Chapter Eighty-Six: Magic Versus Martial Arts

Three figures approached: Dalabcuo, the ninth-generation monk from the Western Regions, a man in a crimson robe whose solemn face betrayed no age, and another—

“Little Four!” Zhou Qian’s heart leapt; the last of the group was none other than Little Four, bound and stumbling forward, his eyes vacant. As Zhou Qian’s gaze swept over the crimson-robed man’s garment, he caught sight of a red lotus embroidered upon it, and his eyes narrowed—Lü Cunwen, the Red Lotus Sect’s master! At last, a meeting long anticipated.

Lü Cunwen’s eyes brightened at the sight of the stone chamber, and he strode toward it at haste, but Zhou Qian’s Ghost Master Sword was already drawn, murderous intent filling the air.

Lü Cunwen paused at the chamber’s threshold, his smile twisted. “It seems we have company—someone from the martial world arrived before us.”

Zhou Qian started, as a sudden rush of air sounded behind him. Instinctively, he spun, his sword sweeping right; the stone spike jutting from the wall was sliced clean through, and Zhou Qian’s form was revealed.

“Hm?” Dalabcuo’s voice rang out, surprised. “So it is you, Benefactor Zhou.”

“Monk, Sect Master Lü—one’s a remnant, the other a rebel. What a fitting pair.” Zhou Qian’s gaze lingered on Little Four.

“Such insolence from a young wanderer,” Lü Cunwen laughed lightly. “I have heard you’ve attained the Pill of Mastery. But martial arts, once you reach the Pill, are at their pinnacle—and at their precipice. No matter how well you train, what use is it? Could it ever rival the wonders of sorcery?”

“Would you dare say such words to my master?” Though Zhou Qian worried for Zhou Xun, he could not help but relish the comfort of having a formidable master, especially when it came to confronting others.

Lü Cunwen’s expression darkened. Indeed, before Zhou Xun, everything he took pride in was shattered.

“Since you’re so ignorant, I shall teach you on behalf of your master!” With a flick of his hand, a black mist surged forth, rolling toward Zhou Qian. Zhou’s eyes narrowed, recalling Li Guang’s warning.

“Does this mist confuse the mind?” Zhou Qian did not retreat but pressed forward, his sword flashing with biting cold. He held his breath, yet his head grew dizzy—this fog was truly formidable.

Like a cat with its tail raised, Zhou Qian cracked his whip, his whole body trembling. The air around him exploded, forcing the black mist back a foot. The Ghost Master Sword pointed straight at Lü Cunwen—steady, ruthless.

Lü Cunwen snorted, forming a spell seal with his fingers. Four walls of wind manifested out of thin air; Zhou Qian broke through three, but the last twisted his sword’s direction. He withdrew, turning with flawless precision.

Lü Cunwen pressed his palm downward, launching himself skyward. His fingers moved in quick succession, conjuring fireballs, icicles, and lightning bolts, which shot forth in rapid succession. Zhou Qian parried desperately—barely holding his own.

“Martial arts are a dead end. Only by transforming martial prowess into sorcery can one find a way out. Your master is stubborn—he’ll crash headlong into ruin. Reversing one’s vital essence as he does—hmph! How many years do you think he has left?” Lü Cunwen taunted.

Zhou Qian faltered for a moment, and his sword slowed. Lü Cunwen seized the opportunity; his crimson robe billowed, countless spells rained down like a storm, shattering Zhou Qian’s clothes and flesh. Against such uncanny magic, his three-foot blade alone could not prevail.

“Either be a man and master martial arts, or become immortal and tread the path of sorcery. If you struggle at both, you are neither man nor immortal—what do you amount to?” Zhou Qian’s voice was resolute.

His sword danced, serpent-like in water, tiger-like in the mountains—he was truly the disciple of a sword immortal, each move unpredictable, infinite in variation. He managed to block most of the spells.

It was not that the Ghost Master Sword could directly ward off sorcery, but that Zhou Qian’s mastery had reached such heights—he could sense, discern, and dissolve force. Magic, whether thunder or flame, though born of different elements, was a kind of force and could be countered. Even mortal martial arts held wonders.

