Chapter Fourteen: To Obtain a Sword

The night deepened, a slender crescent moon hung high. Silver light spilled down, the river reflected the moon’s glow as it flowed, and a small boat drifted along with the current. At one end of the boat sat a young man who didn’t quite seem so young. In his right hand, he held an iron sword; his left hand rested lightly on its blade.

The three-foot-long blade was not particularly sharp, its edge chipped and worn. Yet now this iron sword had become the sharpest and most fearsome weapon in the martial world.

The iron sword had drunk blood; its blade dulled somewhat.

Moonlight flickered over the young man’s tousled hair, his silver strands shimmering in the pale light. A strange expression crossed his face—part joy, part dissatisfaction—and in his eyes shone an inexplicable radiance.

Suddenly, he stood up. The moment he rose, he seemed transformed.

His back straightened, and standing tall at the bow, his figure was like a sword itself—ready to be drawn, at the most terrifying moment of all. In his hand, the blade flashed coldly under the moonlight, chilling mist seeping from its edge.

So too did the man seem to embody that chill.

At the instant he stood, an aura of brilliance radiated from him, a bone-deep cold that seemed to emanate from his very being. Even the river water around him felt chilled.

His body seemed to contain limitless power, perhaps always present but never before revealed.

With a movement of his hand, swordlight sprang forth!

A single stroke, light and effortless, seemed not overly fast, yet the gleaming blade flickered seven times in rapid succession.

The iron sword began to change; his moves shifted like the wind, so natural and fluid.

The swordlight grew brighter and swifter; suddenly, raindrops began to fall...

He waved his hand casually, seemingly at ease, yet each strike unveiled the essence of swordsmanship—an essence countless had toiled to grasp but never did.

One by one, the quintessence of the sword was drawn forth, sword winds forming in their wake. The rain was sliced apart like a curtain, waves parted by the sword's trail. Each cut left a mark, but the rain soon washed these away, only for more to appear anew.

Water curtains scattered, striking rocks and leaving gouges, then falling back into the river as thin lines.

He moved with nonchalance, each effortless gesture conjuring thirteen sword forms, without the slightest hesitation!

At this moment, the famed Thirteen Strikes should have reached their limit, their end. Yet in his hand, the sword flashed again—he unleashed a fourteenth strike.

This stroke was not part of the thirteen, neither bound by form nor pattern; it came abruptly, as if a careless swing.

But this strike was faster than the previous thirteen, cutting through the air with a brilliant, terrifying sword light—a beauty and dread intertwined.

After the strike, the momentum ceased.

The sword scars in the rain vanished, and amid the sound of rain came a long sigh. A trace of regret flashed across his face as he breathed, “Still not perfected.”

...

News of the events at Liu Sanye’s residence in Mount Heng spread swiftly—from Hengshan City to seven provinces within seven days. Both the righteous and the underworld knew that the Wudang master had betrayed his sect.

Now, all under heaven knew of the divine healer and master swordsman, Ren Yi. With a single sword, he had slain more than twenty disciples of the Qingcheng Sect, even killing their leader, Yu Canghai. He then struck down ‘Tower Hand’ Ding Mian, ‘Crane Hand’ Lu Bai, ‘Great Songyang Hand’ Fei Bin at Liu Zhengfeng’s manor, along with over thirty disciples of the Songshan Sect.

Because Liu Zhengfeng was rumored to collude with the demonic cult, Ren Yi’s intervention fueled rumors that he had joined the cult as well.

Yet after these events, the entire Liu family vanished from the martial world, while Ren Yi’s ferocious reputation grew, shaking the martial circles profoundly.

Alongside his fearsome fame, the sword technique with which he killed was widely spoken of.

It was neither Wudang swordsmanship nor any known orthodox style—no one had ever seen such a terrifying sword technique.

This only reinforced the belief that Ren Yi had fallen to the demonic path.

At least, most in the martial world thought so—and accepted it as fact.

The Purple Cloud Hall of Wudang, Mount Heng’s Dingyi, Mount Tai’s Tianmen and Songmen all successively visited the sect leader, Taoist Chongxu.

Upon learning of Ren Yi’s departure from Wudang, Taoist Chongxu tacitly accepted it.

...

To the south lay the Qinling Mountains, to the north the Yellow and Wei rivers; since ancient times, Mount Hua held the reputation of being the world’s most perilous peak. Beyond its danger, Mount Hua was lush with verdant, elegant vegetation, its scenery serene and delicate.

It was over three months since Ren Yi had left Hengshan City and arrived at the foot of Mount Hua.

This was not his first visit; two years prior, he had stood atop Mount Hua, but then only to seek medicine. This time, he came for sword combat.

Feng Qingyang bore the famed Dugu Nine Swords, a sword style that prized anticipating the enemy and endless variation in technique.

Ren Yi’s Fourteenth Strike was yet incomplete, lacking a certain elusive spirit of the sword. He sought to find that essence by studying the Dugu Nine Swords.

Gazing up at the peaks shrouded in clouds, Ren Yi suddenly sprang up, his toes barely touching the ground as he landed nimbly several yards away.

He then gathered his energy, twisting and shifting his body with swift agility, leaping through the forest like lightning. Each leap propelled him forward like an arrow shot from a bow.

Beneath his feet, a green leaf and a thin branch bore his weight as if it were solid ground.

After flying for a moment, the mountain peak came into view. He gathered his qi again, increasing his speed.

Ren Yi moved like lightning, covering thousands of miles in an instant. Now he climbed from the mid-mountain towards the summit, the air thinning, cold deepening, and mist thickening.

At the summit of Jade Maiden Peak stood a sheer cliff, smooth and barren, with no handholds except for a suspension bridge stretching across. Nothing grew there except a solitary shade tree. Nearby was a cave used by Mount Hua disciples for punishment when they broke sect rules.

Suddenly, a long howl echoed through the woods. Linghu Chong stood at the cliff’s edge; the howl was his own.

As the howl faded, Linghu Chong’s eyes blurred, catching a glimpse of a shadow flickering by. He stepped back in surprise but quickly sensed danger and turned swiftly.

Before him stood a figure, their face indistinct but silver hair like snow immediately revealing their identity. A flash of light, and Linghu Chong drew his sword, the green blade slashing diagonally.

The iron sword remained sheathed on the newcomer’s back. Ren Yi did not draw his blade; instead, he flicked a finger that struck like a blade, intercepting the flying sword on its edge.

“Ding!”

The finger power slid along the blade, reaching the hilt. Linghu Chong immediately felt the immense force transmitted through the sword—this finger strike was extremely heavy. The sword style of Mount Tai was known for its weight and steadiness, as was Tian Boguang’s rapid blade, but neither compared to this.

The sword’s tip was pushed violently to the left by the heavy finger force, and Linghu Chong nearly lost control, spinning thrice before regaining his stance.

His hand tingled numb; Linghu Chong regarded the man before him with fear.

“What brings you to Mount Hua?”

Ren Yi said nothing, turning and walking toward the cave.

Linghu Chong gritted his teeth and followed.