The Eastern Sea’s Martial Emperor City, ever since that young man surnamed Jiang stopped coming here to temper his physique against the tides, had completely lost its backbone. It swiftly transformed from a sacred martial arts destination that everyone yearned for into the most ordinary of cities. Gone was the white-robed old man Wang Xianzhi, who once looked down upon the world; gone was Cao Changqing, who sat alone in the high tower observing battles; gone was Deng Tai’a, who rode his donkey backward while carrying a peach branch; gone was Sui Xiegu, who once suspended a sword above the city and slowly entered; gone were Yu Xinlang, Lin Ya, and others; and most of all, gone was the Northern Liang King who once walked up the city walls with a bowl in hand. A Martial Emperor City without its Martial Emperor became mediocre and dull. Although no official troops had yet stationed themselves in the city, its residents knew it was only a matter of time. Thus, the outlaws who had once sought refuge here from the law, the martial artists hiding from their enemies, and the retired masters who had washed their hands of worldly conflicts—all left this city by the Eastern Sea.
On the tide-battered city walls, a tall figure suddenly appeared.
Not far away, the great tide surged like a thousand charging horses, crashing against the walls and momentarily obscuring the figure.
The next moment, the figure was gone—perhaps swept away by the waves.
But when the tide receded, another figure emerged on the walls. Unlike the fleeting presence before, this man did not vanish immediately. He wore plain clothes, had an unremarkable face covered in stubble, and his boots were slightly worn.
Yet before this unassuming middle-aged man hovered a three-foot sword, trembling faintly like the buzzing of a mosquito.
The travel-worn man halted his sword and glanced around, his sharp gaze making him seem like the most unyielding blade in the world.
A flying sword had traversed a hundred miles—from the Imperial Observatory in Tai’an City to the snowy mountains of Liaodong, then from Liaodong to Liaoxi, back to the capital region, and finally southward to this place.
The man rubbed his chin and muttered, “Xie Guanying, your ability to flee is truly unmatched in the world. But if you have the guts, try running all the way to the Southern Sea.”
After roughly the time it took for an incense stick to burn an inch, the man sneered, “Found you!”
The hovering sentient flying sword, as if obeying a command, vanished before its master, disappearing in a flash.
Not long before this, at a slowly emptying bun shop past mealtime, a child nicknamed “Dog Who Ignores” by a green-robed girl found himself in a staring contest with a shabby, silver-haired scholar. The boy, whose real name was Gou Youfang, glanced up at the penniless man, then down at the last basket of unsold buns that hadn’t earned him any coins. His gaze shifted back and forth between the two. Nearby, his grandfather was already clearing the bowls and chopsticks from the tables. The old man, having spent most of his life scraping by in Martial Emperor City, paid no mind to the scene. Truth be told, in this city, strange people and bizarre incidents were so common that encountering someone normal was the real surprise. The old man had seen too many eccentric customers—those who refused to pay because the buns had too much meat, those who complained the buns weren’t sweet enough, those who tossed their precious swords or knives on the table and stormed off without a penny, those who bragged about tasting countless delicacies while eating cheap buns, those who theatrically pulled out a tattered martial arts manual to barter for a basket of buns, and even those who claimed to be Cao Changqing, Deng Tai’a, or some other big shot to avoid paying. The list went on.
The boy asked, “Want some buns?”
The shabby but clean scholar remained expressionless.
The boy pressed, “No money?”
The scholar just stared at him.
The boy wasn’t the type to kick someone when they were down. Though he had grown up fatherless and motherless, living a frugal life with his grandfather, his upbringing was impeccable. Even though the scholar clearly intended to freeload, the boy refrained from harsh words, merely hesitating over whether to give him the buns. After all, a basket of buns wasn’t a big deal, but he worried the man might latch onto him and his grandfather afterward. He recalled a certain Jiang Fuding, who used to frequent the shop before leaving the city, once mentioning the saying, “A small kindness begets gratitude, but a great one invites resentment.” Just as the boy decided to give the buns away, the scholar suddenly spoke in a hoarse voice, “What’s your name?”
The boy immediately felt annoyed. Ever since he started helping his grandfather, he’d encountered at least eight or ten martial arts enthusiasts who claimed he had extraordinary potential. So, without thinking, he retorted, “You can have the buns, but I’m not learning martial arts.”
