That night, Deng Tai’a, reeking of alcohol, strolled leisurely through the narrow alley with his disciple Li Huainian.
Deng Tai’a suddenly spoke, “When buying a pig, look at its pen; when marrying a wife, look at her mother. From what you’ve said, that woman from the Listening Rain Tower clearly isn’t right for you. On the other hand, A’cao is the kind of woman who can truly share a life with you.”
Li Huainian chuckled sheepishly.
Deng Tai’a patted his disciple’s shoulder and said out of the blue, “In this lifetime, your master hasn’t done much for you…”
Li Huainian hesitated, words caught in his throat. Deng Tai’a waved his hand, cutting off whatever his disciple was about to say, and continued, “Whether you want it or not is your business. Your master won’t interfere. Since you’re likely settling down in Western Shu now, your master will do his best to ensure this place doesn’t descend into chaos. Besides, I’ve been meaning to visit Northern Liang anyway. Don’t worry—in today’s world, whether it’s the capital of Liyang or the borderlands of Liang and Mang, as long as your master wants to leave, no one can stop him.”
The young man murmured softly, “Master, if I settle down and start a family, I’m afraid it’ll be hard to roam the martial world with you anymore.”
Deng Tai’a smiled, “From now on, whether there’s business or not, I’ll come to Western Shu often to see you.”
The young man hesitated before asking, “Master, I’m not someone like Xu Fengnian. I haven’t given you a disciple who can live up to your reputation. I’m sorry.”
Deng Tai’a shook his head solemnly, “You’re wrong. Having you as my disciple is already the best.”
The martial world of Liyang has its dashing figures like Cao Changqing and Xu Fengnian, and that’s all well and good.
But for me, Deng Tai’a, having a disciple like you is the best.
If anyone in this world dares to make your life difficult, it’s simple—they’ll have to answer to me, your master.
In Yizhou of Western Shu, the city was still bathed in the laughter of peach blossoms in the spring breeze.
The unremarkable middle-aged man returned, neither with a donkey nor a sword, arriving at the gates of the Sword Rain Tower.
That day, the Sword Rain Tower happened to be hosting a grand banquet. The Deputy Governor of Yizhou had personally brought his beloved son to seek a marriage alliance between their families.
To emphasize the occasion’s importance, Tower Master Zhang Yun gathered all his disciples in the main hall, where they collectively unsheathed their swords, letting them fall like a rain of petals. This spectacle left the Deputy Governor and the matchmaking Vice General of Yizhou, standing at the edge of the plaza, utterly awestruck.
The entire city of Yizhou knew the Deputy Governor had ingratiated himself with the White-Clothed King of Shu. The position of Deputy Governor was already akin to a minor Provincial Governor, and now, having sidelined the native-born Governor, it was only a matter of time before he rightfully claimed the top civil position in Yizhou.
Thus, the wandering swordsman who had stirred up such a storm became the stumbling block to this heaven-made match. No one saw Tower Master Zhang’s beloved daughter and the Deputy Governor’s son as a case of fickle affections—everyone believed it was the outsider swordsman who had overstepped his bounds, a delusional young man dreaming of the impossible.
As the middle-aged man arrived at the Sword Rain Tower’s plaza, he saw Tower Master Zhang Yun swiftly approaching with his wife and daughter to greet the gathering of Yizhou’s elite. Among them stood a stunning young woman, radiant as a flower, beside a handsome nobleman in brocade robes.
Meanwhile, as the Sword Rain Tower celebrated its grand event, a young man roamed the streets with a girl, loudly hawking apricot and peach blossoms—each flower earning him but a single copper coin.
The middle-aged man recalled the end of last night’s heart-to-heart with his disciple in the courtyard. His disciple had pleaded with him not to make trouble with the Sword Rain Tower, and he had nodded in agreement. The disciple, unconvinced, repeated his request, to which he had laughed and said, “If even my disciple can be so magnanimous, how could his master be any less?”
In truth, Deng Tai’a had left something unsaid: this master of his had never been magnanimous with anyone—not with the Wu Family Sword Tomb, nor with the martial world at large.
