Chapter 19

Green Bamboo Swordsman snorted coldly. "How I conduct myself is not for some junior of the martial world like you to point fingers at. Ning Family's Chang'an, your evil name is already known far and wide—what right do you have to speak of the path of chivalry?! You are nothing but a demon who cultivates Demonic Art, yet you dare claim that an upright body does not fear a crooked shadow. What utter nonsense. Could the rumors of the martial world have arisen from thin air? You have already sunk deep into Demonic Possession!"

Chang'an said, "Make your move!"

Green Bamboo Swordsman raised his brows. "Not so fast. There is something I want you to verify."

Chang'an said, "What is it?"

Green Bamboo Swordsman said, "The day before yesterday, outside Mohe City, I encountered someone in a wretched state. He had been a great villain, and his martial arts had absolutely surpassed mine, yet I killed him with a single thrust. Before he died, he said he had been wounded by you and that you had devoured more than seventy percent of his true qi. His lifetime of Qi Gong cultivation had been utterly ruined at your hands. You should know who this person was, should you not? It was only because I happened upon him by chance that I decided to meet you! A technique that devours the inner force and true qi of others—if that is not Demonic Art, what is? The righteous factions of the martial world will never permit such a demon to exist. Dead either way, even if I do not kill you, someone else will!"

This truly was an excellent reason to kill someone.

Chang'an said slowly, "Ghost Face was indeed wounded by my hand, and his true qi was indeed devoured by me. What I cultivate is indeed peerless Demonic Art! Haha, Green Bamboo Swordsman, are you satisfied with my answer?"

Green Bamboo Swordsman said coldly, "You deserve to die."

Green Bamboo Swordsman's sword was narrow and long. With a flash of cold light, it silently left its sheath.

"Take this!"

Cold light suddenly rose beneath the night sky, dimming the light of stars and moon alike. Green Bamboo Swordsman crossed through the air, and as his robes had barely rustled, he had already arrived before Chang'an. His sword suddenly thrust out, like bamboo shoots after spring rain, carrying an irresistible momentum. Bamboo shoots after spring rain, shooting up overnight—this was the law of creation itself, yet it had been woven into Green Bamboo Swordsman's sword moves. His understanding of bamboo was truly extraordinary, and his attainments in Bamboo Rhyme Swordplay were profound. Once this sword emerged, its bearing was exceptional, already possessing a spiritual resonance.

Green Bamboo Swordsman's sword was swift and precise, preferring to break rather than bend. Every move was exceedingly seasoned. Wherever the cold light passed, sword cries rang without end; it could only be described as masterful.

Facing Green Bamboo Swordsman's sword, Chang'an felt every hair on his body stand erect, while a chilling cold seeped through his heart. The iron staff in his hand shook, then began to whirl.

The paths of his swordplay were chaotic. It was a fragmentary manual, personally taught to him by Yang Qingling and Yang Taiyi. He had mastered all twenty-five moves to perfection, but there was no connection between them; they could not form a tightly interlocking system. This had always been his regret. Without mastering the complete swordplay, he could never reach the consummate realm where skill had become as natural as fire and pure as jade, much less scale the heights of perfection. Yet he loved these twenty-five sword moves deeply. Their overbearing, fierce, unyielding spirit suited his temperament perfectly, and he could not bear to abandon them. Moreover, he felt that once he restored the missing portions of this swordplay and carefully pondered them, it would surely open into an entirely different world. After years of actual combat, he had created three moves of his own, turning the twenty-five moves into twenty-eight. Yang Qingling had once said that this swordplay possessed thirty-six moves in all, each linked to the next; any could serve as an opening move or a follow-up move. It was a world-shaking art of swordplay.

He now knew that this set of swordplay was his father Ning Shengdao's unique secret art, called Great Wheel Swordplay. Unfortunately, the sword manual had not been left behind, and neither Yang Qingling nor Yang Taiyi remembered it in full.

Every move of Great Wheel Swordplay was shocking and extraordinary. When Chang'an ordinarily fought others, his solid foundations in sword techniques—thrusting, stabbing, striking, parrying, winding, circling, blocking, seizing, pouncing, pointing, deflecting, and flourishing—combined with the changing moves of Great Wheel Swordplay, had always been more than enough. He rarely fought move for move.

