When the ancient ancestor of Dragon-Tiger Mountain, whose body had regressed to the innocent form of a child, was ruthlessly cleaved apart by Xu Fengnian’s A single stroke of the blade, like slicing melon, Shu Xiu, crouching on the ground, flashed a cruel glint of satisfaction in her eyes. In the past, under the patronage of the Beiliang Prince’s Mansion, she had committed many dirty deeds and faced numerous life-threatening situations, yet none felt as futile as today. Before Zhao Xuan Su, the Wudi City master who had always appeared as a child, she could not even graze the hem of his robe, crushed instead by an overwhelming force that pressed her down, causing her to bleed from all seven orifices.
Now, seeing the young prince succeed with the aid of Deng Tai’e’s sword techniques, she felt a rare sense of liberation, almost ready to give herself to him body and soul. She knew well that had Xu Fengnian not spoken up, in mere moments both she and Yang Qingfeng would have exploded from within, their blood and flesh torn apart. She could not be as composed as Lü Qiantang, who had died in Reed Marsh with dignity. To hell with fate and heavenly blessings! She had just escaped the cold prison of Beiliang and had the chance to replace Pei Nanwei as the false princess of Jing’an Prince’s Mansion. How could she accept death here? She recited her inner techniques, steadied her breath, and endured the unbearable pain coursing through her body. Her beautiful, seductive face contorted in agony.
Yet, no sooner had one crisis passed than another arose. Before she could even curse Zhao Xuan Su’s grotesque death, she saw the six flying swords of the Peach Blossom Sword Sage emit a buzzing sound like cicadas. The Daoist immortal’s disembodied soul, unable to ascend through the heavenly gate, remained intact, as if freed from its constraints. Suspended in the air, clad in flowing yellow and violet robes, he exuded an ethereal aura, the very image of celestial grace.
Shu Xiu gazed upward, awe-struck by the rootless soul drifting freely in the sky, an overwhelming sense of dread flooding her being. She turned her head with difficulty, looking toward Deng Tai’e standing afar. The twelve swords, released in two waves, had all revealed their might: Xuanjia, Qingmei, Zhuma, Chaolu, Chunsui, Taohua, Emei, Zhuque, Huangtong, Bifu, Jinlü, and Tai’e. Clearly, in Shu Xiu’s eyes, the one who had faced Zhao Xuan Su was not the young prince, but the famed Peach Blossom Sword Sage, Deng Tai’e. Regaining her breath, she struggled to rise, disregarding her appearance, her curvaceous rear sticking up as she staggered backward. Yang Qingfeng, however, remained fearless, sitting cross-legged in place, calmly meditating.
Xu Fengnian slowly stepped back, gripping his saber, narrowing his eyes at Zhao Xuan Su, who now resembled the middle-aged Daoist atop Mount Kuanglu. He sneered, “Even a centipede, dead, does not stiffen easily. These old Taoist priests are all too greedy for life.”
Zhao Xuan Su, denied entry to the heavenly gate, turned his gaze toward the golden sea, his expression complex. The six short swords remained embedded in his six vital points, like parasites clinging to bone. The swords pierced his soul, sizzling like water on snow, yet Zhao Xuan Su remained unfazed. The swords carried by Deng Tai’e were no ordinary weapons; otherwise, they could not have harmed a Daoist immortal in out-of-body travel. Though small, the swords carried boundless might. The world believes that slaying demons and vanquishing evil is but a mystical trick of the Taoist arts.， Not so.， Thus, martial artists in the martial world reach the pinnacle of perfection.， Strike down the Celestials to test the blade， yet it is within the bounds of reason。
Deng Tai’e remained ever composed and gentle, showing no sign of facing a terrestrial immortal. He smiled and asked, “Deng Tai’e has never visited Dragon-Tiger Mountain. I wonder if these six swords as a greeting gift are too light or too heavy for Master Zhao. I must admit, I feel rather uneasy.”
