The moment Fang Zhuhhou stepped into the Songhe Tower, the Sect Master’s eyes involuntarily narrowed to slits.
Even more than that — he felt every single pore across his entire body expanding, a wave of faint, electric tingling spreading across his skin, giving him the illusion that every last hair on his body had stood on end.
In all his years, this was the first time the Sect Master had ever encountered his own kind.
In the moment he had just sent Li Chi’s broadsword flying, he had naturally sensed how exceptional that blade was — how powerful.
The weight of that sword alone would make it difficult for an ordinary person to simply hold the handle and keep the blade level with one hand.
And then, after being sent flying, it spun outward with such tremendous force that it could have shattered the bones of any common person it struck — might even have run someone through entirely.
Yet the man in the blue robe who appeared in the doorway simply raised his hand in what seemed a casual gesture, and the blade froze in his grip.
His raised arm showed not the slightest backward swing — meaning that every ounce of force carried in that blade had been absorbed and neutralized by him alone.
It was at precisely that moment that the Sect Master’s eyes had narrowed.
What others had failed to see, he had observed with perfect clarity.
In the instant the man in blue caught the Minghong Blade, he had seen a thin layer of fine dust rise from beneath the man’s feet.
The flying sword had been seized in midair. The force contained within it had been drawn into the body. That force had then been dispersed through the flesh and channeled down into the earth. That thin layer of rising dust was the visible proof of it.
A heavy blade spinning at tremendous speed caught by a hand raised high, yet without the arm being pulled even a hair’s breadth in any direction — this was unreasonable.
The force of the blade being discharged through the body and transferred into the ground, yet disturbing only that thin, barely-visible layer of dust — this too was unreasonable.
And yet beneath all these unreasonable surfaces lay the most perfectly reasonable method by which a human being could wield the force of his own body.
It was simply that the vast majority of people would find it utterly incomprehensible — would even find it a violation of what the human body was capable of.
In the entire Songhe Tower, only two and a half people could understand what had just transpired — even Master Wu and Master Ye had not fully grasped it.
One was the Sect Master. One was Su Xiaoxu. And half was Li Chi.
Li Chi had only just begun to touch the threshold of this level. That he could grasp half of it was already proof enough of his extraordinary talent.
In terms of cultivation insight, Su Xiaoxu understood it well — but she lacked certain physical prerequisites. That was her one and only limitation.
Had her physical condition been somewhat more exceptional, the strike she had just delivered — condensing her two fingers into a blade — would not have merely forced a fight that was seventy-thirty in the Sect Master’s favor up to sixty-forty. It would have been fifty-fifty.
Fang Zhuhhou stepped into the Songhe Tower, glanced at the Sect Master, then looked around at the assembled group — nearly all of whom had taken injuries.
His gaze finally settled on Li Chi. After resting there for a moment, he spoke quietly.
“May I borrow your sword for one use?”
Li Chi nodded.
Fang Zhuhhou set his own sword, the Pojia, to one side. His movements were unhurried.
The Sect Master kept his eyes on him the entire time. For now, the whole world had narrowed to only Fang Zhuhhou.
After setting the Pojia down, Fang Zhuhhou smiled at Li Chi: “Your sword will serve better.”
Li Chi said: “My sword is heavier and more—”
Before he could finish, Fang Zhuhhou gave a faint shake of his head: “No, that’s not it. I’m afraid of damaging my own sword.”
Li Chi: “……”
Borrowing someone else’s blade because he was worried about breaking his own — this seemed rather shameless.
And yet to say it so openly, so calmly — perhaps “rather shameless” wasn’t quite adequate. It was probably a degree or two beyond that.
*He said he only needed to borrow it once* — which possibly meant… it would only survive one use.
Fang Zhuhhou walked to stand opposite the Sect Master. At last, the two of them faced each other in what felt like the most formal confrontation yet.
The Sect Master asked a question that seemed unrelated to the moment: “Do you think there is a difference between a sword and a blade?”
Fang Zhuhhou shook his head: “They are only instruments. Tools for channeling force.”
The Sect Master’s eyes flickered slightly. Some of the wariness — even the reverence — he had felt toward Fang Zhuhhou seemed to diminish.
