As two figures departed the city and headed toward the sea, a brief silence gripped Wu Di Cheng before it erupted into a roar louder than ocean waves. Whether commoners or wandering martial heroes from afar, all rushed out of the city gates. From a bird’s-eye view, four torrents of people seemed to converge near the gates, before three of them surged forth, a mighty tide rushing toward the East Sea. Some impatient martial artists, too eager to wait for the sluggish pace of ordinary folk, leapt from rooftops and over walls, creating a rare spectacle of hundreds soaring like hawks and hares in unison.
Within the span of a single cup of tea, the city, capable of holding over a hundred thousand souls, stood empty and desolate, strangely quiet. After all, the one known as Li Chungan, that one-armed old man, possessed the divine ability of commanding one thousand eight hundred swords—all genuine, no fabrication.
Moreover, Wang Xianzhi had ruled Wu Di Cheng for over fifty years, and even the Sword God Deng Ta’a and Cao Guan’zi had never drawn him into battle outside the city walls. It was obvious to even the simplest mind that this old man, though his fame had long faded, was an extremely formidable figure. Such a rare and epic confrontation was a once-in-a-lifetime event. For those martial artists who had come to visit or settle in Wu Di Cheng, who wouldn’t be envious? Missing this would be a lifelong regret.
The once bustling main street now stood completely deserted, even the tavern keeper and waiters had fled. Only the young prince and his entourage remained, bound by duty. Although Shu Xiu itched to join the crowd, she felt as though walking on thin ice since entering Wu Di Cheng. Moreover, the current spectacle had been set in motion by the young prince and the old sword saint together, placing them right at the eye of the storm. She dared not leave with the masses to watch the spectacle, for fear that if the prince were to falter, the Northern Liang King might not be able to punish Li Chungan, who was both skilled and fearless, but might instead make an example of her, Shu Xiu. In that case, even if she wished to atone with her life, she would find it a luxury—her fate would be worse than death.
Yang Qingfeng, the expressionless man, cast a sidelong glance at Shu Xiu before returning his gaze to the inner city wall. At the city’s heart stood a towering pavilion, as if built by an Eastern Yue emperor inspired by a eunuch poet’s line: “Afraid to speak aloud, lest I startle the celestial beings above.” From that pavilion, the second strongest man in the world had burst forth and “plunged” into the East Sea, challenging Li Chungan to a duel amidst the boundless, misty ocean. Though Yang Qingfeng’s face remained calm, his heart raced like Shu Xiu’s. Any martial artist would be awestruck by Li Chungan’s celestial feat of borrowing a thousand swords and his bold, heroic demeanor. Moreover, the feud between these two elders had long been a central thread running through the entire martial world. Ever since Li Chungan left Northern Liang, splitting a river two hundred zhang wide with a single sleeve at the Ghost Gate, defeating the Wujia sword champion outside Xiangfan, and achieving the realm of sword immortality at Daxueping, everything had been leading to this day’s confrontation.
Taking advantage of his old man’s shock, the little brat wriggled off the tall horse. Unfortunately, his legs were too weak, and he tumbled face-first into the dirt. Rising, he dusted himself off and went to the tavern, picking out a few bottles of good wine. He sat down and began drinking alone, looking every bit the old soul. Finally, his conscience stirred, and he waved at his father, the lecherous old guest, saying with a grin, “Dad, have a drink! It’s free!”
Long Yuxuan had no mood for drinking. He feared that if both the young prince and the old swordsman Li Chungan were to perish in Wu Di Cheng, he, as a guest of Northern Liang, would be torn apart or trampled to death. Long did not dismount, but a man leading a donkey, going against the tide, caught the scent of wine. He chose a table far from the unruly child and rummaged through the tavern’s supplies for a few jugs. He did not forget to place a few silver coins on the table before sitting down. The young swordsman apprentice riding the donkey sighed with exasperation, dismounted, and cautiously eyed the group of strangers. It was a strange pairing: a deathly pale man, a coachman in a clean green robe, and a woman riding a horse whose ample bosom threatened to burst from her dress. The young swordsman, inexperienced and naive, found his heart racing. Especially when Shu Xiu sent him a flirtatious glance, the boy turned crimson, his neck stiff, his breath ragged. The inappropriately named swordsman turned away, too afraid to meet the woman’s gaze. The old man who traveled with him often warned him of taboos on the martial path: never get involved with elderly nuns, innocent children, or beautiful women. Without enough cultivation, one could easily fall into disaster. The boy, named Sanlu by his master, looked down and secretly thought the woman was indeed beautiful, though older and not the kind of refined lady he admired. He was content just to feast his eyes.
