Ten steps to slay a man, a thousand miles without a trace. When the deed is done, brush off the cloak and vanish, name and form concealed. This celebrated poem of the wandering swordsman is highlighted by the word ‘slay’; if altered to ‘save’, it would lose its essence. Now, the young prince, pale and weak within the carriage, feels a strange emotion. Ah, his ‘haha auntie’—Jia Jia, who keeps a giant cat as a pet—had assumed she was a cold-hearted, peerless assassin, not one to intervene. Yet she had redirected the calamity from Zhao Xuan Su, the Three Purity Tribulation, onto him. Days ago atop Donghai Hill, Xu Fengnian’s body raged like an alchemical furnace, melting the essence of spirit and vitality, a danger no less than Zhao’s deadly techniques. The Purple Aura from the East clashed with Wang Chonglou’s Great Yellow Court, like swords drawn, leaving Xu unconscious and near death. Upon waking, he learned from Qingniao that it was Jia Jia who had saved him, drawing the Purple Aura into herself, then vanished without a word.
The Peach Blossom Sword Sage left two messages with Qingniao for his distant nephew: he had lifted the seals on the Twelve Hidden Sword Techniques, which now needed a new master to nourish with blood. In three years, perhaps ten, they could develop a spiritual connection, and with sufficient energy, paired with a superior sword-controlling technique, they could command the Twelve. He had repaid his debt to the Xu family, or rather to Wu Su, and would avoid meeting again if possible.
Old Li, the Sheepskin Cloak, lifted the curtain and slouched into the carriage, lazily leaning against the wall. Xu glanced at him. The outcome of Donghai was said to be a draw, neither side prevailing. Wang Xianzhi had escorted him away with great ceremony, honoring the old debt of half a wooden sword, Maban Niú, from decades past. This earned Wang a flicker of goodwill from Xu. The old swordsman noticed a yellow pearwood box on the blanket embroidered with a phoenix among a hundred birds. He opened it without ceremony. Though the swords radiated killing intent, he scoffed, “Foppish, like embroidery needles. Is this Deng a woman?”
Xu, his injuries surfacing, looked pale, a small silk blanket over his knees, a brazier warming the carriage despite the season, revealing his frailty. He smiled bitterly, “Lucky Deng Ta’ao wasn’t here, or you’d have another fight.”
Li scratched his foot, smugly, “What? You think I can’t beat Deng after losing to Wang?”
Xu raised an eyebrow, cautiously, “Did you lose at Donghai?”
Li shrugged bluntly, “I lost. No shame in that. Wang’s cultivation has steadily grown, his foundation solid, his talent unmatched. But he used nine-tenths of his strength. Only Lüzu five hundred years ago could match him at full force. Pity you missed the sight of East Sea rising. A spectacle for the uninitiated.”
Ignoring Xu’s shock, Li turned back to the sword box, softer now, “These twelve tiny flying swords, their seals removed, are nearly lifeless. Yet their lingering sword intent is rare. Deng excels in nurturing and flying swords, a genius who shamed Wu’s Sword Grove. But names like Green Plum, Childhood Sweetheart, Spring Water, Peach Blossom—too sweet for my taste. Nowhere near the greatness of Maban Niú. The debate between sword Dao and technique— Seemingly incompatible as fire and water—but when technique reaches its peak, it becomes Dao. Deng, like Wang, walks a unique path. That’s what makes this Jianghu interesting.”
Xu’s expression twisted as Li, now comfortable, shut the box, causing Xu a pang. Only someone like Li could treat Deng’s gift so casually; others would revere it. Li, noticing Xu’s look, grumbled, “Ever heard ‘Earth knows not cold, men need warmth; spare others’ clothes for earth’s attire’?”
Xu, though unlearned, recognized the satire. Glancing at his costly blanket, he chuckled, “Truly, a great swordsman concerned for the world.”
