Clash at the Teahouse

Morning sunlight fell upon the training grounds of Duke Zhenguo's Estate.

Several guards leaned against the vermilion-painted corridor pillars, arms crossed over their sheathed blades, their gazes fixed squarely on the figure in blue robes standing in the center of the field.

There stood Mu Bai, Young Master of the Carefree Prince's Estate, holding a bamboo sword. The tip hovered three inches before his chest as he gave his wrist a light flick, tracing a half-arc through the air.

"This is what they call sword practice?" One guard let out a snicker. "He was drinking at Wanhua Tower just two days ago, and now he's putting on airs."

"Exactly," another guard muttered in a low voice. "He doesn't even have the most basic qi—the sword tassel doesn't even stir. Does he really think waving a bamboo stick around will make him a sword master?"

The murmurs were hushed, but they never ceased.

Mu Bai seemed utterly oblivious to it all.

His movements were three times slower than an ordinary practitioner's. Every turn felt as though it were guided by invisible threads. The bamboo sword traced arcs through the air that appeared soft and weak, yet carried an underlying rhythm.

Sweat dripped from his jaw, soaking through his moon-white inner robe. Still, he kept his gaze straight ahead, the sword moving like a wandering dragon.

Half an hour later, Mu Bai finally sheathed his sword.

He raised a hand to wipe the thin sweat from his brow, his motion as graceful as if he were polishing a jade cup.

The guards perked up again, their whispers laced with mockery: "I told you he wouldn't last an hour!"

"Tomorrow he'll probably sleep until noon."

"Tell you what—let's make a bet. How many days will the Young Master keep up this sword practice?"

"I'll bet three days!"

"I'll wager no more than five!"

Amid the laughter, Mu Bai slowly walked away from the training grounds.

As his figure disappeared behind the moon-gate arch, an older guard stroked his chin thoughtfully, staring after him. "Don't you think... there's something strange about the Young Master's sword path?"

"Ha! Your eyes are going bad, Brother Wang."

"Exactly! That Young Master? I could take him down five times over with one hand."

Meanwhile, steam filled the room as Mu Bai lounged in a sandalwood bathtub, his fingertips idly tracing the cloud patterns carved into the rim. The fifth move from today's practice, Tornado Rain Strike, circled endlessly in his mind. That seemingly soft sword technique actually concealed hidden intricacies—it wasn't driven by qi, but by borrowing momentum, like water flowing around a stone. It appeared to yield, yet secretly held the key to breaking through.

"No wonder it's ranked as an Innate Secret Technique." He sighed softly, scooping up a ladle of warm water and pouring it over his shoulder. "Just grasping those two words cost me half a month's effort. So much labor, and yet I've accomplished almost nothing."

Ripples spread across the water's surface, reflecting the focus in his brows.

What the guards dismissed as mere showmanship was actually the sword technique of the Fifth Sword from the Eight Swords of Lightness he had just acquired. This move emphasized overcoming hardness with softness, stillness overcoming motion. Only a true sword master could discern its subtleties.

Changing into a navy-blue long robe, Mu Bai strolled out of the Duke's Estate.

The streets bustled with activity—vendors hawking their wares, the clatter of horse hooves weaving into a symphony of sound.

He turned down two alleys, entered the marketplace, and stopped before Tingfeng Tower.

This three-story teahouse featured upturned eaves and half-rolled bamboo blinds. The voice of a storyteller drifted out, mingling with the aroma of tea: "Honored guests, let us speak of the Blade Emperor. He may seem idle and unrestrained, but his blade technique is truly astonishing..."

Mu Bai ascended the stairs and took a seat by the window on the second floor.

A waiter promptly served Biluochun tea. In the celadon cup, the tea leaves unfurled like lotus blossoms.

He lifted the cup and took a light sip, his gaze settling on the storyteller.

The man, clad in a gray robe and holding a folding fan, was at the climax of his tale: "That day, Master Dehua of Tianlong Temple learned that the temple's scriptures had been stolen. He personally set out to recover the Tianlong Temple's lost techniques. Everyone thought the Blade Emperor would be at a disadvantage, but he calmly drew a three-foot blade from his waist and matched the renowned Grandmaster of Martial Arts, Master Dehua, blow for blow! In the end, he laughed heartily, tossed the scriptures back to Master Dehua, and said, 'Tianlong Temple is nothing special. This scripture is useless to me now!' Then he leaped away with ease, leaving even the mighty Master Dehua utterly unable to stop him!"