Just as the boy lamented his luck, a glimpse through the carriage curtain caught his eye, and he froze, stunned by the beauty beyond. Sanlu felt as if struck by lightning. The middle-aged man, leisurely sipping his wine, noticed the boy’s daze and chuckled. Following the boy’s gaze, he saw a face of indeterminate gender, exquisite beyond words. “The kid’s taste isn’t bad,” he mused. If Sanlu had been smitten, it would have been understandable, but the woman behind the curtain, though beautiful, paled in comparison to the Chen girl he had seen recently at Luoshen Garden. Yet even then, Sanlu had not been so entranced. The woman behind the curtain seemed annoyed by Sanlu’s bold stare, frowned slightly, let go of the curtain, and disappeared from view. Sanlu slowly returned to his senses, filled with self-doubt. The man found it amusing—could the boy really be falling in love? He was clueless about matters of the heart and had no idea how to help Sanlu. Letting things take their natural course was his only solution.
When the lecherous thief Long Yuxuan saw the master and servant, he grew uneasy. A man riding a donkey was nothing unusual, but a donkey, a peach branch, and Wu Di Cheng together were not to be taken lightly. Since the rise of the new Sword God Deng Ta’a, who was known for carrying a peach branch wherever he went, many admirers had imitated him, causing older martial artists to scoff. Imagine, during peach blossom season, ten sword-wielding heroes on the street, three or four of them carrying peach branches—how absurd! It was like the trend started by Cao Changqing, when everyone wore green robes, sweeping the nation. Among the top ten martial artists, the top three—Wang Xianzhi, Deng Ta’a, and Cao Changqing—were leagues ahead of the rest. Long Yuxuan had never seen Deng Ta’a in person, and he knew not every donkey-riding man with a peach branch was the Sword God. But the man before him had a gentle demeanor, yet his aura was refined and extraordinary. Long Yuxuan felt as if facing a formidable foe. Seeing the little brat carelessly guzzling wine, he hesitated, then dismounted and carefully sat beside the boy, separating him from the master and servant.
On the now-empty main street of Wu Di Cheng, the young prince continued walking, a cup of wine in hand.
At the base of the city wall stood six of the twelve legendary Wu Di Cheng martial slaves, all once top martial artists who had lost to Wang Xianzhi and were bound to servitude for generations. Among them were four swordsmen, three swordswomen, a spear master, two fist experts, a zither player, and a go master.
Half of Wu Di Cheng’s martial slaves had been deployed at the city wall—not as a welcoming party, but to dissuade the young prince from proceeding further. Wu Di Cheng had no imperial law, only the city rules set by Wang Xianzhi. Here, even emperors and nobles had no authority. All must follow the rules—unless one’s fists were strong enough to force even the terrestrial immortal Wang Xianzhi to take notice.
Sanlu, the young swordsman, tried several times to peek behind the carriage curtain but failed to catch another glimpse of that breathtaking beauty. He drank to summon courage and finally asked softly, “Master, who is that young noble? He’s bold to challenge the old man. Now that Li Chungan has left the city, how will he reach the city wall? Those six martial slaves, nearly at the first level, will surely beat him to a pulp.”
The man sipping wine narrowed his eyes, gazing at the youth’s back, sensing a faint familiarity. He murmured, “Him? He’s a distant relative. By lineage, he should call me ‘uncle.’”
The boy was stunned. “Master, since I’ve known you, you’ve never spoken of your family. Why not tell me about it today?”
The man thought for a moment, his bowl hovering mid-air, before smiling. “Back when I was training in swordsmanship, his mother—my distant cousin—once saved my life. She gave me food, saved my life, and even taught me. I brought you here to repay that debt.”
The boy spoke bluntly. “Master, no offense, but if that’s the case, the debt is huge. How do you plan to repay it? And since you’re related, if you’re stingy, I won’t stand for it! I won’t even cook for you anymore!”
