Chapter 30: Shizun

Bearing the humiliation, Yi Xuefeng said, “Thank you, Sword Venerable.”

Only then did the Sword Venerable deign to mercifully release his wrist.

Qieyun had not withdrawn his sword light. One hand held the seal, the other stretched out toward Yi Xuefeng. “Come here, to me.”

Yi Xuefeng gathered up the robe threatening to pool at his ankles, shot Ning Yu a single sidelong glance, and then quickened his steps to Qieyun’s side.

Surrounded on every side by Qieyun’s sky-filling sword light, the man still found the leisure to reach up and settle Yi Xuefeng’s hood into place, shielding him from the downpour.

“Why did you come out?” Qieyun said. “I was about to head back anyway.”

Yi Xuefeng glanced at Qiu Jiangxing and sent a Voice Transmission to Qieyun: “He’s a new disciple my Shizun has taken in.”

Qieyun’s brow creased; for some reason, his dislike of Qiu Jiangxing deepened.

“Not robbing him?”

Yi Xuefeng nodded.

Qieyun clicked his tongue in dissatisfaction, but did not go against Yi Xuefeng’s word.

The hand forming the seal abruptly released. The bone-white sword light filling the sky dissolved into wisps of white mist and scattered into the air; the light binding the two Sword Cultivators’ Spirit Bodies also burrowed back into Qieyun’s heart and vanished.

Seeing Qieyun withdraw his sword light, Qiu Jiangxing assumed he dared not provoke Ning Yu, and grew all the smugger for it. He nimbly dismounted from his Spirit Beast and was making for Ning Yu’s side—when Ning Yu turned and simply walked away.

Qiu Jiangxing froze. “Senior Brother Ning?”

Ning Yu’s steps stopped. The hand hidden in his sleeve trembled faintly. He tilted his head slightly, regarding the youth a short distance away, his Devil Eyes suddenly bared, each word ground out like ice.

“Do not call me Senior Brother.”

Qiu Jiangxing nearly staggered back a step under that icy stare.

Having delivered his line coldly, Ning Yu cast one more glance at Yi Xuefeng talking with Qieyun, turned, and left.

Even after Ning Yu was long gone, Qiu Jiangxing could still feel Chilling Intent creeping up from the soles of his feet through every one of his meridians, wringing an involuntary shiver from him.

Before Qiu Manxi, Ning Yu was very quiet—he would sometimes sit in silence for an entire day beside a drunken Qiu Manxi, nothing at all like the ruthless figure of outside rumor. Aside from his face turning storm-dark enough to drip water whenever he caught their Shizun sneaking wine, Qiu Jiangxing actually felt this Senior Brother of his had a perfectly decent temper.

Qiu Jiangxing often played in Qiu Manxi’s courtyard and had seen Ning Yu many times; he had assumed the man easy to get along with. Who could have known his very first words to him would strike such a wall of nails.

He was still quietly nursing his wounded pride when an unrestrained burst of laughter rang out nearby.

Ye Fangcao: “Hahahaha! Where’s your backer now?! Come on, then! And here I thought Sword Venerable Ning came to help you—turns out he only came to save our Little Immortal Lord. Go on, Qiu Jiangxing—keep posturing!”

Qiu Jiangxing: “…”

Whether from anger or grievance, the rims of his eyes went red.

Jiang Jiwang dropped down from the tree and smacked the back of Ye Fangcao’s head, resigned. “Shut your mouth.”

Ye Fangcao obediently shut it, though his eyes continued to taunt Qiu Jiangxing with provocative gloating.

The two Sword Cultivators pinned by Qieyun had long since risen to their feet, watching him with traces of anger in their eyes.

The Sword Cultivator Yi Xuefeng had seen before gripped his sword with trembling hands, his gaze fixed on Qieyun as the latter fawned over Yi Xuefeng, and said in a low, cold voice, “A mere Sword Spirit…”

The rest was pitched too low to hear, but it took no imagination to know it was nothing kind.

At those first four words, Yi Xuefeng’s body went rigid. He brushed Qieyun’s hand aside and turned his gaze onto the man.

Those born with a Sword Cultivator’s talent tended to be proud to the very bone, and in the full flush of youth besides—their cultivation marked them as geniuses among geniuses of their generation, and they had likely never once tasted a proper defeat. And so, beaten into such a sorry state by a Sword Spirit acting on no one’s command, the youth’s instinct was pure humiliation and refusal to concede.