Then, realizing the older man didn’t seem like a martial artist but more like a scholar, he quickly added, “And I’m not going to school either.”
The shabby outsider repeated impassively, “What’s your name?”
The boy instinctively took two steps back, a sense of awe and fear rising from deep within.
The middle-aged scholar frowned, raised his hand, and the boy saw him holding a broken half-bowl. The man broke off a fingernail-sized fragment and popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly.
The boy gaped. Was this man so hungry he’d lost his mind?
When the boy finally snapped out of his shock, his face paled in terror. His grandfather seemed frozen in place by some immortal’s spell, bent over as if wiping the table. Not just his grandfather—every pedestrian on the street was motionless. One man had lifted his foot to step forward, but it hovered half a foot above the ground. Another, shivering from the lingering winter chill, had been hopping to warm up and now floated mid-air. A third, joking with a companion, had turned his head with a bright smile now frozen in place… All of this was beyond the boy’s wildest imagination. His hands trembled, and he dropped the basket of buns. As the bamboo basket hit the ground, the world seemed to shake violently. In the boy’s vision, his grandfather, the tables, the pedestrians, the streets—everything swayed violently, making him dizzy.
The middle-aged scholar stepped forward, picked up the basket, and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the boy. Only then did the boy see, in the silent world, a single sword slowly approaching.
The man rasped, “I am Xie Guanying. From now on, you are my only disciple.”
He pulled out another half of a broken bowl from his robe—much more intact—and placed it in the boy’s hand. Then he pressed a palm against the boy’s head and said calmly, “Hong Xixiang refused to act as heaven’s agent, to be the one who counters Xu Fengnian. As for me, I wanted to but couldn’t.”
The man looked up at the sky, his hand on the boy’s head exerting slight pressure. Mist began to rise, swirling with an immortal aura, eventually coalescing into a majestic landscape painting about three feet above them, with dragons lurking among the mountains and rivers.
“Three feet above one’s head, the gods reside.”
The down-and-out man withdrew his gaze and watched the flying sword break free from the heavens’ constraints. He sighed regretfully, “So a thousand years of immortality, surpassing even Lü Zu’s pinnacle, turns out to be a joke in the end. Taking you as my disciple is a last resort. Ah well, the scholars of the court have already had their fates sealed. Now it’s the martial artists’ turn to meet their ends. I’ll be the first, Cao Changqing the second. As for who will be the last… I hope it’s you. Remember, if you ever meet a man named Yu Dilong, show no mercy. But don’t even think about ascending to immortality in the future. Settle for leaving your name in history instead.”
With that, the man vanished.
The boy, his face flushed, looked around in confusion. His grandfather resumed wiping the table, the pedestrians continued walking, and the world bustled back to life.
The flying sword had disappeared as well.
The boy looked down. Only the half-broken white bowl in his hand confirmed that what had just happened wasn’t a daydream. He murmured, “My name is Gou Youfang.”
Hearing a “Hey,” the boy jerked his head up to see an ordinary-looking middle-aged man smiling at him. “Got anything left to eat?”
Gou Youfang quickly tucked the broken bowl into his robe. “Sir, we’re out of our signature buns, but we still have wontons and noodles.”
The unremarkable man seemed entirely uninterested in the boy or the bowl, grinning instead. “Then a bowl of wontons, extra spicy. The spicier, the better.”
The boy smiled politely. “Sure thing! Our chili oil is so hot even folks from Shu can’t handle it. Hope you won’t be asking for water later.”
The man suddenly looked embarrassed. “Kid…”
The quick-witted boy cut in, “Just put it on the tab!”
The man still seemed uneasy. “A tab would be great, but I’m in a hurry. Might not be back for years. That’s the problem.”
The boy chuckled. “No worries. Our shop’s been here for thirty years since my grandfather’s time. As long as you remember, even ten years is fine. But if you forget, it’s just a bowl of wontons.”
The boy wasn’t usually this generous, but after the bizarre encounter with the self-proclaimed Xie Guanying and becoming his disciple, he couldn’t help feeling inexplicably happy.
The man eyed the boy, then suddenly reached out to pinch his shoulders and arms. “Huh,” he mused, clicking his tongue. “Xie does have some luck. Is this a final stroke of fortune? To find such a gem? Otherwise, even I, Deng Tai’a, might have overlooked you.”
