Chapter 10: The Sparring Match

The moment anyone entered the Training Grounds to spar, an illusory Barrier half a man’s height would rise to enclose the field. Perhaps Yi Xuefeng’s “viciousness” had finally outraged gods and men alike—a young man bearing a long sword could bear it no longer. Righteous indignation written across his face, he braced a hand on the Barrier platform and leapt down into the arena.

One glance told Yi Xuefeng this one was a Sword Cultivator in the true sense, nothing like the dabblers he and Ye Fangcao were—the kind who, drawing a sword, could spar someone of Lin Fuyu’s meager cultivation into howling.

At the sight of him, Ye Fangcao’s face flushed red as he brandished his sword. “Get down! Get down right now! Think I’m not humiliated enough?!”

The blue-robed young man ignored him and shot Yi Xuefeng a cold glance. “Even a Little Immortal Lord has no right to humiliate people like this. Junior Martial Brother Ye is a Beast-Taming Cultivator and knows nothing of the sword. If the Little Immortal Lord is unsatisfied, why not have a round with me instead? Would that suit?”

At these words, the other youths outside the field all gripped their swords. “Same here!”

Yi Xuefeng: “…”

Yi Xuefeng ventured, “Actually, I—”

Ye Fangcao nearly jumped out of his skin, face scarlet. “Senior Martial Brother! A fair duel—winner takes all, loser accepts the result! Don’t do this!”

“Don’t do this” was all he could say, back and forth; his senior brothers, tempers already inflamed by the “vicious” Yi Xuefeng, had no interest in listening. A few of the Junior Martial Brothers on the sidelines even shot him glares of hopeless exasperation, eyes screaming shut up.

The blue-robed young man said, “Little Immortal Lord, draw your sword.”

So saying, he took a long sword from the weapon rack nearby and tossed it to Yi Xuefeng.

Yi Xuefeng caught it, hesitating. “Actually, I’m no master of the sword either.”

The collective “hmph!” from the spectators nearly shook the Training Grounds down around them.

The blue-robed young man said coldly, “Judging by the technique you used to shave my Junior Martial Brother’s hair, you don’t look like any novice. And moreover—Immortal Lord Linfan was a Sword Cultivator known throughout the Three Realms. If you don’t know the sword, don’t tell me you’ve switched over to beast-taming instead?”

Yi Xuefeng looked at the aggressive young man and at Ye Fangcao behind him, hovering between speaking and staying silent, and roughly understood: today, it seemed, there was no escaping playing with this pack of children. He sighed softly. “Everything I’ve said is the truth. If you insist on a spar, so be it—but if you get hurt, that’s not my responsibility.”

The blue-robed young man gave a cold laugh. “Then let’s find out!”

He drew his sword and charged.

Ye Fangcao moved to intervene, but the formation beneath his feet abruptly shuddered and flung him bodily out of the arena.

Several disciples outside scrambled to catch him in a flailing heap.

Steadied, Ye Fangcao flushed with embarrassment and anger. “I told you this is between me and Lin Fuyu! Why are you butting in? If disciples of other sects see this, they’ll say we’re ganging up on one man!”

His Senior and Junior Brothers all chorused, “Shut it. Your senior brother is standing up for you—why are you angry about that? Less talk, more watching. Lin Fuyu finally gets his comeuppance. Senior brother will use the spar as cover to thrash him a little, and Sect Master Song can do nothing to us for it.”

Ye Fangcao said, “This is a private vendetta?”

“Obviously. We’ve loathed the sight of him forever. We could never land a hand on him normally, but knocks and clashes during a spar—that’s beyond anyone’s control—Ah! Junior Brother, look, quick!”

Shame-faced and exasperated, Ye Fangcao could do nothing to stop it. He could only turn with the rest and stare at the arena.

Inside, Yi Xuefeng still hadn’t drawn his sword. He held it sheathed behind his waist, tall figure standing against the wind, his bearing impressively intimidating.

When the blue-robed young man’s sword left its sheath, a shrill hum rang out across the entire Training Grounds. The youth was lean and wiry, and the aura that came with the drawn blade was truly fearsome.

His speed was extreme—wind at his heels, body like a flickering afterimage—as his long sword stabbed toward Yi Xuefeng, who stood rooted in place, apparently too slow to react.

A chorus of gasps. Against a Sword Cultivator, a single move could decide life and death.

Seeing Yi Xuefeng still standing there dazed, some last shred of reason surfaced in the split second before contact. The Little Immortal Lord of Cold Huai River is this useless? If he really goes to the Immortal Grand Assembly like this, he’ll be knocked off the stage in moments, and the disgrace will be Cold Huai River’s. I’ll only strike him with the flat of the blade and injure his hand—just enough that he can’t attend.

