Xie Qidao shouldered his large blade: “It’s only yours if you can take it away from here.”

Mu Ciling swept his hand upward, and a broken blade flew from the ground toward Xie Qidao’s face.

“Amateur tricks.” Xie Qidao snorted coldly, shattering the broken blade with a single strike. By then, Mu Ciling had already leaped to his side, his demon-subduing blade turning slightly. Xie Qidao retreated sharply, but this time Mu Ciling had only feinted—seeing Xie Qidao retreat, he flipped away and fled. Xie Qidao froze for a moment before giving chase, only to be met by four white silk ribbons flying toward him—Mu family’s reinforcements had arrived.

In the courtyard, Su Muyu rose to pursue, but Su Changhe shouted first: “Mu family thief, where do you think you’re going!” Then he grabbed Su Muyu’s shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Su Muyu demanded.

“Terrible—I was hit by the Yanmo Palm earlier. I can’t use any of my power now,” Su Changhe said gravely.

Su Muyu’s brows furrowed—if you can’t use any power, how are you pressing down on me with the force of a thousand jun?

“That’s the nature of the Yanmo Palm technique. It absorbs the opponent’s power and can instantly turn it back against them. Meeting his Yanmo Palm with your bare hands—you’re lucky to be alive. But your days ahead won’t be easy. That energy will wreak havoc in your body, and if you can’t suppress it, your meridians will rupture and you’ll die,” Su Jinhui emerged from the Rotating Wheel Formation.

Su Muyu looked at him and felt that although only half an hour had passed, Su Jinhui seemed to have aged decades. His steps and tone revealed utter exhaustion.

A sword’s edge breaks easily. Su Jinhui had come so close to the position of Grand Elder—such opportunities might come only once in a lifetime. But he was stopped before he could grasp the sword, and defeated by a younger generation. Now Su Jinhui was like his snake sword—broken.

“You seem to be out of options,” Su Changhe said quietly, looking at Su Muyu with meaningful eyes.

Su Muyu frowned deeply: “Old Master.”

“Muyu, go back and tell the Grand Elder that I couldn’t hold onto the Sleeping Dragon Sword. I’ve failed him.” Su Jinhui turned and walked toward the inner chamber.

Su Muqiu watched Su Jinhui’s retreating figure and sighed softly before announcing: “All Su family disciples, sheathe your swords.”

Su Changhe stroked his goatee and asked Su Muqiu: “Is this where the Su family, claimed to be the strongest of the three families, gives up?”

Su Muqiu didn’t answer directly, instead saying slowly: “The Mu family has produced a living King of Hell, but our Su family has an Umbrella Ghost and a Funeral Director. Alas, the Umbrella Bearer has taken on a new identity, while the Funeral Director still ponders—for whom shall he conduct the funeral?”

Su Changhe released his hold on Su Muyu and scratched his head: “For himself, of course.”

The Su family members all returned to the inner chamber, silent and ashen-faced. Only Su Changhe and Su Muyu remained in the courtyard.

“Your mission remains incomplete. What do you plan to do now?” Su Changhe asked.

Su Muyu shook her head: “The Old Master has given up the position of Grand Elder. I need to discuss future matters with the Grand Elder, but the urgent task is to retrieve the Sleeping Dragon Sword.”

“By yourself?” Su Changhe asked.

“Are you offering to help?” Su Muyu countered.

Su Changhe immediately clutched his chest: “My wound is so severe.”

“At least we won’t have to cross swords for now,” Su Muyu said flatly before leaping away in pursuit.

“Ah.” Su Changhe watched Su Muyu’s departing figure and sighed softly, “Such a naive one.”

Su Muqiu watched Su Changhe in the courtyard: “What will you do next?”

Su Changhe turned, smiling slightly: “Uncle Qiu seems very interested in my choice.”

In Jiuxiao City, Mu Ciling, wearing red King of Hell robes, moved swiftly across the rooftops, holding the long demon-subduing blade in one hand and the Sleeping Dragon Sword in the other. He looked at the sleeping dragon carved on the sword’s hilt and mused: “It’s just a sword. Why do so many people fight for it?”

“The Sleeping Dragon Sword is no ordinary blade,” a voice tinged with amusement suddenly sounded by his ear.

“Who’s there!” Mu Ciling whirled around, but the street below held only endless drizzle, not a soul in sight.

“You don’t know me, but I know you, Mu Ciling of the Mu family. You secretly practiced the Yanmo Palm and were sealed in the Immortal Coffin with the Heart-Piercing Curse,” the voice came again, this time from below. But when Mu Ciling looked down, he still saw no one. He steeled himself and leaped down to the street: “Who’s playing ghost tricks!”

“You wear the King of Hell’s robes and hat, yet accuse me of playing ghost tricks?” The person let out a string of laughs, eerily chilling. “How absurd.”

Mu Ciling frowned slightly, then looked down at his reflection in the rain-gathered puddles: a young man in official robes. But suddenly the face began to blur, becoming less and less like his own. Startled, Mu Ciling thrust his demon-subduing blade downward.

But the reflection in the puddle stood up, the figure sweeping past Mu Ciling, hand turning slightly—and the Sleeping Dragon Sword was in his grasp.

Mu Ciling turned to face the young man in purple official robes with white hair and said gravely: “These ghost tricks seem like Mu family style. Did Mu Zizhe send you?”

“Mu Zizhe? What status does he have to command me?” The young man played with the Sleeping Dragon Sword, laughing. “You think too little of me.”

“If not, then return the Sleeping Dragon Sword to me.” Mu Ciling swept his blade, sending a wave of rainwater toward the young man.

“Water bends to my will.” The young man raised his palm slightly, and all the rainwater stopped three feet from him, slowly forming into the shape of an arrow. With a light flick of his finger, the arrow shot toward Mu Ciling. Mu Ciling swung his blade, and forced back three steps before finally batting the arrow away. The arrow flew into a nearby tavern, collapsing its entire roof.

“Damn, how powerful!” Mu Ciling’s face twitched slightly. “Is stealing a broken sword really this difficult?”

“Stealing a sword was never the hard part. The challenge is how to hold onto it.” The young man flicked his wrist, throwing the Sleeping Dragon Sword into the air.

A burly figure descended from above, catching the sword.

“Xie Qidao!” Mu Ciling shouted.

The young man smiled slightly, leaning backward into a puddle. Like melting ice, he disappeared without a sound, vanishing completely.