Chapter 36: To Mount Song First

It was late autumn. The autumn wind sighed, the leaves withered and fell, and the sunset painted the sky in shades of blood.

Beneath the rustling leaves, a man stood, a sword held in his hand.

Though it was merely a scabbard of black iron—lacking gold fittings or jeweled embellishments—there was hardly a soul in the martial world who did not recognize this sword, or who did not know of the man who bore it.

He had become famous in the martial arts world at the age of twelve or thirteen, and it had been less than two years since his sword became renowned across the land. Though he was not yet twenty, this sword had already become a legendary blade that everyone praised and feared.

It is often said that in literature there is no first place, and in martial arts, no second. A master of prose would never dare boast that his writing is the finest in the world; yet, those skilled in martial arts are prone to claiming their prowess is unrivaled and invincible.

Most who walk the path of the martial world are rebellious and unyielding. This is why there is so much bloodshed and strife; no one is willing to admit inferiority, and in the江湖, one’s pride can sometimes matter more than one’s life.

Naturally, this is not an absolute rule. There are those who, by virtue of their own terrifying skill, suppress the world. Ren Yi had become such a man.

A year ago, when Ren Yi descended from Mount Shaoshi, the titles of "World’s Number One" and "Invincible" were bestowed upon him. This past year, he had lived a life of leisure. Situ Baiji had built an estate for him by West Lake, and there he had resided. From the age of five, it had taken him seven years to master all thirty-three supreme arts of the Wudang Sect. Yet, after returning from Shaolin and staying by the lake for just one year, he had mastered all of the seventy-two Shaolin arts that had not been lost to history.

He was not the same child who had begun his martial training at five.

A year ago, Ren Yi had thought that when he finally laid this sword down, his life would come to an end. But now, he simply wished to finish what remained undone before departing this world.

"Brother Ren, we should go."

The voice was delicate and sweet, the speaker possessing a round, innocent-looking face. Only the eyes—bright and spirited—had changed. In Qu Feiyan’s gaze now, there was nothing but pride.

"Yes, it is time."

Ren Yi began to move, walking up the mountain path toward the summit. He walked slowly, yet he did not stop. Even if death lay ahead, he would not falter. After all, it would not be his death, but theirs.

"Many will die today."

"Mmm!" Qu Feiyan nodded. The young girl also carried a sword on her back, just as Ren Yi did—even though, at this moment, Ren Yi’s sword was held in his hand.

"Are you not afraid?"

"Feifei is not afraid!"

"That is good."

The mountain path was narrow but long. How long would they have to walk?

Suddenly, a shrill whistling cut through the air. From the woods on both sides of the path, a rain of hidden weapons descended, as dense as the stars in the night sky.

Ren Yi’s left thumb flicked the hilt, and his blood-stained sword flew forth. He did not seem to execute a formal stance or strike with solemnity; it was merely a light, effortless flick of the wrist. It was like a master calligrapher writing in a drunken stupor, or a painter finishing a masterpiece with a single stroke—seemingly casual, yet representing a peak of skill that countless others spent their lives chasing in vain.

*Ding, ding, ding, ding...*

A symphony of metal clashing erupted. As the blade danced, the cold light of the hidden weapons was instantly extinguished. At Ren Yi’s feet lay countless broken arrows, each one sliced perfectly in two, from tip to tail.

Then, the shouts of battle rang out. Twenty-eight figures leaped from the woods, wielding heavy broadswords. They descended with the force of a gale, their blades cutting through the air.

Facing these twenty-eight men and their twenty-eight swords, Ren Yi struck only once.

A beam of light rose at an angle, like a flash of lightning. It was a strike of such brilliance and splendor that it defied description—a blade so sharp it sliced through the very air and wind, possessing a power that was impossible to resist.

With a single flash, twenty-eight broken swords clattered to the ground.

As the twenty-eight men landed, Ren Yi’s form blurred and vanished. He moved with the light of his blade. The sword shimmered, slicing across a man’s throat. Another man saw Ren Yi standing beside his comrade, and then, standing before him—a figure in white robes with silver hair, holding the blood-stained sword.

Blood sprayed. The comrade’s head tumbled from his shoulders.

Seeing this, the man lost the ability to think, to move, and finally, to live. Those who fell were corpses, and those who stood would soon become the same.

The others attempted to flee, but every time they moved, they were met with that radiant, unstoppable light.

Hidden in the forest were two men: Gao Kexin, the "Brocade-Maned Lion," and Zhong Zhen, the "Nine-Curve Sword," both of the Songshan Sect. They were waiting for an opening—a chance to deliver a fatal blow. But such an "opening" did not exist. Before they could even decide, twenty-eight corpses already littered the ground.

It was too fast. A man of such skill would never grant them an opportunity—not even a moment’s hesitation.

The two men leaped out, choosing to flee after all. But then, Zhong Zhen watched as Gao Kexin’s neck was ensnared by the blade, his head shorn off just like the twenty-eight disciples before him.

As he landed, Zhong Zhen’s heart plummeted. Just as he gathered his strength to leap away, his body suddenly froze. His eyes drifted downward, catching sight of a crimson blade being drawn back from his own throat.

Pain and terror surged, and his mind grew hazy. Through the fog, a white figure walked past him.

"Brother Ren, we are almost at the gates of the Songshan Sect. We only need to climb these stairs."

Ren Yi offered a soft reply, and their footsteps did not falter.

...

On Shengquan Peak, the bells began to toll. The sound was deep, resonant, and far-reaching, yet it carried an undertone of frantic urgency; the one ringing the bell was terrified.

He was not the only one afraid; everyone in the Songshan Sect was gripped by terror, for he was coming.

Of the original Thirteen Taibao of the Songshan Sect, only six remained: Zhao Sihai, Zhang Jingchao, Bu Chen, Sima De, Sha Tianjiang, and Deng Bagong. Most of the thirteen had perished, and the culprit was the man before them.

Beyond this man, there was nothing but blood and corpses. It was a living hell, and those who witnessed the carnage turned pale, their faces twisted in horror.

In his hand was a sword—a vibrant, crimson blade. Everyone knew it had not always been that color. It had been dyed by the blood of his enemies. Hardly anyone remembered what the sword looked like originally, just as no one could remember how many lives had been extinguished by its edge.