Qieyun had heard too many such words to care anymore. Worried Yi Xuefeng would catch a chill standing in the rain, he hurried him along. “Let’s head back. We’ll find someone else to rob. The Savage Wilds seem to have arrived too—let’s go ‘rob them.'”

Yi Xuefeng withdrew his gaze, gave Qieyun a smiling glance, and held out his hand. “Scabbard.”

The Scabbard shot over and landed in his palm. Seeing Yi Xuefeng smiling while his eyes ran utterly cold, Qieyun knew exactly what he intended to do.

He sighed inwardly—but knowing Yi Xuefeng’s temper, he offered no further obstruction. His form flickered and he reverted to True Form, letting Yi Xuefeng sheathe him.

With Qieyun standing guard, Qiu Jiangxing knew that fighting further would only cost them. He signaled the others, “Let’s pull back for now and regroup.”

Yi Xuefeng, however, gave a soft laugh. “The rest of you may go. But he stays.”

Everyone froze—then watched as Yi Xuefeng cast off his billowing outer robe and tossed it aside, long hair spilling over his left shoulder, standing tall and slender with sword in hand, regarding the Sword Cultivator who had spoken with a certain coldness.

Qiu Jiangxing’s brow furrowed.

Yi Xuefeng held the hilt in a reverse grip, looking exactly like a man who had never held a sword in his life—his frame so slender a single gust might knock him over. The moment the challenge left his lips, the Sword Cultivator youth laughed out loud.

“You mean to fight me with a sword?”

Yi Xuefeng smiled. “No. I won’t use a sword either. Didn’t you look down on Sword Spirits?”

The youth’s sneer grew louder still. “I think you simply can’t use one. The Little Immortal Lord of Cold Huai River, son of Lord Linfan the Sword Cultivator—and he can’t even hold a sword. What a colossal joke.”

Yi Xuefeng did not anger. He merely watched the youth with a smile that wasn’t quite a smile.

Meanwhile Jiang Jiwang and Qiu Jiangxing—both of whom had once been beaten howling by that very Scabbard—unconsciously clasped their hands behind their backs, the skin tingling with remembered pain.

Though Qiu Jiangxing disliked this new Sword Cultivator—he couldn’t even remember the man’s name—they were in an alliance now, and fellow disciples besides; he had no wish to watch him humiliate himself, and said hurriedly, “Don’t fight him! He knows swordsmanship!”

The Sword Cultivator exchanged a look with the other youth, who shook his head, signaling that Yi Xuefeng truly could not.

Yi Xuefeng couldn’t be bothered with further words. He simply wanted to teach this haughty boy a lesson—show him what it meant that beyond every person stands another person, and beyond every sky, another sky.

Having confirmed that Yi Xuefeng truly could not hold a sword, the youth drew his blade. “Fine. Come, then.”

He had been suppressed miserably by Qieyun earlier—felled by sword light almost before his blade cleared its sheath. He had lived like Heaven’s own favored son since birth, and this was the first true disgrace of his life.

If he couldn’t beat the Sword Spirit, then felling the Sword Spirit’s master would surely shame that damned Qieyun all the more.

So thinking, the youth charged straight in, sword raised.

Spectator expressions shifted at once to those of people watching a tragedy unfold.

A quarter hour later, the Qieyun Sword in Yi Xuefeng’s hand still had not left its sheath. Face grim as deep water, he rapped the hilt in a reverse stroke against the youth’s abdomen, using the momentum to send him sprawling back several steps into the mud, splashing the pooled rainwater in a small crater with a bang.

The Sword Cultivator youth’s eyes were full of horror and disbelief. Never had he imagined being beaten into such a state by a man who couldn’t even hold a sword.

His sword hand trembled faintly, swollen red and raw—every single one of Yi Xuefeng’s strikes during their exchange had landed on precisely the same spot on the back of that hand, not a hair’s deviation.

The onlookers heard only a continuous string of crisp cracks, and watched Yi Xuefeng with a mixture of awe and speechlessness. Probably none of them had ever imagined someone could fight an entire duel wielding a sword against nothing but the backs of hands.

The youth, the back of his hand swollen high, toppled straight into the mud. Rage choking him, he moved to rise—only for Yi Xuefeng to step onto his shoulder, pinning his every movement.

The youth snarled, “You—!”

Yi Xuefeng stood on his shoulder and leaned in slightly, regarding those furious eyes with a smile that wasn’t quite a smile, parting his lips gently, and said softly, “A mere Sword Cultivator.”

Returning, word for word, the insult the youth had hurled at Qieyun.

