Chapter Seventy-Three: Sword Against the Barbarian Monk

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"Which generation Dalabucuo are you?" Zhou Qian tried to locate the speaker by his voice.

"This humble monk is the ninth generation," the grand Buddhist tone pressed in from all directions through the darkness. The monk seemed in no hurry to strike, answering each question in turn.

"Yet I heard the last generation Dalabucuo was slain by my Uncle Master Linghu Ye, and the lineage was lost," Zhou Qian probed.

"Back then, the late Palace Master and the Three ** Kings met Swordmaster Linghu for a duel over the river. This monk was in attendance."

"I too have a question for you, benefactor. Would you resolve my doubt?"

"Speak," Zhou Qian frowned. This monk’s cultivation was truly profound—he couldn’t even hear his breathing.

"You entered through the Dragon Gate. Did you witness any strange sights or rare treasures?"

"As for rare treasures..." Zhou Qian drew out his words, "there was something indeed." He quietly shifted a step to the left.

"Oh?" The monk seemed surprised that Zhou Qian would answer so readily.

"Look, isn’t this one?" Zhou Qian drew the Lihuo Pearl from his robe; its faint, misty red glow shone brilliantly in the darkness.

"It truly is a treasure!" The Buddhist chant lost its grandeur, instead tinged with greed and cunning.

In that instant, Zhou Qian sprang back, closing the three-zhang gap in a flash. The Ghostmaster Sword sliced through the air with a piercing wail—the 461st move of the Myriad Swords Manual, "Ghosts Wail, Wolves Howl," designed to shatter Buddhist chants with the sound of spirits.

A rending sound split the darkness as fragments of kasaya slid past Zhou Qian’s cheek. The sword pressed on, its light sharp and chilling.

In contests between masters, victory is decided in a breath. This time Zhou Qian seized the advantage, unleashing seventy-six strikes in a blink, employing the "Flash Sword" technique from the four breaking sword forms.

Each strike carried killing intent, every move fatal, the sword edge even grazing the opponent’s skin. The monk could not retreat, face twisted with rage, palm raised to strike down the demon—

"I alone am supreme!"

The monk shouted the sacred phrase to honor the Buddha; "I alone am supreme" were the very words uttered at the Buddha’s birth.

One hand pointed to the sky, one to the earth—he alone was supreme in all the heavens and earth!

He was casting himself as the Buddha incarnate!

Zhou Qian switched his sword stance, adopting the only defensive form among the four—"Parting Sword."

A dense net of sword light filled the space before him. The palm strike landed, and the clash rang out, sparks flying as Zhou Qian retreated step by step, unleashing ten strikes with each retreat. Every step left a half-inch deep mark in the stone, and cracks webbed across the floor within three zhang.

Countless sword lights split, twisted, shredded, sliced, scattered, and slashed. The fan-sized palm was but a step from crushing Zhou Qian’s head—

Just then, countless sword lights flashed and vanished; Zhou Qian drew back his right leg in a wide step, left knee bent, right hand gripping the sword, vanishing into the gloom. His posture was that of a general charging into battle, like a viper poised to strike.

A thunderous crack—stone chips exploded underfoot. A ripping sonic boom shrieked through the darkness, a white line flashing into existence, as if it had always belonged there.

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Even a palm harder than refined iron could not withstand such a blow; sparks burst where palm met sword tip, then the sound of the blade piercing flesh.

Zhou Qian had used the Breaking Sword Form to shatter the Dalabucuo Palace’s secret art—the Grand Mudra—just as Linghu Ye had done years ago.

"You are formidable!" Zhou Qian praised. "Legend has it only the first and eighth generations mastered the Grand Mudra. I did not expect you to be counted as well."

"You flatter me," the Tantric disciple slowly withdrew his palm, yellowish blood staining the Ghostmaster Sword.

"The Parting Sword, Flash Sword, Breaking Sword—I seem to see the shadow of Old Master Linghu," he said.

"I am no match for you, benefactor. Permit me to take my leave." The monk pressed his palms together, a pale smile on his face, and vanished into the darkness.

"Trying to escape? Not so easy!" A flash of menace flickered in Zhou Qian’s eyes as he flicked his sword and launched into the Flowing Cloud, Flying Feather Step, lightning-fast in pursuit. How did a Tantric disciple get into the First Emperor’s Tomb? By what means? Was there a connection to the underworld? Why did the court allow him inside? And why meet here? Coincidence, or design? A thousand doubts plagued Zhou Qian’s mind.

Elsewhere, within the Qin Emperor’s tomb, among treacherous hills beset with corpse fires and dense shadows, a figure burst from the mist, turning to repel a pursuer with a backward sword strike.

"Lü Cunwen, get out of my way! Block me and I’ll slaughter your entire family!"

Before the words faded, a shadow flashed through the gloom. Zhou Xun’s eyes burned with excitement as he hurried after.

The Red Lotus Sect Master, Lü Cunwen, hesitated, conflict in his eyes. In the end, he gave up the chase and waited. Soon, Ren Xie led a crowd of odd-looking villains to join him.

The master of the Valley of Demons, Ren Xie, asked in a low voice, "Well?"

Lü Cunwen shook his head. "I could barely stand against him in the past. Now this madman Zhou has pushed his swordsmanship to a realm unfathomable to gods or spirits. My own arts can no longer restrain him."

"If we joined forces—"

"Useless. Even if everyone attacked together, it would not suffice. To live, one must be mad—if you had seen his swordplay..." Lü Cunwen sighed. "But at least until he achieves his goal, he won’t trouble us."