So thinking, he was just redirecting his blade to smash the flat against Yi Xuefeng’s forearm when the figure before him suddenly moved.

Startled, before he could even react, he heard a crisp crack.

A “pa!” rang through the entire Training Grounds.

Not only the youths below—even the blue-robed young man froze in place, and only a beat later did the burning sting on the back of his hand register.

Yi Xuefeng’s wrist circled like a turning flower, sword in hand, sweeping his sleeve through a full arc before laying the still-sheathed blade along his forearm like a bamboo flute—his posture drifting and elegant.

“I did warn you. Watch for injuries.”

No one had seen how he moved. They stared at him in disbelief, wondering if their eyes deceived them.

The back of the blue-robed young man’s hand burned with pain, and something like seriousness entered his gaze. Holding his sword point-down, he offered a slight clasp of his fist and said solemnly, “I was arrogant and careless just now. Little Immortal Lord, please instruct me.”

Yi Xuefeng was rather put out, but he couldn’t exactly turn tail and run, so he nodded.

“Come.”

The blue-robed young man came at him again, sword in hand, this time far warier. But before he could even close the distance, the long sword in Yi Xuefeng’s hand—wielded like a Discipline Ruler—dropped toward his sword hand like a gust of wind.

Another “pa!” This time the blue-robed young man actually saw how the strike was made—but Yi Xuefeng was simply too fast. Even seeing it left no time to react.

Yi Xuefeng withdrew his sword, drifting. “Your cultivation is decent, but your swordsmanship is far from solid. I suspect you’ve devoted yourself wholly to raising your cultivation and spiritual power while neglecting your sword forms. A Sword Cultivator’s body and heart must be tempered a thousand times over. You—don’t forget why you first took up the sword.”

He’d never wanted the Sword Cultivator path as a child. But a young, hot-blooded Ning Yu had been convinced that whatever he liked must be the best, and that others were bound to love it too, so he’d forced him to practice day after day.

Back then, the moment Yi Xuefeng slackened even slightly, that famously taciturn Senior Martial Brother of his would lecture on and on without end. Those borrowed speeches, deployed now to bluff his way through, could at least be said to be put to good use.

His hand burning with pain, the blue-robed young man still gripped his sword tightly and said through his teeth, “Again.”

Then, one after another, the sound like a ruler striking the back of a hand rang out across the Training Grounds.

“No—your wrist strength is wrong.”

“Your spiritual power must move. Yes—slower.”

“…”

Each “pa” struck like a blow to the hearts of the watching youths. The looks they gave Yi Xuefeng shifted from disdain to something warier—and something strange they couldn’t quite name.

Ye Fangcao stared, dumbfounded, before finally asking the senior brother beside him, “L-Lin Fuyu doesn’t know the sword, does he?”

The same senior brother who’d been clamoring to teach Lin Fuyu a lesson mumbled, “R-right? He hasn’t even drawn his sword.”

Everyone exchanged looks.

Panting, the blue-robed young man retreated to the edge of the arena, his sword hand trembling faintly. Gritting his teeth, he glared at Yi Xuefeng, wanting to press forward again—but at the sight of the still-sheathed blade in the youth’s hand, his swollen, throbbing hand only ached worse.

A Sword Cultivator, beaten into such a sorry state by someone claiming no mastery of the sword—by a mere scabbard, no less. It should have been a deep humiliation.

Young men are young: proud and hot-blooded, he should have burned with shame and fury. But facing Yi Xuefeng—the two of them the same age, no less—he somehow felt as though he stood before a mountain reaching into the clouds, its peak blotting out the sky, daunting beyond bearing. The awe drowned the shame and anger entirely.

Yi Xuefeng, with several hundred years of combat experience, had just ground the boy’s fighting spirit thoroughly into the dirt. Seeing him so deflated, a sudden flush of shame at being an elder misbehaving rose in him. The tips of his ears warmed, though his bearing remained perfectly composed. Elegantly cradling the sword between both hands, he said, “We stop here.”

His air of calm composure bore not the slightest resemblance to what a sixteen-year-old should look like, and for a moment everyone was frozen, unsure how to speak.

But at that very moment, Qieyun suddenly sent a Voice Transmission to Yi Xuefeng.

“Dad! Enough—quit posturing! Ning Yu has been standing there watching you for ages! Keep up the act and you’ll give yourself away for sure, aaahhh!”

Yi Xuefeng looked around blankly, and at last spotted Ning Yu beneath a locust tree not far off, his expression dark and terrifying.

Yi Xuefeng: “…”

Yi Xuefeng, whose presence had been extraordinary as an immortal’s, took such a violent fright that the sword he’d held so steadily slipped from his hand and clattered to the ground.

With a “clang,” it landed squarely on the instep of his own foot.

Everyone: “…”