He shook his head as well: “If a weapon’s only function is to channel force, why use a sword at all? I could use a chopstick. You could use a toothpick. What would be the difference?”
Fang Zhuhhou said: “I could use either a chopstick or a toothpick. As long as I have one.”
A faint smile curved at the Sect Master’s lips.
He had overestimated this opponent.
He gestured at the people present: “While I fight you, I will kill these people — including Prince Ning, Li Chi. Let’s see whether you can stop even one or two of those deaths.”
Fang Zhuhhou: “I don’t know any of them well.”
Sect Master: “????”
The Sect Master lunged forward and brought his blade down in a strike aimed at Li Chi.
As the blade was raised, it seemed as though light itself was drawn into the steel — all the brightness of the world gathered along its edge, and beyond the edge another edge formed.
The blade descended.
But within a fifth of a breath, it could not finish its arc.
Because Fang Zhuhhou had moved as well — not to save Li Chi, but to sweep his own blade out toward the back of the Sect Master’s neck.
Caught off guard, the Sect Master was forced to twist sideways to dodge, and in the same motion swung his blade back in a sweeping counter.
The Jinzhe Blade and the Minghong Blade collided in midair, and it seemed as though even the air was shaken into ripples invisible to the naked eye.
The Sect Master’s eyes narrowed. He had not expected this man in blue to truly make no move to save Li Chi.
“Your heart is cold.”
The Sect Master said.
Fang Zhuhhou answered him with perfect seriousness: “I told you already — I don’t know any of them well.”
The meaning was clear: *Kill whoever you wish to kill. You may kill anyone at all. I will only kill the one I wish to kill, and I only wish to kill you.*
Even before that exchange of blows, the Sect Master had been certain that this man was the only true match he had encountered in his entire life.
That was precisely why he had struck at Li Chi first — to force the man in blue to react. But it had been useless.
Had Fang Zhuhhou drawn his blade to save Li Chi, he would have been put on the defensive from the start, with all the initiative in the Sect Master’s hands.
And so, in a rare gesture, the Sect Master drew one deep breath.
He faced Fang Zhuhhou directly.
The Jinzhe Blade struck again.
On this second blow, the radiance along the blade’s surface was heavier.
This time, Fang Zhuhhou drew a deep breath as well.
The two men’s bladework now seemed to have nothing to do with speed — every person present could follow their movements clearly.
This made it all the more baffling. No one could explain why.
The two blades did not collide this time either. It was as though both strikes had deflected slightly, and the two lengths of steel scraped against each other as they descended.
The sparks that flew up between them were like scales shed between two clashing dragons.
This seemingly unremarkable exchange made the young Zhenren Zhang wonder for a moment whether his own cultivation had suddenly advanced — because the speed of those two strikes was, in truth, not fast at all. Even he felt that he could have swung a blade at that same speed.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, the elder Zhenren Zhang had arrived and was supporting Li Chi, pulling him back toward the edge of the room.
The young Zhenren Zhang’s expression was one of disbelief. But the elder Zhenren Zhang’s face was grave to an extreme, and carried within it something close to dread.
He had been the last to arrive — not because he was the weakest, but because age had simply made it impossible for him to keep pace with Li Chi. Time was an enemy that could not be defeated. The elder Zhenren Zhang possessed the ability to glimpse half a measure of the workings of heaven, yet even that could not hold age at bay.
His mind remained as sharp as ever. His judgment remained as lucid as ever. But his body could no longer keep up with Li Chi.
In terms of cultivation insight, the elder Zhenren Zhang would not have fallen far short of Su Xiaoxu. In terms of perceptiveness and discernment, he was a step ahead of Master Wu and Master Ye.
His disciple, the young Zhenren Zhang, was, by comparison, still lacking in certain things.
The elder Zhenren Zhang guided Li Chi back toward the entrance and set him down before asking: “Thirteen strikes?”
Li Chi shook his head: “Fourteen.”
Su Xiaoxu’s voice came, slightly trembling: “Fifteen.”