Having said his piece, Yi Xuefeng hooked a finger into the Spirit Apportionment Jade Ribbon tied at the youth’s neck and pulled, just slightly—it came free at once.

Before the young Sword Cultivator could even summon his rage, the Cloudland City Barrier flung him high into the sky, and he vanished into the black firmament within moments.

Qiu Jiangxing and the others stared at Yi Xuefeng, aghast. They had thought Qieyun the most troublesome of the lot—never imagining that this Little Immortal Lord, who had hidden his depths at every turn and couldn’t even hold a sword, was the one truly to be feared.

Yi Xuefeng wound the Ribbon idly around his finger, then tossed it casually aside; Qieyun shifted back into human form on the spot and raised a hand, catching the Spirit Apportionment Jade cleanly.

Qieyun’s eyes curved into crescents of delight, transmitting gleefully: Father, you’re the best.

Yi Xuefeng had never intended to rob anyone from Returning Swan Mountain—but that Sword Cultivator’s mistake had been to slander Qieyun to his face. Besides, the man was not Qiu Manxi’s disciple; there was no reason whatsoever to show him mercy.

Yi Xuefeng looked at the other Sword Cultivator, who seemed struck dumb, and said evenly, “Care to try your luck as well?”

The youth pressed his lips together, regarding him with cold eyes.

Qiu Jiangxing lunged forward and seized the youth’s wrist, urging hastily, “Forget it! We can’t beat them. If another Spirit Apportionment Jade gets robbed, Returning Swan Mountain might not even place at all—do you think we aren’t humiliated enough already?”

The Sword Cultivator youth said nothing, but the urge to challenge Yi Xuefeng had left him all the same; he was hauled away half-dragged by Qiu Jiangxing.

Only after the four had vanished into the forest did the group gather around, chattering about how formidable the Little Immortal Lord truly was.

Yi Xuefeng’s own interest was piqued; he raised a brow. “Who do we rob next?”

Ye Fangcao smiled slyly. “Next, we rob no one at all. Yinghong says that at the very edge of the Southern Region—see, right there, where the lightning falls thickest—there’s a cave, with two Spirit Beasts standing guard outside. Like those Fire Mirror Birds from before. A place guarded by two Spirit Beasts of that caliber must hold treasure. Since we reached Cloudland City we’ve done nothing but rob other people—we’ve never once won a treasure of our own. This time, let’s go see for ourselves.”

Yi Xuefeng and Qieyun exchanged a glance. Qieyun nodded.

They weren’t pressed for time, and two months was ample for running wild through the Southern Region.

Lower Realm. Cold Huai River.

A dozen days and more had passed. Each day, disciples were flung from Cloudland City by its Barrier and eliminated, and the mighty figures of every sect gathered in threes and fives on the vast open platform outside Cold Huai River, trading words.

Quesheng of Returning Swan Mountain and Ning Yu of the Savage Wilds had entered the city on account of Cloudland City’s time-flow anomaly; everyone else remained here. And midway through the Immortal Grand Assembly, a figure absolutely no one had anticipated arrived.

Song Jingsheng stared at the young man before her—folding fan in hand, green robes draped over a tall, upright frame—for a long, stunned moment before leaping down from the stone platform and approaching with a slight bow. “Elder Qiu.”

Elder Qiu—Qiu Manxi’s features were soft as a painting, his whole person gentle as a pool of spring water; merely to look upon him was like a warm breeze in springtime.

He laughed lightly. “Sect Master Song, my disciple has come to the Grand Assembly to see something of the world, and I found myself a little uneasy, so I’ve come uninvited. I trust you won’t hold it against me.”

That Qiu Manxi was the Shizun of the Savage Wilds’ Sword Venerable Ning was known to all. In the whole vast Three Realms—Savage Wilds or Righteous Path alike—none dared show him the slightest disrespect.

Sect Master Song hastened to say, “Elder Qiu, you honor us far too much. Please, take the seat of honor.”

Smiling, Qiu Manxi was led by Song Jingsheng up to the stone pavilion atop the Teleportation Tower.

The tower’s peak was graced by the Three Realms’ foremost powers. Seeing Qiu Manxi approach, they gave him slight nods—unwilling to keep his company, yet not daring, on account of Ning Yu, to slight or offend him.

Within the pavilion stood small tables bearing wine, while on the foremost stone wall, images transmitted through the Shared-Vision Talisman shifted gently—a closer look revealed the youths of Cloudland City scrambling for treasures and Spirit Apportionment Jade.