The man grinned slyly. “Kid, I see you have extraordinary potential…”
The boy’s lips twitched. “Sir, I really don’t want to learn martial arts. Please don’t take me as your disciple. It’s just a bowl of wontons… Grandpa, this gentleman wants a bowl of wontons!”
His grandfather acknowledged and got to work.
The man waved a hand. “Relax, I already have a disciple. That brat’s the jealous type. If he found out, I’d never hear the end of it. But I don’t take free meals either. Xie traded half a bowl for your buns, so I, Deng Tai’a, will trade a box of new swords for your wontons.”
Without waiting for a response, he pulled out a small wooden box—plain white wood, clearly nothing valuable. The contents’ worth was equally obvious.
The middle-aged man looked slightly embarrassed. Back when he’d gifted a sword box to that young master, it had been high-quality sandalwood “borrowed” from the Wu Family Sword Vault. But now, wandering the martial world, where would he get money?
Still, while the box was worlds apart in quality, the miniature flying swords inside hadn’t depreciated one bit.
Deng Tai’a tossed the box to the boy. “Kid, your ‘energy’ is already sufficient. Play around with what’s inside when you have time. You’ll figure it out soon enough.”
Flying swords were incredibly sharp, and Deng Tai’a had tweaked these slightly—opening the box would trigger them to immediately drink blood and bond with their master. An ordinary martial artist, lacking the boy’s innate “energy,” could bleed themselves dry without ever wielding them.
Instead of rushing off to pursue Xie Guanying, Deng Tai’a leisurely sat at a table to wait for his wontons.
When the boy brought the bowl, he mustered his courage and asked cautiously, “Senior, I’ve been thinking… you’re actually the Peach Blossom Sword God, aren’t you?”
Deng Tai’a showed no surprise. “Xie made such a scene. You must’ve seen my flying sword enter the city, hence the question, right?”
The boy scratched his head. “Well, you did introduce yourself earlier.”
Speechless, Deng Tai’a lowered his head to eat.
As he ate, he kept his head down even more stubbornly. He’d accidentally dumped all the chili oil into the bowl and was now sweating profusely, barely able to handle the heat. But for the Peach Blossom Sword God to use his energy to hide his discomfort would be too undignified—against both his principles and his sword’s intent. Or, to put it simply, Deng Tai’a had never cared about maintaining an air of superiority.
After finally finishing the bowl, Deng Tai’a exhaled in relief and looked up solemnly. “Kid, if you ever pick up a sword and decide to walk the path of the sword, remember this: a sword is not a saber. Even if swords have retreated from the battlefield, yielding to sabers, or if officials start wearing sabers as ornaments in court, no matter how times change, a sword remains a sword. A sword has two edges—one to kill or wound, the other for self-reflection…”
Here, Deng Tai’a’s expression shifted. “Enough talk. I have business to attend to. We’ll meet again if fate allows. And those grudges between elders? Don’t take them seriously. Live your life as you see fit. In the martial world, no matter how others live, those of us who wield swords must never harbor too much malice. Otherwise, even if you reach divine mastery, you’ll never be a true immortal.”
Deng Tai’a stood, turned, and exhaled sharply. That chili oil was brutal.
The Peach Blossom Sword God stopped lecturing not just because of the spice, but also because he genuinely didn’t know how to preach.
He pointed south, and a flying sword appeared in the sky. The next moment, he stood upon it—man and sword vanishing in an instant.
In all of Martial Emperor City, only the boy named Gou Youfang witnessed this.
The previous century had seen Li Chungang, Wang Xianzhi, Xu Fengnian, and Xuan Qingfeng—like the Warring States period, a time of rising heroes.
The next century would belong to just two.
Like two nations facing off on the Central Plains and the grasslands.
After rising to fame and each being hailed as the world’s best, these two would duel six times over sixty years, once every decade, ending in a draw.
Each time one won, the other would reclaim victory in the next bout.
Yu Dilong was not truly invincible—for the world still had Gou Youfang!
Tai Sui Yellow Amulet Paper FuLu Taoist Love Talisman Traditional Chinese Spiritual Charm Attracting Love Protecting Marriage