Those spells that did slip through were shattered by Zhou Qian’s fists or feet, relying on the yang energy nurtured after attaining the Pill, which suppressed sorcery. Mortal bodies might age and die, but they held myriad secrets—only after forming the Pill did human potential reach its limits, and this was a true Pill, not a false one. Judging by the circumstances, Lü Cunwen’s Pill was a counterfeit.

Yang energy enveloped Zhou’s palms—catching a fireball, he spun it with gentle force, pushing it away. A small crater exploded in the stone wall. The two fought on, their battle devastating the ten-pace area like plow and powder, leaving nothing intact.

In the midst of the fierce battle, a palm wind struck from behind Zhou Qian’s head. He responded with the Floating Cloud Palm, six forces combined, blasting the black mist apart.

“Dalabcuo! Would the Buddha condone such treachery?” Zhou Qian shouted.

“The Buddha said: ‘To vanquish demons, all means are permitted!’” The Buddhist chant echoed through the Black Wind Cave.

Lü Cunwen in front, the monk behind—Zhou Qian was surrounded. He laughed, “Good, good! This battle comes at the perfect time. Let old grudges be settled here. Let us see, sorcery or martial arts, Han or foreign—who will prevail?”

The black mist surged again, and within it, firelight, palm force, sword aura, Buddhist chants, and golden rays clashed in relentless waves. Segment after segment of the stone passage was pulverized, the earth quaked, thunder roared—the spectacle was terrifying.

Something triggered an array; the scene changed, dark clouds covered the sky, blue stone paved the ground. Suddenly, a demon deity appeared mid-air—a black-faced, fanged, hundred-armed, ten-headed giant. Its ten-pace-wide palm pressed down, its aura so overwhelming that none of the three could move.

“Didn’t Grandpa Can say the Windy Cave’s formations were useless?” Zhou Qian broke into a cold sweat, bending low with his sword, unwilling to accept this fate.

His eyes flicked to the other two—same predicament. Could it be that the end would see all three perish together?

But the terrifying deity’s palm began to crumble inch by inch, the dark clouds dissipated, the blue stone cracked, and the world seemed to shatter. All three plunged into the abyss, only to find themselves still within the Windy Cave. “So it truly is useless!” Zhou Qian breathed deeply, his eyes burning as he and the other two resumed their fierce fight.

As the battle raged, Zhou Qian’s foot triggered another array. Still in the cave, but now three blazing tigers leapt from the stone walls, pouncing at the trio.

Zhou Qian was nearest, quickly raising his sword. But the flaming tiger passed through him, vanishing in midair—a phantom.

The other two sighed in relief. Dalabcuo waved his hand, attempting to dispel the illusion, but the tiger became real, biting off three fingers and half his palm, blood flowing.

Lü Cunwen braced himself, but his tiger was only a shadow. Zhou Qian laughed, “The Buddha said: ‘To punish your treachery, retribution has come!’”

Lü Cunwen, enraged, unleashed a furious palm seal, Buddhist chants roaring. Zhou Qian merged with his sword, forging a path through the black mist.

In raw skill, Dalabcuo was perhaps the weakest. Zhou Qian trained in martial arts, Lü Cunwen in sorcery—their paths were different and not easily compared, but each could challenge the other. By this measure, Zhou Qian was at a disadvantage.

Yet that was not entirely accurate. For the martial world’s top experts, terrain and weapons mattered little, but the arrays of heaven and earth treated mortals as ants. Stranger still, the Windy Cave’s formations seemed powerless—with form but no spirit—preserving their lives, though not wholly ineffective. Which array affected whom depended on luck, adding infinite variables to their struggle.

The deeper the three fought, the further they descended, until at last they reached the stone chamber at the cave’s heart to decide the outcome. Sword light flashed, palm seals thundered, sorcery was wondrous—each move deadly, each blade intent to kill. Life and death hung on a handful of exchanges.

Zhou Qian calculated—he had eighty percent chance to kill Dalabcuo, but then sixty percent risk of being slain by Lü Cunwen. If he used the Killing Sword Finger, his odds rose to sixty percent, but he would be gravely wounded. If he used it first—

Dalabcuo and Lü Cunwen were likewise calculating and guessing. Everything was unknown, everything mutable. Within the chamber, only the jade artifact remained untouched; all else was battered by their battle. The wall behind the jade suddenly collapsed, revealing another world beyond…