So, ending up with a disciple who was both meddlesome and soft-hearted was, aside from his achievements in swordsmanship, the greatest trouble—and the greatest pride—of Deng Tai’a’s life.
Deng Tai’a smiled to himself before being stopped once more by the gatekeeper. Upon hearing his intention to challenge the Sword Rain Tower, the old man wore a comically exasperated expression and asked, “If you’re here for a sword duel, then where’s your sword?”
Deng Tai’a offered no reply. In a flash, he vanished and reappeared inside the Sword Rain Tower.
He looked up at the main hall, where a golden plaque hung—inscribed by the late Sword Emperor of Western Shu himself—proclaiming, “The Finest Sword Rain in the Mortal Realm.” The plaque gleamed brilliantly under the spring sun.
The first to notice the sudden appearance of this unassuming middle-aged man were not the Sword Rain Tower’s elite—not the renowned swordmaster Zhang Yun, hailed in Western Shu’s martial circles as one who had mastered the Three Qi, nor the tower’s esteemed elders—but a few bored disciples who had been idly glancing around. These young men, harboring unattainable fantasies about the tower master’s daughter, were painfully aware of the insurmountable gap between themselves and the Deputy Governor’s son. Resigned to the girl’s impending betrothal, they sought to avoid the sight altogether—only to spot the plainly dressed man who carried no sword and exuded no imposing aura. Yet none paid him much heed. After all, while the Sword Rain Tower of Western Shu might not rival the fame of the Eastern Yue Sword Pool or the Southern Border Dragon Palace, it was still the foremost martial institution in the province. Tower Master Zhang Yun ranked among Western Shu’s top ten masters, having been recognized as a prodigious swordsman in his youth by none other than Xie Lingzhen, the previous master of the Spring Scroll Cottage. Though he had yet to break into the first-rank realm, the entire martial world of Western Shu believed Zhang Yun was among the few most likely to ascend to that legendary echelon.
A second-rank master, though bearing the diminutive “minor” title, was more than sufficient to establish a school and command respect within a province of Liyang. Those first-rank figures, akin to celestial beings, were rarely seen and seldom deigned to involve themselves in worldly affairs, making them inaccessible to ordinary martial artists. Thus, the true luminaries of Liyang’s martial world were men like Zhang Yun—tangible, approachable, and frequently seen. Boasting of sharing a drink with the legendary grandmasters of the martial rankings would earn nothing but disbelief. But claiming an encounter with the illustrious Tower Master of the Sword Rain Tower? That would turn heads and sow doubt.
A thunderous crash sent tremors through the hearts of everyone in the Sword Rain Tower.
The plaque bestowed by the late Imperial Uncle of Western Shu split in two and crashed to the ground.
All eyes turned in shock. The plaque, crafted from the finest nanmu wood, was far from fragile, and having hung for merely thirty years, how could it have split so cleanly—as if cleaved by a sword?
As the crowd scanned their surroundings, their gazes eventually settled on the middle-aged man standing with his hands behind his back. Even the second-rank master Zhang Yun could detect no trace of how this unremarkable man could be responsible for destroying such an invaluable treasure.
Zhang Yun, one of Western Shu’s most celebrated masters and a seasoned veteran of the martial world, knew that even with a sword in hand, he couldn’t have unleashed a sword qi from three or four hundred paces away to slice through the plaque.
The arrival of such a figure, no matter how brazen his demeanor, was not something the Sword Rain Tower could handle through sheer numbers.
The Wu Family Sword Tomb had maintained its position among the top three martial sects for centuries precisely because even its youngest disciples were said to wield swords as effortlessly as butterflies flitting through the air—a testament to the extraordinary difficulty of manifesting sword qi.
And to think of a sword qi soaring hundreds of paces without losing its edge, cleanly splitting such a massive plaque?
One of the tower’s elders immediately dashed to the main hall’s entrance for a closer look before rushing back to Zhang Yun’s side, pale-faced, whispering urgently.
Zhang Yun froze as if struck by lightning.
It was indeed the work of sword qi.
And after splitting the plaque, that same sword qi had continued unimpeded, cleaving through the main hall’s structure as well.
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