Though in grave danger, Xu Fengnian could not help but chuckle. Deng Tai’e was truly an eccentric and brilliant man. First, he had insulted Zhao Xuan Su as an old dog, and now he was feigning politeness. Yet his words carried no respect at all, a slap in the face so extreme it was almost poetic. Xu Fengnian mused further: without Deng Tai’e’s sword mastery, how could he remain so calm? As for Shu Xiu and Yang Qingfeng, hadn’t they been crushed without even uttering a word? Not to mention Long Yuxuan, who had briefly tasted fatherhood only to be reduced to dust by his own son’s ruthless strike. Indeed, Dragon-Tiger Mountain was vastly different from Wudang Mountain. The late Master Wang Chonglou had no airs of a supreme Daoist leader. His gentle kindness, shown in every meeting, was not merely because Xu Fengnian was the Beiliang heir. In such a grand Daoist temple, only Zhao Xituan was truly virtuous. No wonder that unkempt old Daoist had been frustrated and unrecognized, while men like Zhao Danping, the “Chanting Chancellor,” rose to power and basked in glory.
Thinking thus, Xu Fengnian glanced at the assassin blocking his path, the little girl who chuckled. For a thousand taels of gold, was this mysterious girl truly so obsessed with wealth that she refused to budge? Even risking her life? First, the eleventh strongest warrior in the world, Wang Mingyin, then the great Daoist Zhao Xuan Su—what was she truly up to? Was she here to kill or to save? Ji Jiajia? All three characters in her name sounded like “Jia,” the first of the heavenly stems. Xu Fengnian had once sent a secret letter to Xu Xiao, asking if she was a loyal assassin planted by the Prince’s Mansion. Since this involved Xu Fengnian’s life, Xu Xiao personally replied that she was definitely not a Prince’s Mansionassassin. Thus, Xu Fengnian was even more puzzled. What was going on in that girl’s little head? If she were merely a greedy child, who would believe it?
As for the fact that one slash could not destroy Zhao Xuan Su’s soul, Xu Fengnian felt some disappointment, but not much surprise. The techniques of immortals were inherently mysterious and unpredictable. On the Eastern Sea, two immortals had moved mountains, overturned seas, and opened heavenly gates, each displaying their might in breathtaking ways. Though Zhao Xuan Su’s killing power might be inferior to Wang Xianzhi and Li Chungan, to be defeated by a single slash from the young prince would be too degrading. After all, he had cultivated on Dragon-Tiger Mountain for lifetimes beyond normal men.
Zhao Xuan Su, without leaving his sanctuary, knew the world’s affairs. With a mere flick of his sleeve, he expelled two swords—Emei and Zhuque—from their piercing points. The swords did not break but, forced away, circled around him. Zhao Xuan Su ignored them, smiling softly, “Long ago, I heard on the mountain that Deng Tai’e’s sword techniques surpassed his contemporaries by two realms, rivaling the divine swords of Master Lü. Today, I have the honor to experience them firsthand. It would be a shame not to reciprocate. I have some minor tricks I’d like to share with Sword Sage Deng.”
Deng Tai’e asked, “Master Zhao, since you can no longer ascend in this life and your physical body has been shattered, why not go with the flow and, while your soul remains intact, find a good family to reincarnate into?”
As he spoke, Zhao Xuan Su flicked his sleeve again, forcing the golden sword Jinlü out of his body. He stroked his beard and laughed, “In my youth, I vowed not to attain the Dao unless I could claim a seat in heaven. If I die, I die. I have no interest in the nine forms of Daoist corpse liberation.”
Deng Tai’e, still in a leisurely mood, did not act like a commoner pouncing on a fallen foe. He calmly asked, “Daoist prophecies claim to predict fortune and misfortune, to foresee five hundred years past and future. Can they not foresee their own deaths?”
Xu Fengnian watched helplessly as the old Daoist flicked his sleeve a third time, sending two more swords flying into the air. Only the final sword, Tai’e, remained. Zhao Xuan Su shook his head solemnly, “The Dao of Heaven is like a speeding chariot. A moth flies leisurely inside. Why does it not crash into the walls?”
Deng Tai’e sighed, “To be in Heaven and Earth, yet how to be free? One step cannot cross Kunlun, a lifetime cannot exceed a hundred years.”