With his carefree nature, he also disliked putting on rigid forms and postures.

But at this moment, as he watched Green Bamboo Swordsman wield his blade and charge to kill, his eyes suddenly opened wide, as though the clouds had parted and the moonlight had appeared. Bamboo Rhyme Swordplay—bamboo rhyme came first, the sword second. This showed that rhyme came first, while the moves followed to assist it. It was like how some people possessed fine voices, yet when they sang at full volume, they only sounded grating; while another might not have a clear voice at all, perhaps even one hoarse and dry, yet the moment he opened his throat, he could move people to tears. The difference lay in emotion. Emotion was rhyme.

Moves without rhyme could be learned by anyone, but they were dead.

Only by grasping the spirit and rhyme of a martial art, by comprehending it on the spiritual level, could one turn decay into magic and truly unleash its power.

Chang'an had faced swordsmen faster and more accurate than Green Bamboo Swordsman, with more exquisite moves, yet he had never felt such pressure as he did now. The iron staff in his hand struggled to cope, constrained at every turn, as precarious as treading on thin ice.

Every sword thrust of Green Bamboo Swordsman, every shift in his moves, bore the temperament and rhythm of bamboo. At times, it was like bamboo shoots after spring rain, irresistible; at times, like a bamboo grove stirring in the breeze, unbroken and endless; at times, like ten thousand stalks of bamboo snapping, utterly hard and fierce.

Every one of his sword strikes carried the temperament of bamboo and contained a unique rhythm.

Chang'an could not see the slightest flaw.

This was where the divide between realms lay.

Chang'an began to reexamine the twenty-five moves of Great Wheel Swordplay. Within those twenty-five moves lay the four images of dragon, elephant, tiger, and horse. Each image encompassed nine moves. The elephant and tiger each had all nine moves; the dragon had only one, with eight missing; the horse had originally possessed six, and Chang'an had restored three.

The dragon was divine, like an antelope hanging its horns where no trace could be found—impossible to fathom.

The tiger was mighty, king of all beasts, its power shaking the mountains and wilds.

The elephant possessed immense strength, a divine beast of the land, steady and virtuous.

The horse was gentle and pure, tame and mild, bold and noble.

Chang'an had encountered tigers many times and was no stranger to them. The tiger's nine moves were all complete. At this moment, the image of a fierce tiger surfaced in his mind. How it displayed its might, how it leaped, how it pounced to kill, even how it roared and glared in fury—all appeared vividly before his eyes.

Without realizing it, Chang'an entered a wondrous realm of contemplating martial arts moves.

But at this very moment, he absolutely could not afford distraction, especially against a famous master like Green Bamboo Swordsman.

It was dangerous—deadly dangerous.

Green Bamboo Swordsman suddenly shouted. Sword radiance burst from his blade like fluttering bamboo leaves; he had actually driven his inner force to release sword qi and slash through the air.

This move was unfathomable, Green Bamboo Swordsman's killing move.

He had caught the instant Chang'an was slightly distracted and immediately dealt his killing stroke, intending to kill Chang'an in one sweep.

When masters fought, victory or defeat often came down to a single move. There could not be the slightest carelessness.

Green Bamboo Swordsman knew well that Ning Family's Chang'an excelled at risking his life. If he went mad and disregarded his own safety to injure his enemy with all his strength, then there would be no moves to speak of.

There would only be blood for blood.

That was what Green Bamboo Swordsman did not wish to see.

As Green Bamboo Swordsman unleashed this move, Chang'an sensed a bone-chilling killing intent through their connected auras and instantly came back to himself, but he was already half a beat too late.

Had Chang'an been holding the Dragon Head Sword, he could have used the move Elephant Trunk Draws Water and shaken out sword blossoms to receive Green Bamboo Swordsman's killing move. But this strange iron staff was incomparably hard, making that utterly impossible.

Green Bamboo Swordsman had calculated exactly this; his experience was so seasoned it bordered on monstrous.