The man teased, “You think I don’t know your mind? You’re hoping I’ll help that noble boy because he caught the eye of the girl you admire. You’re just trying to use my generosity. Otherwise, with your stingy nature, you wouldn’t part with a copper coin even if beaten with ten sticks!”
The boy, embarrassed and angry, turned away, glancing nervously at the carriage, fearing the girl had overheard and formed a poor impression of him.
The man sighed softly. “Before Wu Su left the Wu Clan Sword Tomb, we parted at Sword Mountain. I made a promise to her. Later, she went alone to the imperial palace for Xu Quezi, and I couldn’t follow in time, causing her lasting injuries. I’ve regretted it ever since.”
As he spoke, the man bent down and retrieved a yellow pearwood box from his trunk. With a flick of his finger, he gently opened it, revealing twelve small swords of varying lengths but all delicate and exquisite.
Before making his move, the seemingly harmless man turned to the two carriages and smiled. “I am Deng Ta’a. I owe a debt to Princess Wu Su, and today I repay half of it. I hope none of you will interfere.”
Long Yuxuan spat out his wine, coughing violently.
His face turned pale with shock.
“Unlike the sword of Princess Wu Su, which saves lives, Deng Ta’a’s sword has always been for killing. He never reveals his twelve swords to ordinary men. This time, he makes an exception—six swords.”
For once, the carefree little brat looked serious.
Qingyi gripped the Shina spear tightly, not relaxing even slightly at the man’s friendly demeanor.
Shu Xiu and Yang Qingfeng exchanged glances.
Murong Tonghuang lifted the curtain again, eyes wide, brow furrowed.
The young swordsman apprentice nearest to Deng Ta’a felt a surge of valor, his spirit soaring.
For a moment, everyone nearby held their breath.
How many in the world had the fortune to witness the legendary Peach Blossom Sword Saint, who claimed to be the greatest killer under heaven, draw his sword?
The yellow pearwood box held twelve swords, none longer than a middle finger, the shortest barely an inch.
The man whose swordsmanship now outshone even the old Sword God Li Chungan smiled faintly, extended a finger, and flicked the hilt of the first crimson sword on the left. Calmly, he said, “Xuanjia.”
The small sword leapt into the air, hesitated briefly, then shot toward the city wall.
Deng Ta’a extended his middle finger, striking two swords at once. “Qingmei, Zhuma.”
The two swords danced lively into the air, then flew off.
The final strike was with three fingers.
“Chunshui, Chaolu, Taohua.”
The sword box was now half empty.
As the crowd watched in awe, the six martial slaves below the wall were pierced through the head by invisible force, blood spraying from their skulls. Their bodies crashed against the wall before slowly collapsing to the ground.
Only then did Deng Ta’a close the yellow pearwood box.
As the crowd finally caught their breath, the swordsman rose, leaving behind the priceless sword box, and smiled at the frowning little brat. “Deng Ta’a congratulates Master Zhao on returning to simplicity and freedom. Please deliver this box to the young prince, and tell him that Deng Ta’a’s swordsmanship lies within.”
The little brat sighed unhappily. “You’re just going to leave like that? You’re forcing Wang Xianzhi and Li Chungan into a deadly duel. If Li Chungan loses, how will Xu Fengnian escape Wu Di Cheng? What meaning is there in giving or not giving the twelve flying swords?”
Deng Ta’a picked up his peach branch and led the donkey, smiling. “Master Zhao, that’s no longer Deng Ta’a’s concern.”
The little brat rolled his eyes. “I truly don’t understand this martial world anymore.”
Long Yuxuan’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.
With no further obstacles, the young prince ascended the city wall, approached the sandalwood sword box, sat cross-legged, placed his bowl of wine before him, and gazed toward the East Sea.
Perhaps the old monster of Wu Di Cheng had sensed the disturbance within the city and was now truly enraged, for the sea began to churn violently.
Would the old man truly command the waters of the East Sea to rise?
Xu Fengnian gazed at the sea, the waves growing fiercer, the descending sword curtain like a black cloud pressing down. Suddenly, he grinned. “Time to cut and run! Old Huang, wait for me when I return alive from the Northern Desert. I’ll come see you again.”
On this day, besides the two generations of sword saints clashing in Wu Di Cheng, another event shook the world.
The young abbot of Wudang Mountain rode a crane down the mountain.
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