Li, unmoved by flattery, dug his ear, “Hear F Zhao tried to pass his calamity to you, and that girl who killed Wang Mingyin didn’t exploit you, even helped? Prince Zhao’s gold wasted? Strange indeed. You’ve had rotten luck with Zhao, a once-in-a-century Celestial Master, yet fortune turned. The Three Purity Aura broke your meridians, nearing the King Kong body. Fortune in peril indeed. Zhao, too cowardly to face your father and the Northern Liang army, picks on you. Crossing Thunder Pool, seeking self-liberation. They say small temples breed big demons, but Longhu Mountain is full of sly foxes. Now Deng’s involved, the Celestial Mansion won’t rest.”
Xu, clutching his chest, sneered, “Zhao tried to ascend during your sword opening Heaven’s Gate, but Deng’s flying swords stopped him. Forced to self-destruct. I spared Longhu last time for Zhao Xidiao taking my brother as a disciple. But kindness invites exploitation. No matter how Deng acts, next time I ascend Longhu, I’ll make those yellow-robed elites pay.”
Li scoffed, “You think you’re Deng or Cao Changqing?”
Xu smiled, “Youth and your guidance will make my saber practice fruitful. Vengeance will come.”
Li tapped the sword box, whispered “Rise,” and the twelve swords hovered, aligned as on Deng’s hill. Ignoring Xu’s surprise, he said, “Sword intent at its peak flows like rivers to the sea, thunder to Heaven—seemingly chaotic, yet following Dao. Technique is the legs, Dao the path. Technique alone leads astray; Dao alone is wishful thinking. Deng’s stingy, giving swords but no methods. I showed you Two Sleeves of Green Snake countless times. Memorize it, and with the Great Yellow Court, killing with flying swords isn’t a dream. As the saying goes, ‘Read ten thousand scrolls, write as if guided.’ Hence my urging Jiang to practice calligraphy, not swordplay. Calligraphy is swordplay. Self-praise aside, Two Sleeves of Green Snake is the pinnacle of this century’s sword techniques, laying ten thousand scrolls before you. How much you grasp is up to fate. I won’t coddle you like a child learning to walk—it’d spoil your growth.”
The twelve swords vibrated imperceptibly fast.
“Fall.”
They descended gently into the box.
Facing Li’s rare sentimentality, Xu murmured, “Old master,” then fell silent.
Li lifted the curtain, gazing outside, “As you guessed, after battling Wang, I’ve no regrets in sword or life. No heirs, no attachments. My words now are kind, for one near death. Once young and fierce, I cut down injustice, but can one sword balance Heaven and Earth? A female poet once praised my sword for crushing five mountains, which I scorned, yet now I savor the line ‘Sheath resting on knee’.”
Xu, overwhelmed, found no words.
Logically, Li, having reclaimed his Sword Immortal status and fought Wang, should stand as Jianghu’s peak, rivaling Deng, among the top three martial experts, poised to reshape the Rivers and Lakes. Yet Li, now serene, contemplated retirement—not out of despair, but detachment, having achieved true immortality. Lowering the curtain, he smiled, “I’ll return you to Northern Liang, then visit Jiang one last time, passing all I’ve learned. Any message for her?”
Xu shook his head.
Li, never one for sentiment, changed topics, “Wonder who’ll tame Wang someday.”
Xu ventured, “The White Fox, now out of the Tower? Or my brother, in Qi Huang?”
Li mused, “The Fox needs more trials, more Master to hone him, then a duel in Wudi City might be thrilling. As for your brother, he’s Wang’s equal. Why fight?”
Xu’s mood lifted.
Lifting the curtain, Xu admired the lush hills ahead, bamboo swaying. Qingniao halted, and he stepped out, invigorated. This was the first time Pei Nanwei and the Murong siblings saw the prince since his injury. The scenery, paired with his transformed aura—once frail, now radiant—captivated them. Shu Xiu, watching his back, recalled how he’d brewed something since leaving Liangzhou, finally emerging from the calamity at Wudi City, reborn with a natural majesty. She gazed, entranced.
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