When sword arts reach a certain level, there’s no need to tangle for a day and night to determine victory—often within a hundred moves the outcome becomes clear.
After seventy moves, Qiu Che’s blood boiled hot throughout his body, fighting spirit in his eyes even stronger: “Ximian, you’ve slackened considerably these years.”
He’d comprehended his sword intent day after day for ten years. Even without using the Wuliang Sword, it wouldn’t greatly affect him.
But Lian Shenwei was different.
These ten years he’d been entangled in hatred, rarely touching his sword. Even the internal energy circulation in his meridians was extremely sluggish. Though he’d mentally rehearsed countless times, in the end it was just theory without practice.
He readily admitted it, smiling: “Yes.”
Lian Shenwei’s body had always run cold, especially as the weather grew colder—he always wore one more layer than others. Yet now he’d broken a light sweat.
From heat, but also from pain.
His meridians ached as if splitting. The toxic energy churning in his blood seemed to erode toward his internal organs. He could feel that bone-gnawing heat.
But this kind of pain, in exchange for the most exhilarating day in ten years—even with poison invading his bones, he savored it.
In his remaining short lifespan, how many more such unrestrained days would he have?
None, probably.
Especially after this time.
Lian Shenwei’s Adam’s apple moved as he made a minute swallowing motion. The sweet metallic taste welling up made him want to cough.
After they crossed blades once more, Lian Shenwei brushed his fingers along the Cangshan Sword’s blade and smiled faintly at Qiu Che: “Continuing wastes too much time. Let’s decide victory with one move.”
One move to decide victory between swordsmen often referred to a contest of sword intent and sword energy.
Ten years ago, Qiu Che had never beaten Lian Shenwei—always falling short in comprehending sword intent.
“My thoughts exactly.”
Qiu Che said: “These ten years, to defeat you, I once confined myself atop a snowy mountain for several years, narrowly escaping death nine times, tempering my sword intent.”
He slowly gripped his sword with both hands. “Ximian, do you still remember my sword intent from before?”
“It’s matured far beyond what it was.”
Lian Shenwei: “Of course I remember.”
Qiu Che sighed: “These ten years, I’ve been moving forward, but you’ve stayed in place.”
“You’re so certain you’ll win?”
“During our exchange just now, you were at a disadvantage.”
Lian Shenwei smiled without speaking. “Then let’s begin.”
…
Tian Nan and Ming Zhu, following their master’s words, stayed far away.
“I never knew Master was even more formidable than us,” Tian Nan observed for a while, then was forced back by the violent winds, rubbing his eyes. “You don’t seem surprised?”
Ming Zhu: “During the southern tour, Master used internal energy once. After returning, his health deteriorated.”
“Did Master Feng really leave?”
Tian Nan: “Could it be fake? I saw it with my own eyes.”
Ming Zhu was silent for a moment: “Once the battle ends, we rush over immediately. I’m worried Master can’t hold on.”
“I’m watching, don’t worry—”
Clang—!
After an extremely deafening collision, the surrounding bamboo fell still, then was directly shattered by the internal energy scattered through the air.
When the supremely sharp sword energy impact reached Ming Zhu’s position, it was already very weak. Tian Nan was accidentally blown by this force and felt as if his face had been sliced by blades.
His body sensed danger and instinctively circulated internal energy to resist.
He drew a sharp breath: “Master and Master Qiu… they’ve probably touched that realm…”
Tianshu Realm.
The pinnacle of martial arts.
That ‘ultimate’ so many people spent their entire lives unable to glimpse.
After this powerful force passed, aside from the rustling sound of bamboo surging like waves, there was no other sound.
Ming Zhu: “Seems to be over.”
Tian Nan: “Should we go look?”
Horse hooves suddenly sounded ahead. Tian Nan alertly raised his head to see a blue-robed youth with a dark expression riding toward them.
Upon seeing them, the blue-robed man slapped the horse’s back, leapt into the air, and threw his riding crop to them. “Watch it! Don’t go over and cause trouble!”
Tian Nan fumbled to catch the horse, surprised: “Master Feng?!”
***
Qiu Che’s fingers trembled slightly from the shock. After a long while: “I’ve lost.”
