Chapter Thirty-Seven: A Sword That Startles the Four Corners

At once, the banquet hall was thrown into an uproar, and some of the younger generation could not contain themselves and leapt forward—

“I am Wei Yue, disciple of Master Wutong, head of the Dian Cang Sect. I ask for guidance from the Sword Immortal’s esteemed pupil!”

“I am Luo Yu, the Soaring Sword Crane, nineteen years old. Brother Zhou, would you be willing to exchange a move or two with me?”

“Liu Rui, who began learning the sword at five, self-taught, practicing diligently day and night for twelve years—today, I challenge you to a duel!”

Though these three were not the first to step forward, once they spoke, the rest of the younger generation fell silent, clearly recognizing them as the most accomplished among their peers.

“Brother Luo, Brother Liu, why not let me take the lead?” Wei Yue said boldly, cupping his hands. Luo Yu nodded dourly, while Liu Rui simply cradled his sword in silence. Wei Yue glanced around, and seeing no other challengers, turned to Zhou Qian, “Brother Zhou, please!”

Zhou Qian, still irked by recent events, was eager for an outlet for his frustration. Dispensing with the usual pleasantries, he drew his sword, Jue Guang, its blade as limpid as emerald water.

Wei Yue was momentarily taken aback by Zhou Qian’s directness. He cupped his hands again, then took up both a saber and a sword from the attendants—the saber a thick-backed black blade, the sword a precious weapon of dark gold.

Wei Yue’s technique was the Dian Cang’s supreme Dual Polarity Saber and Sword Art, a discipline reserved for the sect leader and a few elders. It was said that from a young age, Wei Yue had shown great talent and diligence, advancing the art to the fourth level, where saber and sword could be interchanged seamlessly—the saber acquiring the sword’s agility, the sword the saber’s grand momentum.

Saber and sword shifted in dazzling succession; saber-light flashed, sword-light danced, the interplay of blade and edge pressing Zhou Qian’s Jue Guang into retreat. Saber turned to sword, sword to saber, flickering unpredictably. Zhou Qian frowned; the style was indeed bizarre. The dark-gold sword could chop or slice, while the black saber could sweep or thrust—he could find no flaw for the moment. Fortunately, the breadth of his own sword techniques allowed him to hold his ground, not fearing a sudden breakthrough from Wei Yue.

Wei Yue, too, was troubled. Rumor had it that Zhou Qian had received both name and surname from Zhou Xun, and had been brought from the northern borderlands just half a year ago. Yet in such a short span, his swordsmanship had become so varied and profound that Wei Yue could only maintain a slight upper hand by relying on the advantage of his dual weapons. Moreover, his own mastery of the art had not reached true perfection; subtle flaws remained whenever saber and sword were exchanged. The longer the duel dragged on, the greater the chance Zhou Qian would spot these weaknesses. There was no choice but to decide matters quickly.

Wei Yue’s greatest secret lay in his hands—he was left-handed, his left arm far stronger and more dexterous than his right. The Dual Polarity Art, however, required the saber in the right hand, the sword in the left. Wei Yue had labored bitterly to train his right hand to match his left, even as he secretly honed his left further. Outwardly, his saber and sword seemed matched in power, but in truth, his left hand was at least half again as strong, capable of feats his right could not match.

Wei Yue parried Jue Guang with his right-hand saber, while his left-hand sword cleaved fiercely and swiftly at Zhou Qian, its speed increased by sixty percent!

Yet Wei Yue did not expect Zhou Qian to have already noticed this. Since mistakenly eating the red apricot, Zhou Qian’s strength had increased daily, far outstripping Wei Yue’s. Even in the duel, Zhou Qian had been holding back, relying solely on technique. He had observed that subtle changes in his own force—an increase or decrease—had no effect on the agile dark-gold sword, but slightly wobbled the heavy black saber, leading him to suspect Wei Yue was hiding some secret strength.

When Wei Yue delivered his powerful strike, Zhou Qian was ready. His own hands were far stronger than Wei Yue’s left, and he could have met force with force. But he reasoned that if a contest of swordsmanship devolved into a test of brute strength, it would be pointless. Instead, he unleashed a technique he had only just devised.