Seeing the situation turn unfavorable, Chang'an flicked the iron staff in his hand repeatedly. Green Bamboo Swordsman's bamboo-leaf sword qi shattered one after another. Yet three streams of sword qi still slashed toward him, leaving three wounds on Chang'an's chest, each half an inch deep and three inches long. His flesh split open, and blood gushed forth. The pain made Chang'an stagger, while the arm holding the iron staff had gone completely numb, bereft of all feeling.

Green Bamboo Swordsman shouted, "Die!"

Chang'an glared fiercely, his eyes deep as he stared at Green Bamboo Swordsman's incomparably sharp killing thrust. His body suddenly steadied.

Faintly, an aura rose from Chang'an's body, like a fierce tiger descending the mountain, filled with the domineering presence of one who looked down upon the world.

Whooom!

The iron staff in Chang'an's hand suddenly trembled, emitting a clear, ringing sound. Chang'an abruptly stepped forward and thrust out with his staff, striking Green Bamboo Swordsman's sword tip with exquisite precision, mysterious beyond mystery.

Green Bamboo Swordsman grunted, his body flying backward as his face turned pale.

Chang'an's thrust had been far too overbearing, and it had also found a flaw in his swordplay.

That thrust, using a staff in place of a sword, had surpassed Chang'an's limits. It was an astonishing breakthrough.

Before Green Bamboo Swordsman had steadied himself, Chang'an had already leaped high into the air. The iron staff in his hand struck downward through the air, then in the blink of an eye darted down in rapid points, like a fierce tiger hunting prey as it pounced.

A savage, ferocious pressure bore down upon him.

Cold sweat streamed down Green Bamboo Swordsman's face. Bitterness filled his heart. He opened his mouth in a loud shout, and the sword in his hand had no choice but to rise in defense.

Clang!

His sword met the point of Chang'an's staff.

The sword suddenly bent.

Crack!

Green Bamboo Swordsman's sword broke.

Green Bamboo Swordsman cried out in disbelief. He simply could not believe his eyes. The treasured sword that had accompanied him through the martial world for more than ten years had actually broken. It was as if he had lost an arm. Terror seized his heart and courage, and he retreated again and again.

When he finally steadied himself, the iron staff in Chang'an's hand was already pressed against his throat.

Green Bamboo Swordsman's eyes were vacant as he muttered, "I lost!"

A cold expression covered Chang'an's face, yet he suddenly withdrew his iron staff. "Go."

Green Bamboo Swordsman's gaze flickered as he looked at Chang'an, seeming not to understand his meaning and unable to believe his ears.

But Chang'an had already mounted his horse.

Green Bamboo Swordsman threw back his head and sighed. A hundred feelings churned within him, and in an instant, he seemed to have aged more than ten years. Seeing Chang'an about to leave, he suddenly said, "Little Brother is aboard the ferry at Qingfeng Ferry Crossing!"

Chang'an paused, then spurred his horse and raced madly toward Qingfeng Ferry Crossing.

Tonight's affair was not yet over!

Ferryman's small courtyard was not far from the ferry crossing.

Under the night sky, the broad surface of the Mohe River could be seen in the distance, its waves rolling onward. Tender spring grass sprouted along both banks, carrying a distinctive fragrance.

As the evening wind blew, Chang'an felt a chill. He had already lost too much blood. Though the spring breeze was gentle, it could not soothe his wounds. Though the waters of the Mohe River were clear, they could not wash away his injustice.

The night was hazy, and faint voices drifted over.

At first glance, Chang'an spotted Ferryman. He stood alone and desolate at the ferry crossing, his wrinkled gray robe gently fluttering, his long-disordered hair, already gray-white, trembling in the wind.

He had drunk too much and was so drunk he was nearly falling over.

There were many people aboard the ferry, and it was nearly full, but Ferryman could not row it across. The people aboard cursed and grumbled, every one of them wearing an unpleasant expression.

Most of them were peddlers and laborers who rose early, leaving before dawn and returning after dark, pressed desperately for time.

Yet Ferryman seemed not to hear their shouting and curses. He merely stared silently in one direction. Cold sweat ran ceaselessly down his face. Two catties of strong liquor had turned into sweat, pouring from his entire body and soaking a large portion of his clothes. His stomach twisted with sharp pain, and his head hurt as though it were about to explode.