Murong Tonghuang hesitated for a moment, then struck the prince’s chest with all his might. In that instant, he no longer feigned seductiveness or wore a gloomy expression; instead, he exuded an unfamiliar aura of heroic valor.
Xu Fengnian, lying on the gentle slope, chuckled, “Chen Yu, ranked second on the Beauty List, is said to rival the Nan Palace. Did you know that?”
Murong Tonghuang nodded, though he was puzzled why Xu mentioned Chen Yu and Nan Palace.
Xu Fengnian grinned, “That Nan Palace is actually a man, with a face as fair as a white fox, even more handsome than you. He is currently inside the Tide Listening Pavilion of the Northern Liang Prince’s Mansion, studying secret manuals. Once he steps out from the pavilion, he might become the strongest martial artist under heaven. These two swords of mine, Spring Thunder and Embroidered Winter, originally belonged to him. Later, he gave one and lent the other.”
Murong Tonghuang laughed heartily, “If you keep explaining, people might mistake you for hiding something obvious.”
Xu Fengnian felt relieved. With countless knots in his heart, he could untie one knot for this brother-sister pair. He had resolved the matter of the Xuan Yuan family. As for Murong Tonghuang’s future path, Xu merely needed to plant a subtle clue, not even a proper foreshadowing, and then leave it at that. Indeed, playing chess like this required learning from that old demon, Huang Sanjia. Regardless of whether it resembled a tiger or a dog, he would learn first. Suddenly, Xu recalled the celestial figure from his dream, Zhao Huangchao from the Dragon-Tiger Mountain. Yet this Zhao was not from the Celestial Master Zhao family. In truth, Xu still hadn’t figured out whether that was a dream or reality. If it were real, why did the girl who smiled at everything, who had spent the entire night climbing a cliff, show no reaction? Even the old sword saint, Li Chungang, had sensed nothing! Yet if it was merely a grand dream of the Spring and Autumn Periods, then the confrontation between the White Serpent and the Black Dragon, and the words of the middle-aged Daoist Zhao Huangchao, all made perfect sense. Especially that dragon with whiskers rising from the cliff, almost identical to the painting “Spring Thunder, the Fiendish Dragon Startled by a Crocodile.” This painting, crafted by the great alchemist, was accompanied by ominous prophecies. Xu Fengnian furrowed his brows tightly, not daring to speak of this strange matter to anyone for now. He would wait until he returned to Northern Liang before mentioning it to Xu Shao and Li Yishan.
The prince was unaware that not long before in Huishan, someone had gazed toward Dragon-Tiger Mountain at the same time he did. Xuan Yuan Qingfeng and her grandfather, Xuan Yuan Guoqi, stood on the River Gazing Terrace of the Questioning the Throne Pavilion. Leaning against the balustrade, the pavilion was built along the cliff, and the terrace jutted out abruptly. The mountain winds howled, and the height was bitterly cold. Xuan Yuan Qingfeng tucked in the collar of her fur coat. The old man, his temples frosted with age, smiled, “Cold? You lazy girl, just like your father, unwilling to put effort into martial arts. Practicing martial arts doesn’t necessarily mean fighting—it’s primarily for health and strength.”
Xuan Yuan Qingfeng’s cheeks flushed red from the fierce winds blowing from the river up the cliffside. She shivered slightly, leaning affectionately toward her grandfather, “It’s not too late to start now, is it?”
Xuan Yuan Guoqi, with an ancient sword named Baopu hanging at his waist, smiled silently.
The old man was the sole heir of the Xuan Yuan family of Huishan in his generation. After the old ancestor, Xuan Yuan Dapan, suffered repeated defeats, it was Xuan Yuan Guoqi who took charge during his retreat into cultivation. Once obscure in his youth, he missed the chance to face the undefeated sword saint, Li Chungang, known as “Li the Invincible.” In the past twenty years, his reputation had risen. His first battle after descending the mountain challenged the toughest opponent—the Wu family’s Sword Tombs—forcing the sword master of Wu family to unsheathe the Sword of Suwang. Though Xuan Yuan Guoqi lost, he earned honor, hailed by the martial world as a late bloomer. In recent years, he had associated with seasoned experts and recently visited the Eastern Yue Sword Pond, defeating six sword puppets with a single sword. His reputation followed closely behind Deng Ta’ao. Rumors swirled about whether he would replace Wang Mingyin as the eleventh strongest.
