Left-Hand Blade.
The stream cascaded downward on both sides like a waterfall. Fifth He stood firm like a central pillar in a raging river, squinting at the young swordsman who kept building momentum. According to the manner in which the mountain lord of Tibbon Mountain would have acted twenty years ago, he would have struck early to break the opponent’s momentum and kill him outright. However, since Fifth He entered the Finger-Xuan realm, his vision had broadened dramatically, like an unfolding scroll depicting the pursuit of immortality—its beginning questioning, its middle illustrating, and its end pointing toward eternal life. Flipping through this painting for over a decade, Fifth He had been subtly transformed by the realm, his temperament undergoing subtle shifts. He had grown increasingly patient—not because he had turned toward the Dao or benevolence, but because upon reaching the Finger-Xuan realm, he could now perceive all things in the world as following discernible patterns and laws.
Though Fifth He did not know that Xu Fengnian was using the dragon sinew to sever the stream and cultivate his spiritual intent, was he not also waiting for Xu Fengnian to help complete the missing pieces of his own Finger-Xuan immortal scroll? Left blade, Spring Thunder, a sleeve brimming with the stream’s green aura—in Fifth He’s eyes, it was a brilliant process of dismantling spiritual intent into techniques. Because this single green dragon sleeve, derived from Li Chungan’s Two Sleeves of Green Serpents, was so marvelously profound, Fifth He’s patience was especially abundant. Each time the aura swelled a little, Fifth He would understand it twice as deeply, gaining thrice the benefit afterward. Fifth He spared Qingniao because he sought the essence of the Arc Lance, and he spared Xu Fengnian as well, not believing that an unknown youth could pose any threat. He would slowly entice him, coaxing forth his most treasured techniques for his own cultivation. Why wouldn’t Fifth He enjoy such a prospect?
Fifth He had grasped a rare ability within the Finger-Xuan realm, one only a few true immortals could attain: scooping the moon from water with a bamboo basket. Simply put, it was the skill of imitating by observation. Scooping the moon from the water, lifting the basket, the water ripples, the moon shatters, hands empty—but Fifth He could reassemble a slightly smaller reflection of the moon within his mind. This surpassed mere photographic memory by an enormous margin, bordering on the miraculous. In the martial world over the last hundred years, only a handful have possessed this gift of “recording immortality with one glance”—a talent so rare that calling it a once-in-a-century phenomenon would not be an exaggeration. Wang Xianzhi of Wudi City was one such person, and no second has been heard of since. This was also why Wang Xianzhi, before his rise to fame, had a habit of watching Master in battle. What could an ordinary spectator possibly glean from watching top-tier martial artists clash, other than the spectacle? In contrast, Fifth He’s mastery of Finger-Xuan was the result of painstaking effort—like water dripping through stone. Only after reading a book a hundred times could its meaning reveal itself. Combined with unique talent and fortunate circumstances, he had finally attained the Finger-Xuan realm.
The blade’s momentum was like a flood filling a lake.
Thankfully, no one was watching, or else Fifth He’s next action would have left them agape in astonishment. Mimicking Xu Fengnian’s slight knee bend, Fifth He assumed a sword-holding stance, pointing directly at Xu Fengnian. But soon he abandoned the idea of imitating the technique on the spot. Reproducing its form was not difficult, but capturing its essence proved unexpectedly arduous. This puzzled Fifth He—who could have devised a sword technique so demanding that even he, a master of the Finger-Xuan realm, found it hard to emulate? This junior, at best newly entered the Realm of the Indestructible, had been underestimated by Fifth He, who had assumed he could grasp eight parts of the technique effortlessly. Perhaps he had underestimated this young swordsman who wielded both sword and blade.
At the moment Fifth He “sheathed his sword,” the Spring Thunder blade, with a single green dragon sleeve, suddenly surged toward the Tibbon Mountain lord.