The audience erupted in applause.

A faint smile tugged at Mu Bai's lips. His fingertips tapped lightly on the table, the rhythm unconsciously matching the storyteller's wooden clapper.

Suddenly, a discussion from the neighboring table reached his ears: "Have you heard? They say the Young Master of the Carefree Prince's Estate has been practicing swordsmanship lately."

"That wastrel? Probably just fooling around again!"

"But I've heard... there might actually be some substance to his swordplay?"

He lowered his gaze, hiding the amusement in his eyes, and took another sip of tea.

The tea's fragrance lingered on his tongue, mingling with the scent of sugar-roasted chestnuts drifting in from the window.

The storyteller's voice continued to echo: "If you wish to know what secret technique the Blade Emperor truly used, tune in next time—"

The wooden clapper fell with a heavy thud. Mu Bai set down his teacup, placed a silver ingot on the table, and rose.

As he stood, he caught a glimpse of a figure flashing through the street below—an old monk in a tattered kasaya.

The monk was spinning prayer beads in his hand as he walked toward the teahouse.

Mu Bai's eyes narrowed slightly. He turned and descended the stairs.

At the entrance, the waiter stood with a troubled expression, his brows knitted into a knot as he blocked the old monk's path.

He clasped his hands and explained apologetically, "Master, I'm truly sorry, but this teahouse has a rule—no monks allowed inside."

His tone carried an unmistakable firmness.

The old monk, clad in a worn robe, remained unruffled. His gaze was calm as still water, and he spoke unhurriedly, his voice deep and steady: "Young benefactor, this humble monk asks for nothing more than a simple bowl of gruel. I pray you, grant this convenience."

The waiter hesitated, biting his lower lip, but ultimately shook his head, his expression filled with helpless refusal.

Just then, a clear voice came from inside the building: "Let the master in. He is my guest."

Everyone followed the sound and saw Mu Bai, dressed in a dark blue long robe, standing tall and straight. It was indeed Mu Bai.

Having spoken, he turned around and walked back to his seat upstairs with steady steps.

The old monk pressed his palms together, bowed slightly, and offered a word of thanks. Then, with unhurried steps, he slowly ascended the stairs and sat down calmly at Mu Bai's table.

Mu Bai raised his hand and called over the waiter, ordering several fine vegetarian dishes.

Then, he turned his head slightly, his gaze fixed directly on the old monk, a hint of scrutiny in his eyes.

The old monk seemed to sense it. He too lifted his head and met Mu Bai's eyes.

In that instant, an invisible wind seemed to stir between them, causing the cups and dishes on the table to tremble faintly.

Without any warning, the surrounding guests felt their hearts tighten, inexplicably seized by a pang of dread, as if a lurking Fierce Beast was hidden nearby, ready to strike at any moment.

Everyone instinctively held their breath, and their voices grew quieter.

Meanwhile, fine beads of sweat quietly seeped out on the foreheads of both Mu Bai and the old monk, slowly trickling down their cheeks. Yet their eyes remained locked, neither yielding an inch.

Just as the atmosphere reached its most tense and bizarre peak, the waiter hurried over with the vegetarian dishes. With a clatter, he set the food firmly on the table.

This abrupt sound, like a sudden clap of thunder, instantly shattered the taut, nearly frozen tension between the two men.

As if sharing a single mind, Mu Bai and the old monk closed their eyes at the same time.

In that moment, the surrounding guests felt the terrifying aura that had chilled them vanish like a wisp of smoke, leaving no trace. Everyone let out a long sigh of relief, and the teahouse gradually returned to its former clamor.

Mu Bai slowly opened his eyes. His complexion was slightly pale, but he still managed a faint smile and said softly, "I haven't yet asked the master for your Dharma name."

The old monk pressed his palms together, nodded slightly, and intoned, "Amitabha. This humble monk is Dehua."