Xuan Yuan Guoqi murmured softly, “I heard Li Chungang is now by the side of that Northern Liang prince.”
His fingers lightly tapped the sword scabbard. The ancient sword inside vibrated, its resonance overpowering the howling mountain winds. Yet Xuan Yuan Qingfeng remained unaffected. The old man sneered, “Li Chungang once embodied the bearing of a sword immortal. When did he become a dog for Northern Liang? Truly disappointing! I had planned to seek him out for a duel after returning from the sword pond, but now it’s more convenient. Still, I wonder if Li Chungang still deserves for me to draw this Baopu sword.”
Xuan Yuan Qingfeng smiled sweetly, “A dead camel is still bigger than a horse. Isn’t that old man at the eighth level?”
Xuan Yuan Guoqi chuckled calmly, “Don’t try to provoke me, girl. Do you know how difficult it is for a swordsman to regain his former strength after a setback, especially someone at Li Chungang’s level? It’s no easier than ascending to immortality. If he’s truly at the eighth level, I can take him on. But if that eighth rank is merely a courtesy title granted out of nostalgia for his former glory, then perhaps I should tear away this veil of shame. It would be better for the former sword saint, now missing his Wooden Buffalo and one arm, to fall beneath my Baopu sword than to be used as a stepping stone by these young upstarts.”
As Xuan Yuan Qingfeng was about to speak, the old man waved her off, “Go on now, girl. Don’t catch a chill. Your bookish father will nag me for a month otherwise.”
Xuan Yuan Qingfeng left the Questioning the Throne Pavilion with a somber expression. How could she ever stand her ground in the Xuan Yuan clan, where martial fanatics were the norm? As she walked through the pavilion, bookshelves lined the walls. Her delicate hand slowly traced the spines of secret manuals arranged by phonetic order. Her eyes were vacant. These ancient tomes, which she had touched and memorized, were coveted martial arts manuals that most of the martial world could only dream of. She had read and memorized most of them, for she knew that once she married—even if it were a marriage where the groom joined her family—she would no longer be allowed into the Questioning the Throne Pavilion. Thus, for years, she had painstakingly memorized every page, hoping that one day she could find a man strong enough to help her revive the main branch of the family, which had lost its vigor under her scholarly father, restoring its rightful grandeur.
After exiting the pavilion, Xuan Yuan Qingfeng wore a resolute expression.
An elderly servant woman, who had raised Qingfeng since childhood, hurriedly approached and whispered, “Miss, Yuan Tingshan has returned, and his injuries are grave—possibly beyond saving.”
Xuan Yuan Qingfeng asked calmly, “Can he be saved?”
The old woman shook her head, “With ordinary methods, he will surely die.”
Qingfeng stood frozen, her spirit shattered.
The old woman pitied her, “Miss, if Yuan Tingshan dies, we can find another young man to nurture. There’s no need to grieve so.”
Qingfeng’s lips turned pale, murmuring, “There won’t be another chance.”
She suddenly turned and rushed through countless bookshelves inside the pavilion, arriving at the River Gazing Terrace. With a thud, she knelt behind her grandfather.
The old man, a master of inner cultivation, remained silent, offering no words of inquiry.
Her hands and knees pressed against the cold jade floor as she spoke firmly, “Grandfather, please save Yuan Tingshan!”
Xuan Yuan Guoqi uttered a cryptic phrase, “If one wishes to possess the ability to humiliate others, one must first endure humiliation oneself.”
