Two quarters of an hour later, the thousands of soldiers within Huaiyang Pass had indeed all withdrawn, showcasing the disciplined order of the Northern Liang border army and Chen Zhibao’s keen insight into military affairs.
White Fox, who had followed Chu Lushan out of the city last, suddenly turned her horse around, drew the twin blades—Xiudong and Chunlei—from her waist, and hurled them high into the air, sending them flying back into the city.
In that small courtyard, Xu Fengnian descended the steps while Chen Zhibao slowly emerged from the house where the coffin lay, standing on the steps. The tip of his spear, Meizijiu, instantly shifted from green to purple.
Facing Xu Fengnian—a grandmaster who stood nearly unrivaled in the martial world—even though Chen Zhibao, now bearing the fortune of Western Shu, was proud and aloof, he harbored not the slightest underestimation, especially since Xu Fengnian was grievously injured.
Chen Zhibao thrust his spear forward with deceptive simplicity. Contrary to what one might expect, there was no overwhelming, earth-shaking momentum. The purple-tinged Meizijiu pierced through Xu Fengnian’s chest as he slightly turned his body. With a flick of his wrist, the taut spear bent like a bow, rebounding toward Xu Fengnian’s chest—this was the “Arc” technique from Spear Immortal Wang Xiu’s four-word principles. Xu Fengnian gently pressed his palm against the arc’s apex, but instead of deflecting the spear, it erupted with a force akin to a heavenly thunderbolt striking the earth. Xu Fengnian shifted from an open palm to curled fingers, retreating leisurely, tapping away the hidden force of Wang Xiu’s famed “Collapsing Spear” technique.
Suddenly, Xu Fengnian staggered as if struck by a heavy hammer, sliding backward without lifting his feet. He stopped just before his back touched the courtyard wall, the fabric of his robe perhaps a hair’s breadth away.
Swallowing a mouthful of blood, Xu Fengnian flicked his sleeves lightly, suppressing the turbulent energy surging within him. Having suffered a minor setback, he exhaled slowly and gazed at the white-robed King of Shu, who had not pressed his advantage after that single spear thrust. Strangely, Chen Zhibao’s energy flow was unremarkable—only five or six hundred li—far from the effortless seven or eight hundred li of Cao Changqing or Deng Tai’a, let alone Li Chungang’s legendary feat of crossing a thousand li in the Battle of Guangling River, a threshold praised by Lü Zu as the gateway to divinity. In terms of energy flow, Chen Zhibao might even fall short of the currently ascendant Xuan Yuan Qingfeng in the Central Plains’ martial world.
The martial world had long debated the merits of “intent” versus “technique,” but none could deny the importance of sustained energy flow—it was the very foundation of a warrior’s strength.
Yet, despite Chen Zhibao’s seemingly unremarkable energy circulation, he could seamlessly integrate Wang Xiu’s four-word principles into a single spear thrust, achieving effortless mastery with only a fraction of his strength.
Having gained the upper hand in a single move, Chen Zhibao said coolly, “This spear is for the 300,000 iron cavalry of Northern Liang. Those border soldiers whose names are carved in stone did not deserve to die in such humiliation.”
Xu Fengnian ignored the provocation, quietly gathering his momentum.
Having faced Chen Zhibao’s Meizijiu before in the Battle of Guangling River, and with Wang Xiu—the grandmaster who had taught Chen Zhibao—being a native of Northern Liang, Xu Fengnian should have been intimately familiar with the spear’s techniques, especially with Xu Yanbing and Han Laoshan, Wang Xiu’s disciples, serving the Xu family for years. Yet, against Chen Zhibao’s elusive spear, Xu Fengnian always felt inexplicably inadequate, as if his strength fell short despite his superior realm. Unlike his battles against Wang Xianzhi or Tuoba Pusa, where he could unleash his full might, here he struggled to muster even half his strength.
Now, grievously wounded by Tuoba Pusa, Xu Fengnian found it even harder to counter Meizijiu.
Yet, no matter how dire the situation, Xu Fengnian harbored no resentment toward Chen Zhibao’s opportunistic strike.
This mirrored Northern Liang’s plight—with the world’s tides against them, survival demanded pragmatism over righteousness.
As the ancients said, “Do your utmost and leave the rest to fate.” Xu Fengnian believed that whether fate was kind or cruel mattered little—what mattered was giving his all.
Just then, Xiudong and Chunlei descended from the city walls into the courtyard. Xu Fengnian remained unmoved, letting the blades embed themselves in the ground, while Chen Zhibao made no move to intercept them, merely trembling his spear slightly, the purple energy flickering.
Xu Fengnian could not—not would not—retrieve the twin blades.
Chen Zhibao struck again, closing the distance to a spear’s length from Xu Fengnian, who stood by the wall.
Yet, in the next instant, Xu Fengnian appeared motionless, while Chen Zhibao’s swift thrust landed several steps to his left, Meizijiu lightly touching the wall before withdrawing.
A line of blood seeped through a tear in Xu Fengnian’s chest robes.
Frowning, Xu Fengnian noted how fast the spear had been—straight yet shifting mid-thrust to his heart. Even as he returned to his original position, the blunt spearhead had grazed him.
Chen Zhibao slowly retracted Meizijiu.
The quiet courtyard’s gate remained open, a breeze brushing past.
In a corner stood a jujube tree, heavy with fruit—green and red jujubes dangling from its branches.
In Northern Liang, when autumn winds arrived, families would shake the trees for jujubes, a tradition symbolizing fertility for newlywed women.
Suddenly, one jujube detached silently, tumbling through the branches before plummeting to the ground.
Xu Fengnian did something unexpected—he tucked his hands into his sleeves, adopting a stance of surrender, his face pale as he regarded Chen Zhibao.
The unassuming jujube hit the ground and exploded with a bang.
Meizijiu shuddered as if struck by an invisible flying sword.
Thunder fell on earth, its echo in the heavens.
This was the essence of Gu Jian Tang’s secret technique, “Fang Cun Lei”—lightning in a confined space.
Yet the mastery of wielding all things as flying swords, where the heart wills and the sword follows, was the core of the Wu Family Sword Mound’s philosophy.
As the first jujube fell, a rain of fruit followed—some bursting silently, others landing softly.
Ripples erupted around Chen Zhibao, high and low, like pebbles disturbing a tranquil lake, as if a celestial hand had painted lotus blossoms on pristine paper.
Chen Zhibao closed his eyes, gripping Meizijiu tightly. Even as ripples formed inches above his head, he neither dodged nor struck to break the stalemate.
He waited patiently for Xu Fengnian’s killing move, dismissing the dazzling ripples as mere illusions.
To Chen Zhibao’s Meizijiu, no opening was flawless—his counter could pierce even the deadliest strike, be it from Deng Tai’a or another. Thus, in any life-or-death duel, he stood undefeated, let alone against this young prince, whose celestial physique was already waning.
Some ripples formed far from Chen Zhibao, seemingly inconsequential.
When the last jujube fell, Xu Fengnian’s sleeves stirred, and a fleet of delicate flying swords materialized before him, hovering silently.
Simultaneously, the vanished ripples around Chen Zhibao reappeared—large and small, high and low—each birthing a swaying snow-white lotus.
The courtyard bloomed with lotuses, their faint chimes like celestial music.
This was Liu Haoshi’s “Thunder Pool” from Taian City and Wang Chonglou’s “Great Yellow Court” from Wudang.
A thunder pool brimming with lotuses.
In the depths of despair, life flourished.
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