Dharma Swordplay, a Sword's Light Chills Fourteen Prefectures

[Analysis: Dharma Swordplay]

Dharma was the First Patriarch of Chan Buddhism, the source of the union of Chan and martial arts.

This swordplay infused the meaning of Chan into the way of the sword. Its one hundred and eight forms corresponded to the number of sentient beings' karmic consciousness, encompassing all things and possessing profound breadth and depth.

When the sword rose, deluded thoughts were severed at once; where the sword fell, enlightenment revealed itself. The sword was not a sword, the Dharma was not Dharma; Chan and martial arts were one, movement and stillness were not two.

[Derived Traits]

The swordplay was upright and impartial, its rules strict and rigorous. It possessed both the righteous demon-subduing methods of fierce courage and unyielding strength, and wondrous, subtle, extraordinary variations.

Movement arose from stillness, and stillness was guarded within movement. It used clumsiness to break cleverness and emptiness to overcome substance. Its methods followed nature; wherever there was feeling, there was response—triggered at a touch.

The essence of its inner cultivation was this: let the body enter meditative concentration, without thought or intent; let the sword follow hidden principles, its radiance complete in all ten directions. Force it, and it would stagnate; act rashly, and it would go astray.

[Illustration of the Chan Mysteries of Swordplay]

A phantom image sat cross-legged, sword light blooming around its body like lotus flowers, its sword forms flowing between presence and absence.

Countless sword shadows came one after another. Every move, every stance, every sword, every intent was reflected clearly in his heart.

Before the mountain god temple, moonlight lay like white silk.

Gu Zixian's gaze fell upon Zhu Yingxiong.

The moon shone upon his pale moon-colored monk's robes, veiling him in a faint, pure glow. His eyes were lowered, his expression peaceful, as though an old monk deep in meditation, yet also as though he had merged with the frost-white light covering the ground.

She did not know what he was doing.

She only saw him holding the sword in both hands, laying it across his knees as he sat cross-legged with his eyes closed, motionless for a long while. The night wind brushed past, stirring his robes and her skirt, yet it could not scatter the calm between his brows.

A moment later, he suddenly rose.

"Clang—"

The longsword left its sheath, cold light reflecting the moon.

He stood with his sword in hand, utterly still. Moonlight cast the shadows of him and his sword across the stone steps before the temple, stretching them long.

Gu Zixian held her breath, wanting to see what peerless swordplay this man—who dared claim he could handle a Black List expert—would display.

Then she saw—

Zhu Yingxiong slashed eastward, then stabbed westward.

His sword movements were a chaotic mess, utterly devoid of form. Not to mention sword techniques—even the rudimentary moves of an ordinary martial artist were superior. He looked like a child at play, or a fool wandering through a dream.

She was stunned.

This was the supreme technique he intended to learn on the spot?

Zhu Yingxiong ignored her gaze—or rather, he did not know she was watching at all. His eyes remained shut as he continued making random slashes east and west. After an unknown number of strokes, he finally stopped.

After standing there for a moment, he sat cross-legged again.

He did not return the sword to its sheath, merely laid it across his knees. One hand gently stroked the blade, his fingertips slowly tracing its ridge as though sensing something.

Gu Zixian had wanted to ask him something, but the words reached her lips before she swallowed them back down.

Because she suddenly discovered that the aura around him had changed.

At first, it had been upright and vast, like the morning bell of an ancient temple, like a great river surging onward, carrying a majestic and inviolable dignity.

But moments later, that aura abruptly shifted—sharp, keen, as though it could pierce the deep night and every obstacle before it.

As she watched him beneath the moon, she suddenly understood something.

Moonlight shone upon him, upon the sword before his knees, and upon the hand gently caressing its blade.

He simply sat there in silence, his aura circulating without end. Gradually, he and his sword, the moon, and the night wilderness became one.

Gu Zixian stared blankly at the sight, her heart shaken beyond measure.

The night wind rustled, and the mountain wilderness was silent.

In the distance, the eagle's cry did not sound again.

But what was meant to come would come eventually.

"Step, step, step—"

Footsteps came from the darkness, neither hurried nor slow, each one landing upon their hearts.

Two figures gradually emerged from the night and walked onto the moonlit mountaintop. The man in front was tall and broad, his brocade robes snapping in the wind. It was Tan Yingshou.

Behind him followed the tall, gaunt Gu Zhu, with a fierce giant eagle perched on his arm. Those eagle eyes, flickering with ghostly light, coldly swept over the people before the mountain god temple.

And behind the two of them stood another four figures.

The first man on the left had a pale, beardless face and wore a somewhat worn blue scholar's robe, with a folding fan in hand. Only his triangular eyes betrayed an unconcealable viciousness, making his smile particularly cutting.

