Xu Fengnian truly picked up the martial arts he once despised the most, but before learning the sword, he first learned the blade.
Of course, he learned from the White-Haired Old Monster.
The old man had originally planned to leave the prince’s residence to roam the jianghu, itching for a fight. He had long boasted about challenging the so-called “Top Ten Masters” who sat on their thrones but did little to prove their worth. After defeating the latter nine, he would finally face the legendary Wang Laogui.
The Old Monster despised that old bastard the most. If you were the best in the world, then just admit it—why pretend to be second? What a pretentious hypocrite! Infuriating!
While gnawing on a lamb leg, the Old Monster burst into wild laughter upon hearing Xu Fengnian wanted to learn the blade from him, spraying bits of meat everywhere. Seeing the young prince holding that fine blade with no hint of jest, the Old Monster tossed aside the leg, wiped his greasy hands, and stroked the massive crimson blade that had been embedded into his collarbone in his youth by a master. He asked, “Why the hell should I teach you?”
Xu Fengnian replied, “I’ll have Xu Xiao invite Wei Beishan, the wielder of the horse-chopping saber, to Liang Province to spar with you. And every year after, I’ll bring another, until I’ve mastered the blade.”
The Old Monster whistled in admiration at the grand gesture, then looked at Xu Fengnian with a strange smirk. “Kid, tell me—why learn the blade? Aren’t the 300,000 elite cavalry of Liang Province enough for you to flaunt your might?”
Xu Fengnian drew Xiudao, flicked the blade with his finger, and grinned. “Their weapons, in the end, belong to others. I need to find one that suits me.”
The Old Monster scoffed but didn’t argue. Instead, he made Xu Fengnian hold Xiudao aloft with one arm for half an hour, forbidding the blade from tilting even slightly. If he failed, even if Wang Laogui himself came to plead, the Old Monster wouldn’t take him as a disciple.
In the end, Xu Fengnian lasted a full hour before collapsing unconscious—yet Xiudao never wavered. In fact, it didn’t even tremble.
Stunned, the Old Monster walked over and pinched the young prince’s arm, now stiff as iron. “Tsk, tsk. I’ve struck gold,” he muttered.
From then on, the Old Monster didn’t teach Xu Fengnian any profound techniques. Instead, he made him repeat four monotonous movements: thrust, slash, chop, and retreat. Three thousand thrusts, three thousand slashes, four thousand chops, and four thousand retreats.
The Old Monster had expected the pampered young master to at least ask why, but Xu Fengnian never did. Every dawn, he would arrive at a secluded courtyard to train, and every midnight, he would stagger away—Xiudao never leaving his side.
This frustrated the Old Monster, yet also piqued his curiosity. Xu Fengnian displayed not just willpower but also an unexpectedly solid foundation in blade handling. Had the prince been secretly trained by military officers? Had he learned the ruthless saber techniques of the battlefield as self-defense?
The Old Monster had deliberately made things difficult, forcing Xu Fengnian to endure the tedium of grip training—half to discourage him (there were no shortcuts in mastering the blade), and half out of genuine belief that grip was the foundation. If you couldn’t even hold a blade properly, you weren’t wielding it—it was wielding you. Even with a stack of legendary manuals, you’d only learn flashy, useless moves that would get you killed in a real fight.
Xu Fengnian began training on the hottest day of summer.
After the summer heat came autumn.
He trained shirtless, his once-smooth noble skin bronzed and toughened. With a few scars, he could pass for a hardened soldier.
But his blade skills? Far from impressive.
After White Dew, Autumn Equinox, and Cold Dew came Frost’s Descent.
The retreating slashes increased to six thousand.
Finally, Xu Fengnian asked his first question: “The blade is the courage of all weapons—bold, sweeping, charging forward against thousands. But retreating is a defensive technique. Why practice it the most?”
The Old Monster grinned. “Too many blade-wielders aren’t afraid to die—and those who aren’t afraid to die are the first to die. The most lethal retreating technique in the world still hinges on the word ‘retreat.’ There’s no such thing as a blade style that always takes lives. My wisdom comes from strolling outside the gates of the underworld and making it back. Learn well.”
The prince’s armory held mountains of blade manuals, yet from the first day of training, Xu Fengnian never stepped foot into the legendary martial sanctuary, the Listening Tide Pavilion.
The Old Monster was deeply pleased.
The path of the blade wasn’t like the lofty Daoist cultivation of Wudang Mountain’s prodigy uncle-master. It demanded relentless perseverance. As for later stages—how to integrate internal and external techniques—the Old Monster wasn’t worried. Xu Xiao, the Butcher of Men, had plenty of unorthodox methods. The real question was whether the spoiled prince could last that long.
After Winter’s Arrival and into the Great Cold, even when the lakes froze, the Old Monster dragged Xu Fengnian underwater to train, pushing his breath-holding to new limits. His blade skills still hadn’t reached mastery, but he had gained an affinity for water.
Recently, several bands of rogue bandits had appeared outside the city, daring to cause trouble right under the nose of the Grand Pillar of the State. It was like digging for treasure on the head of the God of Misfortune. Yet rumors spread that these doomed outlaws weren’t crushed by Liang’s cavalry—but slaughtered by a masked blade-wielder.
The city’s idle spectators clapped and cheered, lamenting only that the prince, silent for half a year, hadn’t witnessed the spectacle—otherwise, he surely would’ve rewarded the hero handsomely. As for the nobles, they were baffled. Who was this mysterious blade-wielder? And where had these bandits come from? The Grand Pillar’s rule wasn’t flawless, but the idea that northern barbarian refugees had infiltrated Liang to stir chaos? Unthinkable.
