Most of these young men were the brighter and more agile disciples from the study halls opened by Wan Qiao Zhai. They had learned some arithmetic and medical principles, practiced simple martial arts, and came from clean family backgrounds with simple minds. There were also young disciples from various martial sects whose masters were acquainted with Jiang Youyu and were willing to send their students here to study.
These inexperienced youths were utterly panicked when they suddenly saw the courtyard ablaze. Those with decent martial skills protected those who had none, fleeing toward the secret underground passage in the courtyard. In the chaos, heads bobbed and many fell to the ground. Before the enemy even entered, their own side had already suffered numerous injuries.
Liu Yan suddenly turned his head—Yu Tuan'er had leapt up from the ground and, with a swift motion, drew her longsword. Shui Duopo and Mo Ziru exchanged a glance, both somewhat surprised.
Fengliu Dian would never let Liu Yan go, but why had they come now? This wasn’t the timing Tang Lichen, Shui, and Mo had anticipated—something must have changed.
Mo Ziru flicked his sleeve. Normally composed, he now frowned slightly. "You all, retreat."
Shui Duopo hesitated. "This time—"
"If they dare to come, nine out of ten, they’ve learned your secrets," Mo Ziru said, frowning but still finding time to disdain his friend. "You shouldn’t fight. Take them back to the cave."
Liu Yan and Yu Tuan'er had no idea what the two were talking about. Yu Tuan'er gripped her sword tightly. "The courtyard’s on fire! From the looks of it, there must be a lot of people outside. How can we leave you alone—"
Before she could finish, her hand suddenly felt empty—her sword had somehow ended up in Shui Duopo’s grasp. He casually swung the blade, pulling Liu Yan toward the crowd. "Great Hero Mo can hold off an army single-handedly. Don’t worry, don’t worry. His name is Mo Ziru, but his childhood name is Mo Chunfeng."
Mo Chunfeng?
Yu Tuan'er had never heard of any Mo Chunfeng. Watching Liu Yan being dragged away by Shui Duopo toward the courtyard’s underground passage, she grew anxious and chased after them.
The dozens of youths who had fallen at the entrance of the secret passage were quickly scattered by Shui Duopo’s sword, stumbling to their feet in disarray. Shui Duopo kicked one of them into the passage. "Hurry inside!"
The youths began jumping into the passage one after another, the clattering sounds unceasing. This passage led to Liu Yan’s hidden medicine workshop, and beyond it was another passage that connected to an underground river. If used by martial artists, they could hold their breath and swim out through the underground river. But most of these youths had little martial skill—holding their breath underwater was impossible for them.
Thus, this place became a dead end.
As Shui Duopo herded the youths into the passage, he listened intently.
Footsteps approached outside the courtyard. There were at least a dozen men armed with fire crossbows, and another twenty or thirty riding alongside them.
Shui Duopo lifted Liu Yan, preparing to toss him into the passage, then glanced back at his reckless friend standing guard in the courtyard—Mo Ziru held a sword in his right hand, his left finger lightly flicking the blade.
Mo Ziru rarely wielded a sword. This one was unassuming, even slightly rusted. But with that flick of his finger, a faint golden light flowed along the blade. The rust seemed to melt away, and the utterly ordinary longsword suddenly gleamed with brilliance.At that moment, the courtyard gate gave a crisp snap as someone shattered the latch with a palm strike, pushing the door open with deliberate ease. Seeing Mo Ziru standing with sword in hand, the intruder clapped his hands and laughed, "'Long Robes Shatter in Mo's Spring Breeze'—twenty-eight years ago people feared you, but who fears you now after twenty-eight years? How many years has it been since you practiced that swift swordplay of yours? When the dragon stirs at Awakening of Insects, the sword strikes to kill. How many years has it been since you last killed anyone? Hahaha... Today, let me witness how a blunted swift sword and an aged Mo Chunfeng—meet their end!"
The one who pushed open the door was a figure clad in red robes embroidered with black peonies, the inverse of the ghost peony robes often worn by others. His face was also concealed behind a mask—not the Vairocana Buddha mask, but a demonic visage with twin horns, green-skinned and fanged.
With a sharp hiss, Mo Ziru drew his sword, its tip aimed straight between the demon-masked man's brows.
The gleam of the blade was like a single star's radiance, cold and piercing to the eyes.
The masked man hadn't expected Mo Ziru to strike without a single word of preamble. Before he could finish his grand speech, the sword's edge was already at his face. With a frantic sweep of his sleeve, an object hidden within clanged against Mo Ziru's longsword, deflecting it as cold sweat broke across his back. The strike wasn't blindingly fast, yet from draw to sheathe—from the birth of sword intent to its dissipation—it was completed in an instant. Mo Ziru stood composed, not even blinking.
He simply gazed with those extraordinarily clear black-and-white eyes, studying the demon mask with utmost seriousness, as if not a ripple of emotion stirred within him.
The masked man gripped the short rod concealed in his sleeve, his mirth vanishing as he fixed his attention on Mo Ziru's sword.
"Long Robes Shatter in Mo's Spring Breeze."
In those days, Mo Chunfeng's sword was named "Long Robes."
His sword intent meant "shatter completely."
"Long Robes Shatter in Mo's Spring Breeze"—this was a madman who would fight with his sword until the blade fragmented, anytime, anywhere. Every one of his swords was called "Long Robes," yet no two were alike. Whether a priceless treasure or a random fire poker picked up along the way, they were all "Long Robes" until they shattered.
Back then, Long Robes' sword knew only forward strikes—it would kill at first encounter, never admitting defeat until completely broken.
But now, Mo Ziru had learned to sheathe his sword.
The masked man held his breath, his vigilance spiking to its peak.
A sword that never withdraws is best met with a retreat.
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