Two-thirds up the Wuliang Sword’s blade, a tiny notch had appeared.
He was quiet for a few seconds: “Your sword intent…”
Swordsmen recognize people—sword intent is the most direct way to perceive.
In all the world, aside from Ximian himself, he was most familiar with Ximian’s sword intent. The first time he went to Phoenix Pavilion to challenge Ximian, he’d experienced his sword intent.
Carefree, unrestrained, graceful gentleman’s bearing.
But also very distant.
In the many subsequent exchanges, Ximian’s sword intent gradually took shape, and his perception became clearer.
But just now, what Ximian used wasn’t the sword intent he was familiar with.
He couldn’t specifically describe that feeling.
In that instant of confrontation, he seemed to return to when he was in closed-door training on the snowy mountain comprehending sword intent—that sense of despair each time nearing death.
Buried by cold snow covering his nose and mouth, with skeletons beneath pulling him down. Unable to break free, unable to move, blood and bone frozen inch by inch, gradually suffocating in invisible darkness.
That faint trace of warmth mixed in the sword intent was like a hallucination at the extreme of cold.
The moment he sensed it, he was startled.
A person could actually possess two different sword intents.
One must know, the tempering and formation of sword intent often requires a swordsman to single-mindedly seek for ten years, even decades.
In other words, Ximian’s second sword intent was newly comprehended during these ten years.
Lian Shenwei sheathed his sword: “Qiu Che, sword intent is hidden in the heart. It doesn’t require daily research to break through.”
Qiu Che’s expression was complex. He looked at him for a long time, then said slowly: “Back then, I asked that old Taoist who among our peers was stronger than me. He said it was you—heaven’s favored son, whose talent in the sword way was beyond reach.”
“I don’t believe in talent, only effort.”
If Ximian swung his sword ten times, he’d do it a hundred. If Ximian did it a hundred times, he’d do it a thousand, ten thousand times. The gap in talent—he’d forcibly bridged it through thousandfold perseverance to reach a level comparable to Ximian.
But if he and Ximian switched positions, asking himself honestly, he couldn’t achieve possessing two sword intents.
Qiu Che: “But I still haven’t beaten you.”
Lian Shenwei coughed against his lips and smiled: “I already gave it my all.”
Qiu Che: “Every time I crossed blades with you, I gave it my all.”
“But this time,” Qiu Che sighed softly, “I’d rather you didn’t have a second sword intent.”
The deathly stillness and coldness of sinking into the deep sea.
Was it forged from Fudu Manor’s hatred? But it didn’t seem entirely so. Sword intent cast purely from hatred couldn’t go far, much less reach such a perfected realm.
Through sword intent, he could perceive what kind of life Ximian had lived these ten years.
His vision began to blur. Lian Shenwei could no longer see Qiu Che’s face clearly.
He caught his breath. “…Brother Qiu, a bet is a bet.”
Qiu Che: “Mm.”
After hearing Qiu Che’s acknowledgment, Lian Shenwei’s lips curved upward. He slowly closed his eyes, unable to control himself as he fell backward, a trace of fresh blood spilling from the corner of his mouth, the Cangshan Sword slipping from his palm.
“—”
Qiu Che’s pupils contracted. His heart stopped for half a second. Instinctively he gathered his energy and reached forward.
Another figure moved faster than him.
A needle flew from Feng Ke’s fingertips, piercing Lian Shenwei’s neck. Then, face cold, he grabbed his shoulder with one hand, toes touching bamboo leaves as he flew up the cliff.
Without looking back, he ordered: “Qiu Che, go pick up his sword.”
Something dripped from the air.
Qiu Che extended his hand.
Blood splattered on his palm.
It was Ximian’s blood.
He forced himself to calm down and followed Feng Ke’s instruction, flying down to retrieve the sword.
***
“Water! Prepare both hot and cold water!”
Having handled this once before, Tian Nan and Ming Zhu quickly prepared water. Feng Ke couldn’t worry about anything else—he directly threw Lian Shenwei into the water.
Then with very rough movements, he tore open Lian Shenwei’s back clothing and pierced needle after needle into him.
Unlike before, this acupuncture was extremely slow. With each needle, sweat increased on his forehead.
“Consider yourself unlucky—this old man’s self-created needle technique, first time using it.”