Wei Yue’s sword came down like a tiger descending the mountain, but Zhou Qian’s blade flickered and withdrew, his stance dissolving, stepping back a pace and a half—precisely when Wei Yue’s attack reached its apex. Then, in a flash, his sword tip darted like a serpent along the dark-gold blade, thrusting for Wei Yue—

The brilliance of the move lay in striking just as Wei Yue’s new force was spent and old strength not yet renewed. If Wei Yue insisted on completing his strike, Zhou Qian’s tip would pierce his skull first. With no recourse, Wei Yue abandoned his sword and conceded defeat.

Panting, Wei Yue asked, half in disbelief, “You truly have only practiced swordsmanship for half a year?”

Zhou Qian shook his head. “Not even half a year. My master only began teaching me my first sword form two months ago.”

All present looked at each other in astonishment. Qian Yue, the Tiger-headed Squire, interjected, “And how goes your progress in body refinement?”

“The Third Young Master’s body training has reached the level of toughened skin and flesh—progressing slowly, making a laughingstock of myself,” replied Steward Sun with a smile.

At this, the crowd was again struck with amazement. This was unheard of! Martial artists honed their bodies from childhood, following a gradual, methodical path. Extraordinary swordsmanship could be attributed to genius, but such rapid progress in physical training was beyond reason.

“Our Third Young Master once ate an immortal fruit in the wild, refining his blood and marrow; so he had no need for ordinary methods of body-hardening!” Steward Sun added, as if determined to spread Zhou Qian’s fame.

Though the tale of a miraculous encounter was hard to swallow, the assembly had no choice but to accept it. Yet they could not help but marvel at Zhou Qian’s extraordinary luck.

“An immortal fruit?” muttered the slovenly Daoist, a flash of green flitting through his eyes. “The Fire Apricot of the Demon Hag? How did it fall into this boy’s hands? Could it be another scheme of the Demon Lord? But why spare the boy’s life? Strange, very strange…”

Wei Yue withdrew, helpless, thinking, “I’ll have to advance my Dual Polarity Saber and Sword Art to the fifth level, the union of saber and sword, to surpass this boy. But only my father has reached that stage. I thought myself a rising figure in the martial world—seems I’ve underestimated my peers.”

While the crowd was lost in speculation, Liu Rui stepped before Zhou Qian. “I have no sect inheritance, no superior body training. I have but one sword move—after one strike, I cannot fight on. Will you still accept my challenge?”

Zhou Qian detected sincerity in Liu Rui’s words and felt a surge of goodwill. To admit so frankly the limits of one’s own skill was no small thing, and if he could not withstand a single strike, he had only his own inadequacy to blame.

“Please, Brother Liu.”

“Brother Zhou, beware—this sword is called ‘Severing Ghosts and Gods!’ It is the fruit of over a decade’s toil. Be on your guard!”

Zhou Qian knew full well the might of a sword technique honed for over ten years. He mustered all his focus.

Liu Rui’s pallid complexion flushed with color, his grip on the hilt steady as a mountain. The sword flashed—ghosts and gods startled!

His was an ordinary sword; he himself was naturally frail, weaker than most. Yet nothing could quench his passion for the sword. Lacking a strong body or peerless technique, he poured his entire soul into one strike—should gods or ghosts bar his way, he would slay gods and exorcise ghosts. As the sword was drawn, its aura was formed.

Sweat streamed down Zhou Qian’s brow. The sword seemed utterly unremarkable, yet radiated an inescapable force—unyielding courage and resolve, a sword that would forsake all to break through all. The battered blade moved slowly toward him, but Zhou Qian found himself unable to so much as lift his arms. He recognized this as the grip of fear, his heart seized by the desperate roar of a mortal refusing to bow to fate.

“Master!” cried Steward Sun in alarm.

“My disciple, Zhou Xun’s pupil, if he cannot succeed, will die with honor!” Zhou Xun closed his eyes, but his clenched fists betrayed his inner turmoil.

A sense of death crept over Zhou Qian, as if he were wrapped in darkness, choked and gasping, time itself slowing. Faces around him—surprise, worry, schadenfreude—passed before his eyes: his brother’s panic, his master’s taut expression, and would his sister Zhao shed a tear or two if he fell here?

This was his life, this his fate. Zhou Qian suddenly longed to sigh, a strange calm filling his heart. It would end here. All are born and die in their time; to fall to the sword was no shame.

Neither joy nor sorrow, anger nor fear, kindness nor malice—embracing all yet discarding all, contending with nothing, yet nothing could withstand it. This was the Way of Heaven, and also the sword path Zhou Qian had grasped by the lakeside. A sudden insight dawned in his heart.