It was hard to tell whether it was a sword technique or a blade intent. Before Fifth He spread a sky-covering, earth-shaking green aura, exuding the momentum of stirring the heavens for three thousand miles. The green dragon’s head lunged straight at Fifth He, its body stretching dozens of zhang long, rolling forward, dragging with it the murky yellow stream water. It was as if the dragon were drawing water, and wherever the dragon went, the stream water was drawn away—either merging into the dragon’s body as scales or splashing onto the riverbank, creating a startling spectacle of the green dragon sleeve. Regardless of its destructive power, the technique’s spiritual essence was fully realized. Fifth He, inwardly astonished, resolved to eliminate this youth, who might well be a rising star destined to vie for one of the ten rare seats among the top ten martial experts in the world.
Controlling a sword differs greatly from commanding one. While most swordsmen who can manipulate a sword for a few zhang are considered minor masters, there are exceptions—such as the exaggerated tales of children in the Wujia Sword Tombs controlling swords to pierce butterflies. Thus, for Fifth He, who had seen much, witnessing Xu Fengnian’s flying sword was not particularly shocking. But this single sleeve of swordplay that he could not replicate was another matter entirely.
For the first time, Fifth He’s expression turned serious. He extended a palm to block the green dragon’s head, his left foot sliding backward a few feet. The green-yellow sleeve dragon writhed violently, and in front of Fifth He, a space of a zhang seemed to tremble in the storm. Fifth He was forced to strike the dragon’s head with his left fist. The massive head was smashed sideways into the streambed, carving out a deep well, into which the stream water continuously poured. Three chi of sword and three chi of aura—each inch closer meant three zhang of killing range. The true killing move emerged after Fifth He dispersed the outwardly leaking aura, revealing the Spring Thunder blade’s tip, now within five chi of Fifth He. His wide purple robe violently trembled, both sides of his temples flaring backward as he bent two fingers of his right hand, pinching the blade’s tip!
Finger-Xuan—this was the supreme divine art of bending fingers to tap the pulse of immortality.
The Spring Thunder blade advanced again in his left hand.
This time, Fifth He was forced to retreat several zhang. During the retreat, he bent his fingers to strike the blade over a hundred times. Each strike caused a sudden thunderclap somewhere near the two combatants, a hundred thunderclaps in an instant. Each flick of Fifth He’s finger struck the Spring Thunder blade, tapping into the pulse of Xu Fengnian’s aura, seeking the slightest gap in his flow. If even the faintest clue emerged, Fifth He would seize the opportunity—not only to make the youth unable to withdraw or discard the blade, but also to shatter his meridians and destroy his acupoints. To Fifth He’s second astonishment, the young swordsman before him not only wielded sword techniques with eccentric brilliance but also struck with even fiercer blade techniques. Most astonishing was the sheer abundance of his aura, reaching an almost unbelievable level. Fifth He, who had matured late, recalled that even at Xu Fengnian’s age, he himself had possessed less than half of such power. After a hundred flicks without finding the slightest opening, Fifth He was truly enraged. He let out a sharp cry, no longer merely blocking the Spring Thunder blade’s tip. Instead, he pulled the short blade—and the youth himself—toward his side, then struck a punch aimed directly at Xu Fengnian’s temple.
With his eyes still closed in deep concentration, Xu Fengnian suddenly twisted his wrist. The Spring Thunder spun in his left palm and slashed sideways at Fifth He’s waist.
A mutual death blow.
Xu Fengnian dared to do it—Fifth He did not.
Fifth He twisted his body like a coiled pine, but the punch, now greatly weakened, still struck Xu Fengnian’s head. At the same time, Xu Fengnian retaliated, his body swaying like a bell at Wudang Mountain—shaken but not falling. Seizing the moment, he delivered a fierce kick to Fifth He’s chest. Compared to the first soft kick, this one was ferocious. The composed and leisurely purple-robed mountain lord was actually sent staggering. Xu Fengnian, eyes still closed, stepped back a few paces unharmed, thanks to the Great Huangting cultivating a hundred and eight golden lotuses within his body. Each moment, fifty-four withered and fifty-four bloomed anew, maintaining a constant one hundred and eight immortal lotuses swaying in perpetual rebirth.
