Song Xiaoyu crossed his twin forks to block, the metallic clang resonating as he locked Mo Ziru's longsword between them. At Tang Wujun's command, over twenty fire bolts—along with his own long arrow—rained down upon Mo Ziru simultaneously.
In an instant, the small courtyard was filled with a sky of flying arrows. Behind Mo Ziru, thick smoke billowed into the heavens as the flames, fanned by the wind, grew fiercer. The scorching heat swirled and surged, whipping at the robes of those present with a fierce rustling.
Mo Ziru released his sword and leaped into the air. Dozens of arrows crisscrossed beneath his feet, forcing the archers to scatter in panic—some even struck by their own fire bolts, collapsing with cries of pain. Song Xiaoyu, never expecting the man who had once preferred death to surrender to now abandon his weapon so easily, froze mid-motion, his follow-up strikes with the twin forks left unexecuted.
Seizing the moment of hesitation, Mo Ziru aimed a kick at Song Xiaoyu’s head. Before the latter could react, he hastily retreated. Mo Ziru landed before him, snatched back his longsword, and in one fluid motion, delivered a powerful kick to his chest. With a resounding thud, Song Xiaoyu was sent flying back seven or eight steps.
Though Song Xiaoyu’s profound inner strength rendered the kick harmless, the sheer humiliation of Mo Ziru’s effortless swordplay—releasing and reclaiming his weapon, stepping on his head, and kicking him—was a disgrace far worse than the slash Mo Ziru had once dealt to his nose in their youth. Enraged, Song Xiaoyu let out a furious roar, white vapor erupting from his four nostrils as he swung his steel fork at Mo Ziru with all his might.
From the sidelines, Tang Wujun observed Mo Ziru’s swordsmanship and felt a tremor in his heart. This man had been a prodigy in his youth, possessing extraordinary insight—yet after over twenty years, it seemed he had somehow reinvented his swordcraft anew.
Having missed his earlier shot, Tang Wujun knew that hitting Mo Ziru with arrows was nothing short of a fool’s dream. Gripping his bow, he swung it horizontally, wielding the bowstring itself as an exotic weapon aimed to slice at Mo Ziru. His bowstring was no ordinary one—a single touch could shear off flesh, and it was laced with poison.
This poison, known as "Ghost Rain," was Tang Wujun’s signature concoction. Its victims first wept tears, then blood, before finally succumbing to a death of weeping crimson. He had originally devised it for the rival who had stolen the woman he loved—imagining the poetic justice of watching the man kneel before him, weeping himself to death. Yet before "Ghost Rain" could be completed, that rival had already perished.
Though unaware of the poison on Tang Wujun’s bowstring, Mo Ziru knew the man was venomous from head to toe and thus couldn’t allow the longbow to close in. With a sweeping slash, golden light rippled from his blade like spilled wine, clashing thrice in rapid succession as he parried the weapons of both Song Xiaoyu and Tang Wujun, forcing them a step back. The flustered crossbowmen around them hastily reloaded their weapons, now hesitating—if they fired and this freak leaped again, wouldn’t they hit their own allies instead?
Tang Wujun barked, “Split your shots! Half aim for his chest and back, the other half wait until he leaps high!” His red-clad archers nodded in unison.
Mo Ziru’s swordplay was a dazzling streak. Even as Tang Wujun issued orders, he had already struck three times at him. Tang Wujun fumbled in panic, the twangs of his bowstring ringing incessantly—somehow, while engaged with Song Xiaoyu, Mo Ziru had slashed seven or eight strokes at his longbow! Had it not been an extraordinary artifact, it would have been cleaved apart long ago.Meanwhile, Song Xiaoyu wielded "Slaughter of the Living," his pair of steel forks resembling wolf-tooth clubs that now seemed like mere wooden mallets under Mo Ziru's sword. After finishing with Tang Wujun, Mo Ziru casually turned his blade toward "Slaughter of the Living," the clanging sounds ringing incessantly as the weapon's long spikes were steadily sheared away by his alternating left and right strikes.
Though Mo Ziru employed no extraordinary techniques, under these seemingly mundane strokes, "Slaughter of the Living" would inevitably be reduced to two bare rods, just as Tang Wujun's longbow would soon be severed.
At the pinnacle of swordsmanship, one returns to simplicity.
The most intricate ultimate techniques and the simplest ultimate techniques may ultimately be indistinguishable.
Both are excellent swordplay.
Just then, the twang of crossbow strings sounded. Mo Ziru flipped midair and dropped flat to the ground, leaving the crossbowmen who had anticipated his leap momentarily stunned. After landing, he rolled twice, somehow maneuvering right beneath one archer's feet before sweeping his sword—the man cried out and fell. The shortbow archers gasped and retreated; their martial skills were inferior, and Mo Ziru's sudden intrusion threw them into chaos. Darting left and right, weaving through the crowd with flashes of movement, he even employed Xue Xianzi's "Thousand-Track Arc Variation." In nearly an instant, over twenty firebow archers surrounding him lay groaning on the ground.
Song Xiaoyu and Tang Wujun both paled. Mo Ziru leveled his sword with a grin. "Again?"
The four streaks of white mist at Song Xiaoyu's nostrils thickened. Suddenly, the steel spikes of "Slaughter of the Living" retracted, extending forward as blade segments, transforming into two short sabers. With a flick of his sleeves, the twin blades shot forth like arrows—only to shatter midair with a metallic ring, fracturing into countless tiny hidden weapons that rained down.
This bizarre maneuver startled even Mo Ziru. Song Xiaoyu was no master of hidden weapons; the technique of shattering flying blades into myriad fragments lay not with him but with "Slaughter of the Living." Who had crafted such a mechanism for Song Xiaoyu? Just as someone had supplied Tang Wujun with over twenty firebow archers?
While pondering, Mo Ziru swung his sword to parry. Though the fragments were numerous, a single flick of his "Long Robe Sword"—now suddenly pliant—sent the weapon vibrating and flexing, sweeping aside the shards of "Slaughter of the Living." Naturally, this was merely a diversion. Song Xiaoyu and Tang Wujun lunged through the blade storm. Mo Ziru met Song's palm strike with his left hand while arching backward to evade Tang's longbow, then thrust forth his sword.
This technique was named "Carving Azure Light to Inscribe Chu Poetry," evoking verses etched on bamboo. It was a sword style from Mo Ziru's youth—both spirited and tinged with adolescent melancholy. Tang Wujun sneered, abruptly twisting his longbow to coil around the Long Robe Sword, trapping the blade. Song Xiaoyu, with profound internal energy, stood evenly matched after their palm clash and pressed forward with another strike. Unwilling to relinquish his sword again, Mo Ziru inhaled deeply and wrenched it back forcefully.
Mo Ziru's internal energy cultivation followed an unyielding, relentless path, making his forceful retrieval exceptionally powerful. Tang Wujun refused to believe that after twenty years of restraint, this man could have fundamentally transformed—even if he'd learned to retreat a single step, that was likely the extent of it.
Certainly not two steps.
As Mo Ziru strained to reclaim his sword, Tang Wujun suddenly released his grip—the poisoned longbow was yanked away by the Long Robe Sword, its elastic frame and string rebounding violently—leaving a hairline cut on Mo Ziru's cheek.
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