Heaven and earth are impartial; all things but straw dogs—

Jue Guang flashed, and at the very brink, deflected Liu Rui’s sword tip.

“I concede,” Liu Rui said, face ashen, arm trembling uncontrollably, unable even to grip his sword—clearly, the strain of that one stroke had been immense.

“That strike was your victory,” Zhou Qian replied, as if surfacing from deep water, his clothes drenched in sweat in mere moments.

Liu Rui looked at Zhou Qian with a complex gaze. He knew his own peak had passed; with ordinary talent and no special gifts, his sword path had reached its end, while this youth was only at the dawn of his journey, rising like the morning sun.

Zhou Qian watched Liu Rui’s sorrowful, desolate figure depart, wanting to speak but finding no words, his heart stifled. He felt not the slightest resentment toward the man who had nearly ended his life. Only years later did Zhou Qian learn that Liu Rui had abandoned the sword and the jianghu, taking up his family’s affairs, marrying, and settling into an ordinary life…

“Haha! Young hero Zhou, with the first two finished, is it not my turn, Luo Yu, the Soaring Sword Crane?” As the crowd was still caught in emotion, one leapt forth.

“You shameless brat! Can’t you see Young Hero Zhou is exhausted, and you’d take advantage? And you call yourself the nephew of Luo Cheng, the hero of Guanzhong!” someone shouted angrily.

“Not so!” Luo Yu retorted. “The Sword Immortal said anyone who bests his disciple may examine the two manuals—he never specified what state Brother Zhou had to be in. As long as I defeat him, that’s enough—surely the Sword Immortal will not go back on his word?”

Instantly, the crowd’s opinion of Luo Yu fell. No one could imagine how the once-honorable Luo Cheng could have such a shameless disciple. Second Brother Li cursed him up and down his family line, while Luo Cheng paid it no heed, fixing his gaze on Zhou Qian and Zhou Xun.

Just as Zhou Xun was about to speak, Zhou Qian interjected, “If you wish to fight, then come.”

He did not realize that after eating the Fire Apricot, his powers of recovery were extraordinary; in a short time, he had regained nearly half his strength—not enough for the likes of Liu Rui or Wei Yue, but more than sufficient to deal with an annoyance like Luo Yu.

Luo Yu, thinking Zhou Qian reckless and hot-headed, was inwardly delighted. He unleashed his uncle’s sword style, every move treacherous and aimed at Zhou Qian’s vitals.

Luo Cheng’s swordplay was inspired by the flight of a hundred birds—graceful and unrestrained. Yet in Luo Yu’s hands, it became a venomous art, potent but lacking in variation. Eager for victory, he lost his composure, further weakening his technique.

Long ago, Luo Cheng had once saved Zhou Xun’s life, and Zhou Qian owed him a favor. When Luo Yu learned of this connection, he begged his uncle for help. Though Luo Cheng was reluctant to take advantage, he eventually gave in to his beloved nephew’s pleading, also wishing to find his nephew a good master. But after Zhou Xun’s return from the north with a new disciple, the matter was dropped. Luo Yu, however, narrow-minded and jealous, resented Zhou Qian for “stealing” the master he thought was rightfully his, and thus harbored malice—if he could not have it, no one else should.

But Zhou Qian was no saint, nor one to repay evil with kindness. Having just survived a brush with death, he felt his swordsmanship had advanced yet again, his calm now tinged with boldness. He needed only four moves—one to block, one to break, one to cripple his opponent’s arm, and before the fourth was even unleashed, Luo Yu had fled in panic, covering his head and exposing his rear.

“This world is truly a marvel,” Zhou Qian mused. “It has nuisances like Luo Yu, and sword fanatics like Liu Rui.”

After the duels, the gazes upon Zhou Qian changed once more—from curiosity to a trace of wariness. After all, few present could boast of surviving the strike Liu Rui had just delivered.

Zhou Qian, feeling dispirited after the matches, found an excuse to leave the great hall, wandering aimlessly. Suddenly, an attendant hurried over, handing him a thin booklet. “Young Master, Liu the Swordsman asked me to deliver this to you before he left.”

Zhou Qian was taken aback. He glanced at the tattered yellow cover, where three unyielding characters stood—Severing Ghosts and Gods.

He opened it. On the second page, the ink was still fresh: “I entrust my sword path to you.”

“I entrust my sword path to you…” Zhou Qian murmured.