Beside him stood a woman in brilliant red. Her figure was full and graceful; though past her prime, she still possessed lingering charm. Willow-leaf brows, peach-blossom eyes, and a seductive allure in every glance—yet beneath that smile lay the bones of who knew how many men.

The third was around fifty, tall and thin, with shoulder blades jutting out like two withered leaves and a neck so slender it looked ready to snap at any moment. His head was smooth and bare, without a blade of hair, save for a few sparse gray-white strands standing on top, making for an indescribably bizarre sight.

The last was short and fat, with a round face and small eyes, born with the look of a smiling man. He wore a silk robe, though it was always crumpled, and a golden abacus that never left his side hung at his waist, clattering whenever he walked.

"Fair-Faced Scholar" Xue Qing, "Red Sash Lady" Liu Sanniang, Hu Tong of the Yin Wind Palm, and "Death-Calculating Grass" Qian Gui were all underworld figures who had pledged themselves to Ten Evils Manor. Each had run rampant through the martial world for twenty years, with countless lives on their hands. Tan Yingshou had originally sent them to intercept from other directions, yet they had all gathered here now.

Moonlight shone upon the six figures, and the night wind before the mountain god temple suddenly seemed several degrees colder.

Tan Yingshou's gaze fell upon Gu Zixian's face. Her peerless features appeared ever more ethereal beneath the moonlight, and his eyes brimmed with greed. Then he looked at Zhu Yingxiong, seated there.

"Why suffer like this, little monk? You can barely save yourself.

"Young lady, you'd best obediently return to the manor with me."

With that, he signaled for his four subordinates to act, intending to deal with Zhu Yingxiong first.

Gu Zixian stepped forward and stood before Zhu Yingxiong, fulfilling her duty as his protector.

Suddenly, a clear "ting" rang out.

The sword sang.

Everyone's eyes were drawn toward it without realizing.

Zhu Yingxiong sat cross-legged, his eyes gleaming brightly. His left hand held the sword across his chest, while the fingers of his right hand flicked the blade. The sword trembled on its own, its lingering hum curling through the air.

Moonlight fell upon his pale moon-colored monk's robes and the longsword flashing with cold light, coating his entire figure in a faint frost-like glow.

He began to recite:

"Long has the dragon beneath the case cried without rest; Today it leaves its sheath, flowing toward the heavens. I'll cleave the drifting clouds for thirty thousand miles— One sword's light chills fourteen prefectures."

His voice was not loud, yet each word rang clear, echoing through the moonlit mountaintop.

As the final line reached his ears, Tan Yingshou's brow twitched slightly. A stern, chilling presence rushed toward him, and even a Black List expert like him fell into a brief daze.

"Pretentious nonsense!"

Fair-Faced Scholar Xue Qing snorted. His iron fan snapped open with a "swish," cold light glinting along its edge. It was forged entirely from refined steel.

"Enough talk. Move." As Tan Yingshou stared at the figure in moon-colored robes, an inexplicable unease rose within him, and he urged them on in a low voice.

Though the four did not think much of it, they did not dare defy him. They immediately pounced together.

Xue Qing's iron fan whirled, cold gleams flashing between its ribs as it shot for Zhu Yingxiong's throat;

Liu Sanniang snapped her red sash, and the long ribbon darted out like a venomous snake toward his waist;

Hu Tong thrust both palms forward, his Yin Wind Palm stirring up a bone-chilling current that enveloped the vital points all over Zhu Yingxiong's body;

Qian Gui shook his Iron Abacus before his chest, its beads clattering as they struck toward Zhu Yingxiong's face.

Zhu Yingxiong, who had remained seated, suddenly raised his longsword upright.

Cold light flashed. He had already leapt into the air, sword light blooming like a lotus in full flower!

Xue Qing had only extended his iron fan halfway when the sword light reached his chest. His pupils contracted sharply. He wanted to retreat, but it was already too late—"shhk!" A sword mark split his clothes across the chest, blood spraying as he was sent flying backward.

Liu Sanniang's red sash curled toward Zhu Yingxiong's waist, but the sword light seemed to have eyes, striking precisely at the ribbon's vital point. Three feet of red silk broke apart inch by inch, drifting down like a severed snake. Before she could cry out, the sword force had already arrived. She spat out blood and staggered backward.

Hu Tong had only driven his palms halfway forward when his wrist suddenly went cold. He looked down to see that his left hand had been severed cleanly at the wrist, blood spraying three feet. Before he could even scream, he was sent crashing backward.

Qian Gui had just begun to shake his Iron Abacus again when sword light was already before his face. In panic, he raised the abacus to block. With an explosive "crash," the refined-steel Iron Abacus shattered into four pieces, its beads bursting outward in every direction, streaking through the moonlight like flecks of gold. Blood streamed from the web between his thumb and forefinger as he flew backward, hit the ground, and could not rise for a long while.