"Besides," Lü Cunwen paused, "he is not invincible. He still has a disciple."

"You mean that Young Sword Immortal who’s recently made such a name in the martial world?" Ren Xie grinned oddly.

"Let’s see how much he’s learned from his master..."

On the other side, deep in a cave filled with smoke and the constant wailing of beasts, several figures fled desperately, the wind howling about them. It was Tu Yong and the Tang Sect Master.

"Same as ever. Can’t these bald beasts of Dalabucuo Palace try something new?" Zhou Qian sneered as a dozen dark figures surrounded him, three or four bodies already at his feet.

"To slay demons and destroy evil, any means are justified!" The Buddhist chant echoed through the empty surroundings.

The ambushers had grotesque forms—centipede mouths, snake necks, triangular eyes, barrel waists, long ape arms—none resembled humans. Their attacks were wild but powerful and swift. Zhou Qian took advantage and cut down several, but soon found himself in a fierce struggle.

Fortunately, Zhou Qian’s swordsmanship was high, his stamina enduring. For the moment, he was not in danger—yet the longer it lasted, the more monsters appeared. In less than the time it takes to drink a cup of tea, four or fifty surrounded him.

Zhou Qian was no fool nor a man who fought to the bitter end. Seeing the numbers against him and the open space unfavorable, he decided to slip away and, at worst, change the battlefield.

Seizing an opening, he swept away eight hairy-armed beasts with his sword, stepped off his right foot, launched into the Ladder Cloud Leap, and soared a zhang high, stepping across several heads, escaping the encirclement, and fled using the Flowing Cloud, Flying Feather Step.

The First Emperor’s tomb was a labyrinth of interconnected tunnels. Zhou Qian kept a steady pace as the monsters trailed him relentlessly. After passing four or five entrances, he spotted a favorable terrain and hurried inside.

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It was a mountain crevice, the entrance so narrow that only one person could pass at a time. Zhou Qian slipped in, and the monsters followed, to their misfortune.

The essence of swordsmanship lies in change—capable of grand sweeps or nimble maneuvers. In tight quarters, its power was even greater, whereas the monsters relied on brute force, incapable of adaptation. Their flesh, though tough, was no match for the Ghostmaster Sword.

Zhou Qian shuffled forward in quick steps, shifting his sword technique to focus on piercing and slicing, targeting the monsters’ vital points with each advance and retreat. Screams and blood soon filled the crevice. After slaying more than twenty, the sword was slick with gore, and the surviving monsters finally realized the danger. They shrank back, huddling at the entrance, afraid to press on.

Fortunately, the crevice was open at both ends. Zhou Qian ventured deeper without a hint of fatigue, proof of his body’s strength after forging the inner elixir.

His senses, too, were greatly heightened. After a few more passages, he caught the faint sound of footsteps a hundred paces away and, intrigued, quietly followed.

Drawing near, he saw two secret guards of the Heavenly Strategy walking side by side. Though something seemed off, he relaxed at the sight of his own side’s men and revealed himself, greeting them—

"I am Zhou Qian. Where is General Li Guangzhi now?"

Two short arrows shot toward him—one grazing his shoulder, the other striking him square in the heart, knocking him to the ground.

The military short crossbows issued to the secret guards were the finest—able to pierce eight layers of armor at fifty paces, the arrowheads coated in deadly poison. The two, confident Zhou Qian was dead, skirted his "corpse" and moved on.

"You two must have a death wish!" Zhou Qian finally erupted in fury. Neither fearsome beast nor tantric master had been able to take his life, yet he was nearly undone by a petty ambush. Had he not worn the armored scale of the Yingyu fish beneath his clothes, he would have died an ignominious death!

"Or is this the imperial court’s will?" Zhou Qian rose, killing intent radiating from him. The two men felt as if a sword’s edge pressed to their throats, the murderous aura almost tangible.

The title "Hundred-Armed Sword Immortal" was earned through a trail of bodies; but the "Young Sword Immortal" was no less formidable!

Forced by Zhou Qian’s presence, both drew their heavy black-iron swords and charged.

If it had been those monsters, sturdy and strong but untrained, a mediocre swordsman could handle three at once. But the Heavenly Strategy secret guards were different—they were the empire’s most lethal enforcers, usually requiring three or four skilled martial artists to match one of them. Before forming his inner elixir, Zhou Qian might have struggled; now, it was effortless.

Two heavy swords swung with a chilling whistle. Zhou Qian slipped forward a half-step, dodging easily. At the same time, the Ghostmaster Sword cut through the air—'sssh'—blood spurted from the right guard’s neck.

Changing his technique, Zhou Qian raised both hands, gripping the sword for the simplest move in all the martial world—"Splitting Mount Hua"—and brought it down overhead.

The secret guard braced his massive sword to block, but with a thunderous crash, hundreds of pounds of man and armor were driven to their knees. Zhou Qian cast aside his sword, raised his fists, and pummeled the man’s face, splitting brows and shattering sockets, bruises blooming red, black, and purple.

After a long while, Zhou Qian let out a breath, wiping sweat from his brow and reflecting, "Brother Li was right—beating people really is satisfying!"

Elsewhere, not all were so fortunate. As Zhou Qian caught his breath, Tang Sect’s Master Wei and Tu Yong were being chased breathless and sweating by a monstrous beast. These two venerable martial leaders hadn’t been this harried in years.

"Old Wei, where’s that fire-spitting pearl of yours? Give that monster a few more shots!" Tu Yong gasped.

"Fireballs from our Tang Sect cost fifty thousand taels each—how many do you think I can carry?" Master Wei retorted.