Two seats in the pavilion stood empty. On one small table sat wine and an umbrella; on the other, only a single teacup.

Qiu Manxi recognized his Eldest Disciple’s seat at once and, not minding in the slightest, walked over and settled into it. Then, all smiles, he begged a jar of wine from Song Jingsheng and settled in to sip at his leisure.

Seeing that he didn’t mind, Song Jingsheng quietly relaxed as well, returning her gaze to the stone wall.

A while later, Ning Yu drifted down from Cloudland City, his feet treading the empty air as if it were solid ground, landing lightly within the stone pavilion atop the tower.

He had barely touched down when every gaze turned toward him. “How goes it?”

Ning Yu said, “All disciples have reached the Southern Region. A few more days, and they will emerge.”

Everyone nodded.

With that said, Ning Yu moved off toward his own seat—and a few steps in, beheld Qiu Manxi hugging a wine jar, dead drunk.

Song Jingsheng, a little awkward, murmured, “Elder Qiu said he was uneasy about Qiu Jiangxing and came to look in on him. He’s been here some time now.”

Ning Yu’s face turned pitch-dark. He walked to Qiu Manxi’s side and rapped his knuckles lightly on the table, his tone impatient. “Shizun.”

Qiu Manxi lay sprawled across the small table, head pillowed on his arm, long hair loose and trailing to the ground, several strands damp with spilled wine. He had drunk far too much; his clear eyes had gone unfocused, and he gazed up at Ning Yu in a muddled haze, seemingly unable to make out the man’s face.

Only after a long moment did Qiu Manxi smile lazily, propping his head on one hand, and say with a beaming grin, “Disciple, you’re back?”

Ning Yu said low, “Get up. I’ll take you back to rest.”

He reached out to steady Qiu Manxi and, ignoring everyone’s probing stares, shifted his form and brought the man to his own lodgings.

Qiu Manxi’s head lolled drowsily onto his forearm, entirely unaware he had changed locations, mumbling half a beat behind, “Back? Back where?”

Ning Yu couldn’t be bothered arguing with a drunk, and moved to press him down onto the couch—but Qiu Manxi suddenly gave an “ah.”

Ning Yu said, “Hm?”

Qiu Manxi struggled upright against Ning Yu’s supporting hand, still muttering, “Morning Lessons are over. I have to go fetch Xuefeng.”

Ning Yu’s supporting hand trembled.

Qiu Manxi kept murmuring his drunken nonsense. “This Master will never enter Secluded Cultivation again. I have to go fetch Xuefeng. He’s so good—if someone bullied him, what then?”

Pain flashed through Ning Yu’s eyes and was gone. He looked down at Qiu Manxi, still going on about fetching Yi Xuefeng, and after a long while let out a soft breath, dimly aware that his very breathing shook.

“Good.” Ning Yu eased Qiu Manxi down onto the pillow, saying gently, “Fetch Xuefeng.”

Every year when drunk, Qiu Manxi clamored and carried on about going to fetch Xuefeng, and the Returning Swan Mountain elders, helpless before him, could only tell him again and again that Xuefeng was never coming back. This was the first firm answer Qiu Manxi had received in a hundred years.

He looked up at Ning Yu in a daze, then suddenly asked, “Who are you again?”

Ning Yu said, “Your Eldest Disciple.”

Qiu Manxi gave an “oh,” and said, “Then This Master must go fetch the Little Disciple.”

Seeing that mention of the “Eldest Disciple” had only changed the subject, Ning Yu felt a flicker of displeasure and pressed, “And the Eldest Disciple? No fetching for him?”

Qiu Manxi’s strength spent, his head lolled back onto the pillow, done with talking.

Ning Yu pressed down on his shoulder, a competitive streak rising in him. He said in a low voice, “Shizun. Qiu Manxi. Answer me. Don’t you want to fetch me home?”

Qiu Manxi ignored him.

“Shizun? Shizun!“

Qiu Manxi’s head was splitting from too much wine; having gotten the answer he wanted, he meant only to sleep—yet Ning Yu kept hold of him, asking ceaselessly beside his ear.

He flung up a hand and smacked Ning Yu squarely on the head, frowning, mumbling, “Not fetching the Eldest Disciple. He’s always managing me. No this, no that.”

Ning Yu was nearly smacked senseless, his hair crown knocked askew, staring at him in stunned disbelief.

Having finally swatted the maddening mosquito into silence, Qiu Manxi found his peace at last; his head tipped once more, and he dropped straight off into sleep.

Ning Yu: “…”