Xu Fengnian listened, puzzled, without any sudden enlightenment. He only knew the two immortals were building up their power. More accurately, Deng Tai’e was confident to the point of arrogance, allowing Zhao Xuan Su to free himself from the six swords’ suppression. Meanwhile, inside the carriage, the siblings watched the battle. Murong Tonghuang lifted the curtain, while Murong Wuzhu, too timid to peek, shivered in the corner. Suddenly, her eyes widened. She saw the yellow pearwood box slowly rising, shaking violently, the lid flying open. The six swords inside shot into the sky.
Deng Tai’e waited until his swords rejoined him mid-air, then said gently, “As for the Dao of Heaven, I do not ponder deeply. But since I began sword cultivation, I have never doubted my blade.”
All present saw Deng Tai’e, whose killing techniques were unrivaled in the world, smile and bend his finger, then flick.
The twelve tiny swords aligned in a straight line before him, as if drawing a boundary across Heaven and Earth.
The sky and earth changed color, their might nearly rivaling that of the Eastern Sea.
One flick spans sixty moments, each moment nine hundred lifetimes and deaths.
This was the essence of the Zhi Xuan technique.
Thus, Wang Xianzhi once said that among the Jinguang Realm, only the white-robed monk Li Dangxin truly grasped its essence. The Tianxiang Realm was divided into eight parts by Cao Changqing. As for Zhi Xuan, Deng Tai’e stood supreme.
Among the four first-rank realms, though there are levels of attainment, this does not necessarily reflect the overall martial prowess. Especially for those sages of the three teachings who have seized the advantage of time, space, and harmony, even if they reach the level of terrestrial immortals, in life-or-death battles, they may still not be able to defeat free immortals outside the three teachings. Moreover, the three teachings have always emphasized the Dao over martial arts. Even the divine sword technique of Master Lü, which can fly a thousand miles and sever a head, is considered a clever trick incompatible with the great Dao. The fact that the sages of the three teachings do not value martial arts is evident.
Deng Tai’e smiled, “The sword formation is named ‘Bingshe,’ originally prepared for Wang Xianzhi. Alas, fate is unpredictable, and it is now used on you.”
Zhao Xuan Su narrowed his eyes, “What a divine thunder pool! I dare to cross it. Let’s see if Sword Sage Deng can truly shatter my soul!”
The ancient ancestor of Dragon-Tiger Mountain indeed stepped forward.
The sword formation was like a rainbow.
The Daoist immortal’s disembodied soul was instantly torn to pieces.
In an instant, Deng Tai’e roared in fury, “How dare you, old Zhao dog, be so cunning!”
Deng Tai’e rushed behind the young prince, grabbed his collar, and was about to throw him backward. But the new sword sage was already alert and swift enough. Still, he could not stop a torrent of purple energy from crashing into Xu Fengnian. Faintly, Zhao Xuan Su’s last words before his demise echoed, “Since I cannot sever my fate, I shall take a shortcut and steal a bit of Heaven’s luck. I shall transfer the calamity of Dragon-Tiger Mountain onto you!”
Purple airflowed from the east.
Though mostly disrupted by the sword formation, two or three parts still surged into Xu Fengnian’s body.
For the first time, Deng Tai’e’s face turned furious, the heavens and earth falling silent. He roared, “Zhao Xuan Su, I shall make the Celestial Master’s family extinct!”
The purple airof the Three Purity surged, wrapping around Xu Fengnian’s entire body.
A great calamity had arrived.
Deng Tai’e was filled with anger and regret. He was well-versed in many Daoist secret techniques. Zhao Xuan Su had clearly sacrificed his own life to doom Xu Fengnian. Though Deng Tai’e considered himself unmatched in killing techniques, the matter of fate and fortune was the most unpredictable. His karmic connection with Xu Fengnian was shallow. After the death of the young prince’s mother, the Lady Wu Su, it was reduced to merely a childhood promise. After twice intervening with his swords, both inside and outside the Wu Di City in the East Sea, the debt had been repaid. In an instant, the purple airmerged with Xu Fengnian, nine out of ten parts. No matter how powerful Deng Tai’e was, he could not sever the aircompletely. Even if he wished to take the calamity upon himself, he lacked the ability to absorb the air. This was what enraged Deng Tai’e most about Zhao Xuan Su. As a Daoist immortal, he had stooped to such despicable and cruel means!