This was an emergency treatment method he’d researched specifically for Lian Shenwei’s condition. Having just developed it, he’d originally planned to study it further with his father after returning to the Feng family, to see if it could be optimized.
Unfortunately… this needle technique consumed enormous energy from the practitioner. Fortunately, though he’d focused his energy on medical arts, he hadn’t neglected his internal cultivation.
Lian Shenwei’s heartbeat grew weaker and weaker.
Tian Nan and Ming Zhu’s expressions remained relatively composed. This was Qiu Che’s first time seeing Feng Ke with such a serious expression—he was too nervous to speak.
Feng Ke checked Lian Shenwei’s pulse. His fingers trembled slightly, then he ordered: “Hold down his arms.”
Tian Nan and Qiu Che firmly pressed down on Lian Shenwei’s arms.
Feng Ke once again planted the Marrow-Devouring Gu in Lian Shenwei’s body.
The Marrow-Devouring Gu took root and sprouted on Lian Shenwei’s thin back, burrowing into his bone marrow.
Yet he only struggled very weakly once, then had no further reaction.
Feng Ke’s blood suddenly ran cold.
Only when consciousness sank extremely deep would this situation occur—
Lian Shenwei didn’t want to wake up.
Feng Ke clenched his fists: “Qiu Che, what did he say to you before losing consciousness?”
Qiu Che’s voice was hoarse: “I only agreed to go to the frontier for him.”
Feng Ke: “Damn it!”
Tian Nan panicked: “Master Feng, why isn’t Master responding?!”
Feng Ke seemed not to hear. Eyes reddening, he viciously grabbed Lian Shenwei’s collar. “You…”
“You think you have nothing left to worry about?!”
“You still haven’t repaid me for the medicine materials! If you don’t want to be my slave next life, wake up right now, you bastard!”
“Your sister wasn’t bluffing you—acupuncture will make you see ghosts! If you dare walk that path, this old man will practice needling on you like when we were kids! Make you fear it for two lifetimes!”
“Qiu Che is lying to you—he won’t go to the frontier at all!”
“Ying Jingjue’s throne isn’t stable yet—look back!”
“We’re all here…”
***
A vast fog.
Lian Shenwei slowly walked into it.
He heard playful laughter deep within the mist.
These sounds drew closer and closer, yet what he saw before him grew increasingly blurred. What he wanted to grasp moved farther and farther away.
[Lian Shenwei, don’t sleep.]
Someone was calling him. The voice was familiar and urgent.
Lian Shenwei suspected he’d misheard. His steps paused briefly, then continued forward. Something there inexplicably attracted him.
Was this the Yellow Springs?
He couldn’t see the road.
He’d heard folk tales before—if relatives went ahead and worried their children couldn’t find the way, they’d leave a lamp along their path.
Had Father and the others left him a lamp?
Lian Shenwei looked left and right. He didn’t find one.
[…medicine money!]
That annoying voice came again.
[…not stable! Wake up!]
[He won’t go to the frontier at all! Lying to you—are you stupid?!]
Lian Shenwei stopped slightly, frowning.
So noisy.
He lifted his foot to continue forward when he suddenly heard a trembling—
[This old man is saying it one more time.]
[If you dare walk that path, this old man will practice needling on you like when we were kids! Make you fear it for two lifetimes!]
[Look back.]
Upon hearing “needling,” Lian Shenwei’s form stiffened completely, stopping entirely.
The fog ahead suddenly dispersed.
He slowly turned back.
Then turned around and walked back one step.
Just one step—searing pain suddenly struck.
***
The youth in the bathtub struggled without warning.
“It hurts…”
Feng Ke’s eyes lit up. “Hold him down!”
He raised his sleeve and roughly wiped his face. “Even if you’re dead, this old man will drag you back.”
…
Lian Shenwei remained unconscious for three days.
When he woke, Feng Ke, Qiu Che, Tian Nan, and Ming Zhu were all gathered around his bed.
Their expressions were all agitated, speaking hurriedly about something.
Lian Shenwei was bewildered.
After a long while, he tilted his ear.
Still not a single sound.
He couldn’t hear anymore.
**
wannaberecluse On SRTT Chapter 50.1