate.”
The old man bends slightly, patting the sword’s hilt. “You and that *Tai’a Sword*—two of a kind.”
A streak of rainbow light, like a comet, streaks from west to east, crashing straight toward Great Lotus Peak.
Yet it strikes an invisible barrier,
sparking dazzling flares of light, magnificent and resplendent.
The ancient sword cannot advance an inch, wailing in despair.
The old man closes his eyes, as if listening to its lament. “Literature prizes sorrow without injury, yet the battlefield says the grieving army prevails. Which is right?”
He answers himself: “Scholars exhaust their spirits writing, but how many truly pour their hearts into it? War, however, demands lives—it’s unnatural if none are lost.”
The Confucian patriarch finally gazes at the young man.
He slowly closes his eyes.
His face, obscured by blood, reveals nothing—no pain, sorrow, regret, relief, or anything else.
Expending Beiliang’s fortune might save him, but it would surely lose the war against the Northern Desert.
Still unwilling?
Another case of “not can’t, but won’t”?
The Zhang Sage, who tonight suppressed two top martial masters on Wudang Mountain, throws back his head and laughs—a laugh tinged with desolation, grief, joy, and a tumult of emotions.
Suddenly, he roars at the sky: “We scholars, starting with me, Zhang Fuli, nurture noble qi but never seek immortality! To hell with your heavenly cycles! For eight hundred years, I’ve guarded the mortal realm, watching you immortals meddle for eight centuries. Now you dare ask for more?!”
The Heavenly Gate shatters with a thunderous crash!
Ignoring the cataclysm behind him, the old man steps forward, glaring at the young prince. “Xu Fengnian, answer me! Have you seen it all?—the new grain drying under the sun, the well-sweep hanging high, the fisherman in his straw cloak, the farmer with his hoe, the woman picking mulberries, the child herding cattle, the old woman pounding clothes! The clang of armor, swords sharp as frost, war drums like thunder, cavalry charging, arrows like rain, beacon fires raging, corpses strewn across the fields! Have you witnessed all the facets of this world?!”
The blood-drenched young man stands motionless.
At life’s brink, one’s true nature is laid bare.
In dire straits, character is tested.
But has this Xu fellow truly died?
Surely not!
For the first time, the old man shows a flicker of panic. He darts forward, pressing his thumb against the prince’s philtrum, muttering, “His qi is still strong—why is he unresponsive?”
The next instant, the sage of humanity is sent flying by a kick from the young man.
The old man crashes to the ground but doesn’t rise, sitting dazed as if still processing what happened.
The young man also collapses onto his backside, hands on his knees, weakly opening his eyes. “Damn you, old man.”
The old man clutches his stomach, roaring with laughter.
Xu Fengnian has no idea what this madman is thinking or what he truly wants.
Gasping for breath—and spitting blood—he finds himself oddly refreshed despite the agony, as if unshackled from a great burden.
That kick, especially, was immensely satisfying.
The Zhang Sage brushes off dust and points at his own nose. “Impressed by this scholar?”
The young prince, too weak to speak, merely mouths a word.
Likely, “Scram.”
The old man snorts. “Even Lü Dongbin once sought my counsel!”
The young man points at his own nose, then weakly waves a dismissive hand.
The old man’s face darkens.
Before the Great Qin unified the realm, the Zhang Sage once toured the states with his disciples—only to be barred from Qin.
The old man chuckles ruefully. “A gentleman’s revenge waits ten years… though eight centuries is a bit excessive.”
Regaining some strength, the battered Xu Fengnian whispers, “Besides settling grudges, what else?”
The old man straightens, solemn. “Before you and Li Yufu sever the tie between heaven and man, I’ll bear the celestial backlash for you both. Otherwise, while Li Yufu may endure his seclusion, you, Xu Fengnian, would never fend off the Northern Desert in peace. Do you think the immortals would idly watch your defiance? They might well usher the northern barbarians into the Central Plains!”
Xu Fengnian shoots him a sidelong glance, then lowers his eyelids.
The old man fumes. “You little brat! Don’t act smug after getting the better deal! I’ve cleared your meridian blockages—you of all people know how hard that is! It’s like Zhang Julu reforming the empire’s grain transport!”
Xu Fengnian ignores him.
The old man takes a deep breath. “Xu Fengnian, must we cheapen this grand endeavor into a petty transaction? How unbecoming!”
Xu Fengnian shuts his eyes.
Unaccustomed to such “negotiations,” the sage finds himself at a loss despite his vast wisdom.
Yet the fate of humanity is his sole vulnerability—the Achilles’ heel of this Confucian paragon.
A long silence follows.
Finally, Xu Fengnian opens his eyes and clasps his fists in salute.
The old man accepts it with dignity.
Staggering to his feet, Xu Fengnian murmurs, “How about a bonus—help with the grain shipment to Beiliang?”
The old man nearly refuses, then recalls something and smirks. “That’s no small favor. But if you ensure that Deng fellow behaves, I’ll try—no promises.”
Xu Fengnian waves a hand. “No one, not even I, can stop Deng Tai’a wielding the *Tai’a Sword*.”
The old man stamps his foot. “Quick, hide that sword!”
As he speaks, the *Tai’a Sword* already flies back.
Xu Fengnian, somewhat amused, limps toward him.
The old man smiles and turns toward the mountain’s base.
Side by side, they gaze into the distance.
The old man points. “Huang Longshi once rambled about the strange world a millennium hence. It both comforts and unsettles me—leaves me torn.”
Xu Fengnian murmurs, “Consider this, Master: compared to eight centuries ago, hasn’t the world improved somewhat?”
The old man nods. “Some things better, some worse—but on balance, yes.”
Another silence.
The old man suddenly says, “I likely won’t live to see Deng Tai’a return. Tell him this: judged purely by swordsmanship—not the sword’s path—he is history’s greatest.”
Xu Fengnian replies, “I will.”
The old man’s form grows faint as he peers into the distance, whispering, “Then let me glimpse this world one last time.”
Xu Fengnian asks softly, “Any final words, Master?”
The old man ponders. “Yes.”
Xu Fengnian solemnly says, “Speak.”
The old man calmly says, “Shut up.”
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