Fifth He had always held the mindset of a noble son who avoids danger, never believing he would be placed in peril.
But from the very beginning, Xu Fengnian had truly been fighting for his life. The rebirth of the immortal lotus was only possible because Xu Fengnian had poured his very life into cultivating it.
The Spring Thunder was no longer in his hand, but the next move did not require a blade at all.
Xu Fengnian gently pressed his hands downward.
Behind Fifth He, the Spring Thunder blade floated upward.
Earth unleashed its killing intent, winding six thousand li.
Neither man nor blade moved, yet Fifth He kept throwing punches.
The scene was absurd.
Some people and events are not mentioned not because they are forgotten. Often, it is only those that can be easily spoken of that fade away.
Xu Fengnian was not a scheming nobleman from the start, nor was he a prince who immediately understood the people’s suffering. The refined and elegant Chen Zhibai, the fawning servant Chu Lushan, the stern-faced Yuan Zuozong—apart from these faces surrounding Xu Xiao in the Northern Liang Mansion, each one an enigma of hidden intentions, Xu Fengnian had grown up behind Xu Xiao, watching them from childhood to adolescence and into adulthood. The only two old men who had genuinely touched his cold heart and earned his deepest gratitude had already passed away. The toothless old man Huang, who loved yellow rice wine, and the old swordsman Li Chungan, whose youthful brilliance remained unknown to Xu Fengnian.
Leading a poor horse to send old Huang out of the city, before leaving, Huang had seemed to know he would never return from Wudi City. He had chattered on about many things, saying, “Master, I’m no great swordsman like the others. I only know nine sword techniques, six of which I realized just before I was about to die. It’s not that I fear death, but I fear never tasting yellow rice wine again, or not having married a wife, and thus feeling cheated by life. I always feared that if I died, no one would visit my grave with offerings. But this time is different. No matter how the swords clash, it’s worth it.”
At the time, Xu Fengnian had remarked that such words were inauspicious. Old Huang had grinned, his missing tooth showing.
Xu Fengnian feared death more than anyone. If he died, would his aging father Xu Xiao come to his grave?
Li Chungan had once slashed through a thousand armored soldiers with a single sword on the Guangling River. Later, while escorting Xu Fengnian back to Northern Liang, Xu had asked the old man in sheepskin about the most dangerous battle of his life.
The one-armed old man had been picking his feet in the horse cart. He thought for a moment, then pointed at his arm but did not reveal the name or the secret. Instead, he humorously changed the subject: “Xu kid, remember one thing from old man Li: when you are about to die, do not think of life and death.”
Both of these old men, once at the pinnacle of the martial world, had gradually been forgotten, like the old peachwood charms replaced by new ones each Spring Festival.
Xu Fengnian slowly opened his eyes.
Between Yin and Yang, a single thread of breath shifted.
He had once, atop a mountain at night, Dazed as in a dream, witnessed a celestial being’s soul emerge and ride a dragon.
He had stood between dragon and Python.
He had once declared he would slay dragons and celestial beings.
Li Chungan had said, upon first raising his sword, he knew he would become the world’s greatest swordsman.
Xu Fengnian traded six years of life for a single blade strike.
The great Python swallowed the heavenly dragon.
Heaven and earth fell silent. The stream flowed gently.
Fifth He slowly lowered his head. A blade’s tip protruded an inch from his chest.
Xu Fengnian, blood flowing from seven orifices, yanked the Spring Thunder blade from Fifth He’s body. Grasping Fifth He’s throat with one hand, he stabbed again and again, repeatedly plunging the blade into Fifth He’s body.
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