In that single moment that the young Zhenren Zhang had witnessed — that single, unremarkable stroke — the two fighters had already exchanged fifteen blows. It was only because the speed was so extraordinary that the fifteen strikes left overlapping impressions, making the blades appear to have moved only once, in one perfectly ordinary swing.
The two figures suddenly separated. Fang Zhuhhou in his blue robe slid back three or four steps. The Sect Master in his white robes slid back nearly the same distance.
Both had come to a standstill — yet neither could still his hands, because the blades had not stilled.
In Fang Zhuhhou’s hand, the Minghong Blade trembled with a fine, rapid vibration — like the wings of an insect beating.
The Jinzhe Blade in the Sect Master’s hand did the same. The frequency of vibration was such that neither of them could immediately bring the trembling under control, so that their hands appeared to blur with it — yet above the wrist, both men’s arms were perfectly steady.
This was the incomparable resonance between the two greatest blades in existence. In all the world, it was unlikely that any other swords could resonate so with each other.
And if these two blades had been in hands other than Fang Zhuhhou’s and the Sect Master’s, it would have been equally difficult to produce a resonance so violent.
Fang Zhuhhou raised his left hand and pressed two fingers against his right hand.
The right hand steadied at once. The vibration in the blade ceased.
The Sect Master pressed his left hand against the flat of his own blade. The Jinzhe Blade’s trembling ceased as well.
He looked at Fang Zhuhhou: “Perhaps we should not continue.”
Fang Zhuhhou asked: “Do you believe one of us will die?”
The Sect Master gave a short, soft sound of contempt: “I believe your cultivation was not easily achieved. After you die, I will have no more kindred spirit.”
Fang Zhuhhou replied: “I have no wish for a kindred spirit like you, and no wish to become yours. So let us continue. If I die, you will have no kindred spirit, and I will find that quite satisfying. If you die, I can remain satisfied forever.”
He stepped forward, and the Minghong Blade in his hand swept out with a roar like a dragon.
The Sect Master shifted to a two-handed grip. His blade carved a circle of luminous traces like a spinning disc, meeting that dragon’s cry.
*Clang!*
Both men slid back again in retreat. This time it was not the blades that trembled — it was their arms.
The swords were unusually steady, but both men’s arms were shaking, and yet at the wrists, all trembling vanished.
A moment later, the sleeves of both men shredded apart almost simultaneously.
The Sect Master let out a roar of fury. This moment — this blow — was the blow by which he had decided to end the fight.
He charged forward, the Jinzhe Blade sweeping left and right as he advanced. The floorboards on either side were sliced open, sending splinters flying.
Fang Zhuhhou raised his left hand to shield his eyes. In the instant the Sect Master’s blade came crashing down, his right hand drove his own sword upward in a rising arc.
The splinters struck the back of Fang Zhuhhou’s raised left hand, embedding themselves in a dense layer of punctures across the skin.
Fortunately it was only the back of his hand, and not his eyes.
*Boom!*
The sound of the two blades colliding was unlike any before — it was like the sound of a compressed pocket of air bursting open.
An instant later, both blades flew from their hands, spinning so rapidly that each became a ring of blurred light.
In the next breath, the Sect Master twisted away and retreated.
He floated back and raised his hand in a guarded posture, eyes watching Fang Zhuhhou from behind it.
In Fang Zhuhhou’s left chest — there was a chopstick.
The Sect Master gave a soft laugh: “You said it yourself just now — they are only instruments, no different from one another. And so I can kill you with a chopstick.”
Fang Zhuhhou looked down at it, then reached up and pulled the chopstick out: “But you did not drive it deep enough. I merely let you believe that you had.”
The Sect Master’s expression changed drastically.
Fang Zhuhhou’s gaze fell on the Sect Master’s chest.
The Sect Master, seeing where his eyes had gone, felt his face drain instantly to white. He looked down instinctively — there was a tiny hole in his robe, so small it was nearly invisible unless one looked carefully.
He tore his robe open at once. Over his heart was a single red mark — a small, glistening bead of blood.
A moment later, the Sect Master seemed to lose all strength and crumpled to the floor. In his eyes appeared something that had never been there before — a deep, primal fear. Fear of death.
Fang Zhuhhou said: “I really do have a toothpick.”
—