On the 28th day of the lunar month, Xu Fengnian accompanied the Grand Pillar to Jiuhua Mountain, the sacred ground of Ksitigarbha Bodhisattva. This time, it was his duty, now that he had undergone the capping ceremony, to strike the bell.
Dismounting and ascending the mountain, they lodged overnight at the Thousand Buddha Pavilion. By lamplight, Xu Fengnian skimmed through a thick letter from a Longhu Mountain Daoist.
He smiled knowingly upon reading that Huang Man’er, upon seeing the mountains covered in hawthorns, had gathered them by the armful and piled them high in his master’s courtyard. The revered Daoist, not daring to scold the boy, could only gently explain that hawthorns didn’t keep long after picking—better to wait until they descended the mountain another year. Huang Man’er nearly tore the house down in response.
Xu Xiao, unable to sleep, entered the room. Glancing at Xiudao resting on the table, he held another letter—this one from his second daughter, Xu Wei Xiong. The Grand Pillar grimaced. “Your sister wrote to scold me.”
Xu Fengnian chuckled. “Because I’m learning martial arts?”
Xu Xiao sighed as he sat. “If you keep this up, she might rush back from Shangyin Academy to berate me in person.”
Xu Fengnian didn’t read the letter, merely grinning. “What did she say?”
Xu Xiao narrowed his eyes. “She asked me to ask you: ‘What’s the point of being the best with a blade?’”
Xu Fengnian pondered, then said, “Tell her it’s to stay fit—so I don’t get drained by beauties.”
Xu Xiao hesitated. “Isn’t that a bit… childish?”
Xu Fengnian smirked. “With Second Sister, that’s the only way. If you try reasoning with her, can you win?”
Xu Xiao raised a thumb in approval. “That blade training wasn’t wasted!”
On the morning of the 29th, mountain mist swirled.
Xu Fengnian rested his hands on Xiudao’s hilt, gazing into the distance.
After Winter’s Arrival, those bandits had been arranged by his father as training “dummies.” Xu Xiao hadn’t hinted at it, but Xu Fengnian guessed they were likely death-row convicts from Liang’s army.
Xu Xiao governed the military with iron discipline—rewards and punishments were absolute. Even his adopted son, Chen Zhibao, had once been publicly whipped to a bloody pulp for breaking rules. Without such severity, the capital’s scholars wouldn’t spread rumors that Liang recognized only the Tiger Seal of the Prince, not the Emperor’s Jade Seal.
These makeshift bandits lacked orthodox training, but their skills were honed in life-or-death battles—brutal, relentless, embodying the fearless spirit of Liang’s cavalry. Perfect for tempering Xu Fengnian’s straightforward, lethal blade style.
The Old Monster had watched Xu Fengnian wipe out three groups before losing interest, simply giving him locations and sending him off alone.
After the first group, Xu Fengnian bore six wounds—five shallow, one deep. The gash on his back wasn’t fatal, but he collapsed in a pool of blood, still gripping his blade. The Old Monster carried him back to the residence.
In subsequent battles, Xu Fengnian fought injured each time. The Old Monster denied him any chance to slacken or complain—something no other retainer in the prince’s employ would dare do to a noble of imperial standing. The peril of sparring with hardened bandits to hone a ruthless blade style was indescribable.
Xu Fengnian closed his eyes, slowing his breath.
Perhaps it was time to delve into internal cultivation? No matter how domineering his external blade skills, against a true master of both internal and external arts, he’d be like a child at play—laughable.
But internal cultivation demanded even more patience. The body’s meridians and acupoints had to be refined and connected like troops maneuvering in battle. Take Wudang Mountain, where half the world’s internal techniques supposedly originated—especially for those gifted disciples with proper guidance. A day on the mountain meant a day of cultivation, striving to resonate with the grand Dao of heaven and earth.
Internal energy wasn’t like food—you couldn’t just stuff yourself full. Where would Xu Fengnian find the decades of meticulous effort required?
Maybe he should visit the Listening Tide Pavilion for some unorthodox shortcuts? Xu Fengnian frowned, then opened his eyes to the sea of clouds and the whisper of pine waves. His spirits lifted.
For no reason, he thought of Xiudao’s previous owner. When would that White Fox face climb to the third floor? Would that beauty now regret giving the blade to the wrong person?
That year in the heavy snow, when the White Fox drew his blade on the lake—that was true mastery.
Xu Fengnian knew the gap between them was vast, but he wasn’t discouraged. A gap-toothed old man who always grinned foolishly had once said: “Farting after a meal feels good, but letting them out one by one, slowly—that’s even better.”
His current training method was the dumbest one possible.
It was time to strike the morning bell.
Thanks to his blade training, Xu Fengnian’s strikes rang loud and clear.
By day’s end, 108 chimes had echoed.
Among Liang’s generals, Qi Dangguo, the standard-bearer, looked astonished. The other adopted sons, Yao Jian and Ye Xizhen, exchanged knowing smiles—half delighted, half surprised. The rotund Chu Lushan nearly popped his eyes out. As for the “Little Butcher” Chen Zhibao and Left Bear Yuan Zuozong, they were patrolling the borders and didn’t appear.
As the group descended Jiuhua Mountain on foot, the Grand Pillar walking beside Xu Fengnian said slowly, “If you’re serious about martial arts, the experts in the residence know some… unconventional methods. It’s up to you whether you’re willing to swallow your pride.”
Xu Fengnian laughed dryly. “What pride do I have left to swallow?”
The Grand Pillar gazed toward Wudang Mountain, narrowing his eyes. “Good.”
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