Qingfeng’s body began to tremble, growing more violent until she collapsed onto the floor, her heart torn apart. Sobbing, she cried, “Grandfather, why did the old ancestor choose me for the dual cultivation technique?! Why?! If only you would save Yuan Tingshan, and if Yuan Tingshan can withstand ten strikes from the old ancestor, I wouldn’t have to go to Guniu Ridge!”
Xuan Yuan Guoqi merely shook his head.
A middle-aged scholar, bearing a striking resemblance to Xuan Yuan Guoqi, coughed as he entered the terrace. Wearing a carefree headscarf, he held a Daoist text titled “The Forbidden Thunder Daoist Spell” in one hand and covered his mouth with the other. When he removed it, blood stained his palm.
Xuan Yuan Guoqi was slightly angered, “Jingcheng, if your health is poor, don’t wander about recklessly!”
Xuan Yuan Jingcheng replied bitterly, “Life and death are predestined. One must accept one’s fate.”
Xuan Yuan Guoqi angrily flicked his sleeve, clearly quite upset.
Xuan Yuan Jingcheng switched the Daoist book to the hand smeared with blood and tightly gripped it. He bent down, attempting to help his daughter up with his free hand.
Xuan Yuan Qingfeng, already weak in limbs, suddenly found strength surging within her. She violently shook off her father’s hand, crying out in anger, “You’re not worthy!”
Xuan Yuan Jingcheng, the eldest grandson of the Xuan Yuan family, wore a bitter smile, gently saying, “Come, your mother has warmed a pot of Danggui wine for you. It will warm your stomach.”
Xuan Yuan Qingfeng staggered to her feet and walked away from the terrace, leaving behind a desolate and resolute back to her father.
Xuan Yuan Guoqi, disappointed yet sympathetic, raised his voice in anger, “Look at you! Back then, you disgraced the family by marrying a woman who had been with countless men. And what have you done since then?!”
Xuan Yuan Jingcheng replied calmly, “I have been reading.”
“Reading the great righteousness of the Spring and Autumn Annals.”
“Reading the Daoist principle of non-action.”
“Reading the Buddhist compassion.”
Each word spoken by Xuan Yuan Jingcheng was measured, neither hot nor cold. Indeed, only with such a patient temperament could he have endured the scorn and oppression for over twenty years. The other two branches of the family had already trampled upon him, yet this scholar never uttered a word, only continuing to read.
“Jingcheng will show the old ancestor that his so-called mastery of the three teachings is nothing but nonsense.”
Xuan Yuan Jingcheng walked to the railing, standing shoulder to shoulder with Xuan Yuan Guoqi.
The old man’s eyebrows trembled with anger, almost wishing to strike his useless yet obstinate son dead with a single slap.
Xuan Yuan Jingcheng smiled, gripping the Daoist text “The Forbidden Thunder Daoist Spell” tighter, his blood seeping further into its pages, and said, “If I cannot become an immortal…”
“Silence! You disrespectful wretch!”
Xuan Yuan Guoqi slapped his son’s face and stormed off with a flick of his sleeve.
Clearly, if the middle-aged scholar continued speaking, his words would only become more shocking and defiant.
Struck across the face, Xuan Yuan Jingcheng remained indifferent and gazed toward Dragon-Tiger Mountain.
Under normal circumstances, even if Xuan Yuan Guoqi had restrained his strength, the mark on Xuan Yuan Jingcheng’s face should not have vanished so quickly.
Once the Questioning the Throne Pavilion was empty, he flung away the Daoist text and leapt over the railing.
He flew from Guniu Ridge, plunging straight toward the surface of the Dragon King River.
Mid-fall, he stepped lightly on the book, gliding forward like an eagle or falcon.
An immortal stood near, yet remained unrecognized.
Xuan Yuan Jingcheng drifted gracefully across the Dragon King River. With his first step upon the shore, a large crater exploded beneath him. The second step left a slightly smaller crater, the third even smaller. For seven steps, each left a crater, blooming like lotus flowers.
One step, one lotus.
Seven steps later, not a speck of dust stirred from the ground.
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