The girl who chuckled turned, gazing at Xu Fengnian’s forehead, where the red mark had turned black. She smiled—not out of schadenfreude, but with a hint of sorrow. Such unfamiliar emotions would even shock Huang Sanjia himself if he saw them.
She stood on tiptoe, reaching out to touch the young prince’s darkened forehead.
Even Deng Tai’e hesitated for a moment, finally choosing not to stop her.
In the cold north of Beiliang,
One winter, a little girl knelt by the roadside, selling herself to bury her mother. Born into the lowest rungs of society, her father was a compulsive gambler. Once a modestly comfortable family, years of gambling had left them destitute. When she was born, her father, who had once been gentle, vowed never to gamble again, even cutting off a finger in a fit of desperation. Yet he could not resist his addiction. From the moment she could remember, every day was filled with her father threatening to sell her to force her mother into prostitution. Drunk and abusive, this was his only talent. As she grew older in hardship, her mother’s beauty faded, and her income dwindled. The girl could never forget those coarse men, their trousers loosened, leaving their wind-swept hut after tossing her father a few copper coins, the sycophantic smile on his face as he accepted the money. When her mother, realizing her husband was determined to sell her daughter, fell gravely ill, she put on her last clean dress from the bottom of the trunk, sent her daughter away to gather wild vegetables, and prepared a pot of rice porridge laced with arsenic. When the girl returned home, the man who had never been called “father” by her after she grew up was already dead, his body cold. He had greedily eaten five bowls of the six, dying quickly. The woman, who had only managed to drink one bowl, clung to her daughter as she died, bleeding and crying, unable to speak. The little girl, her fingers cracked and bleeding from the cold, washed her mother’s face and wrapped her in a straw mat, not even glancing at the man’s corpse before heading to Liangzhou City, kneeling beside the rolled-up mat. In the winter of Beiliang, such scenes were commonplace. There was no need to write with charcoal, no need to cry out for help. But who would pay the considerable silver needed to take care of a dirty little girl dressed in rags, who might not even survive the winter?
On the road were men in fine clothes riding fine horses, women in furs.
No one spared a second glance at the little girl, who might not survive the cold of this winter.
A few ruffians who had once paid for her mother’s services passed by, kicking aside the straw mat, exposing her mother’s corpse. She clung to her mother’s body as they said her mother was a dirty woman, fit only to be tossed into the wild. She cried, saying her mother was not dirty. They trampled the corpse, and she bit one of the Rogue’s legs. She was grabbed by the hair, lifted up, and punched in the stomach. Each time she shook her head and said her mother wasn’t dirty, she was punched again. How old was she then? How many punches could she endure? Yet the passersby remained indifferent, no one intervened. Many bystanders watched with idle amusement.
Later, a luxurious carriage passed by. Perhaps hearing the commotion, a young nobleman in fine white furs stepped out of the carriage. Beside him stood a beautiful woman, her nose wrinkled in disgust. He asked her who was prettier between her mother and the woman beside him. The little girl, blood trickling from her lips, gave an answer that made the onlookers burst into laughter. The fox-eyed woman accompanying the nobleman lost face, her eyes filled with anger. The young nobleman, infamous throughout Beiliang for his recklessness, showed no expression. He took a pearl hairpin from the woman’s head, a gift he had just given her, and knelt down, inserting it into her mother’s hair. He asked if she looked beautiful. The little girl cried and said yes. He patted her head, chuckled softly, and said nothing. He returned to his carriage and left. Soon after, someone came to bury her mother.
That winter, the little girl knelt at the grave, meeting Huang Longshi.
Since then, aside from killing, her only hobby was collecting hairpins.
This year, outside Xiangfan City, she killed the so-called eleventh strongest warrior in the world. Whoever tried to kill that young nobleman from back then, she would kill them, no matter if they were a first-rank martial artist or a terrestrial immortal. To her, that was the only justice.
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