Chapter 103

Feng Yi walked all night, thinking about martial arts along the way. He now possesses Divine Illumination Skill, Blood Blade Scripture, Nine Yin True Scripture, Dragon Elephant Prajna Skill, and several supreme arts of Huang Yaoshi, all in one body; his martial treasury is rich beyond compare.

However, growing strength is not merely a matter of knowing many martial arts; especially the profound subtleties of internal arts, which ultimately converge despite different paths. Fortunately, his current view of these renowned martial arts is simply to collect them.

As for Huang Yaoshi, Guo Jing says whatever he wants—to forge a new path, innovate, and break the heavenly law of birth, aging, sickness, and death; that's just bragging.

This serves both to set a tone for the future and to let Huang Yaoshi and Guo Jing understand why, despite his youth and high martial prowess, he feels compelled to seize martial knowledge by any means.

As for his ideas, truly putting them into practice—on one hand, he currently has no time to think about these.

Another reason is that no supreme art is not created by a master standing on giants' shoulders, forged through countless hardships and repeated refinements; even changing a single character might not succeed, let alone overnight.

He now simply picks what is useful and strengthens certain aspects. For example, Finger-Flicking Divine Ability can enhance his finger strength again, and the fist and sword principles from the Nine Yin True Scripture can also corroborate what he has learned.

From his boastful words, Huang Yaoshi and Guo Jing cannot help but believe them.

After all, Feng Yi is only twenty; this level of martial arts cultivation is something even Guo Jing, who constantly encounters fortuitous opportunities, cannot match—who could deny? Feng Yi relied on the system and had already undergone worldly training, yet others merely thought he achieved it through diligent hard practice. He is also obscure in the martial world; then the martial arts cultivation and combat proficiency he displays are, in everyone's eyes, a martial arts genius unseen in a thousand years.

Feng Yi fully understands this; it is merely a fig leaf for his doing deeds that everyone despises.

An individual may not care about praise or blame, but some face must still be saved for others to see.

These are two separate matters.

Because humans are ultimately social animals.

Just as Yang Guo marrying his master, they themselves may not care, and it is their own affair; yet when it involves others, many unavoidable circumstances arise, which is inevitable.

Therefore, in the original plot, Yang Guo finding Xiao Longnv can only lead to seclusion.

Because the Song people valued ritual above all, the hierarchy between master and disciple is regarded as that of ruler and subject or father and son, which must not be disrupted.

The so-called "Three Bonds and Five Constants": the ruler is the bond of the subject, the father is the bond of the son, the husband is the bond of the wife. A master is like a father, hence the term "master-father"; a master-disciple union is equivalent to father-daughter or mother-son incest. The deleterious influence of such acts is unthinkable.

Do not look at Yang Guo as the later Divine Eagle Hero; if he continued to wander the jianghu with Xiao Longnv, gaining fame, there would always be those who disapprove, and the gossip behind his back would likewise drown him.

Hence, seclusion is their best refuge.

And Feng Yi, by stripping the Golden Wheel National Master naked for public display, using that as leverage to seize martial arts secret manuals, if he lacks a world-shaking justification, such conduct is as heinous as Yang Guo marrying his master.

Feng Yi has done the deed, achieved his goal, uttered a couple of boasts, stood on the high ground of contributing to martial development, and lessened the impact of his own lowly qualities; that is also understandable.

Feng Yi walked until dawn, bought a Shanxi donkey at a market town, mounted it, and headed north again, planning to meet Hong Lingbo at Bamboo Forest Pass, then discuss other matters.

Along the way he saw refugees flowing south like a tide, mostly the old, weak, sick, and disabled, with people collapsed from hunger on the road.

Although he had long witnessed such scenes, his heart remained uneasy, secretly thinking that in his previous life he had far exceeded in this regard.

He immediately pulled out a flask of water and wine, gulped a mouthful, and suddenly felt the earth tremble slightly; a muffled thunder rumbled from the northern sky.

Feng Yi gazed into the distance, only to see dust and smoke rising, condensing into a long gray line that thickened and surged forward; far off he saw a Mongol army, its ceremonial guards imposing, its momentum tremendous.

At that time the Jin state had fallen, and all lands north of the Huai River belonged to the Mongols. Feng Yi naturally did not take these troops seriously, but wishing to meet Hong Lingbo first and avoid trouble, he hid by the roadside.

He saw horse hooves kicking up dust; among a group of soldiers protected a man about thirty years old, wearing a brocade robe, his visage fierce, a bow and arrow at his waist, his bearing grand—surely a high-ranking official.

Feng Yi originally did not seek trouble, but upon seeing the Mongol official, a cold flash crossed his eyes; he leapt into the air and struck out four Splitting Void Palms transmitted by Huang Yaoshi.

The Splitting Void Palm is known to any expert, yet Huang Yaoshi's version differs from those of Ouyang Feng, Hong Qigong, and others; it ranks alongside the Toad Skill, Eighteen Dragon-Subduing Palms, One Yang Finger, and Innate Skill as a contemporary peer, showing its power.

In short, the palm force injures from a distance, its strength equal to a real strike, condensed and not dispersing.

With four Booms, the Mongol soldiers had not yet grasped what happened; the four in front were struck by this palm force, their tendons torn and bones broken, flying sideways several zhang, also knocking down those behind from their horses.

This sudden occurrence, happening in an instant, drew startled cries from both civilians and soldiers on the road; the civilians stood frozen, while the Mongol troops immediately formed ranks to meet the enemy.

Feng Yi likewise did not delay; he unfolded his movement technique, landing lightly as if stepping on clouds onto a horse, when a Mongol soldier drew his saber and fiercely chopped down.

Feng Yi extended his left hand; with a Crack he twisted the man's wrist, then kicked him off the horse, but the rider's horsemanship was superb—his foot caught the stirrup, yet the horse did not stop, continuing to gallop.

The Mongol soldier let out a miserable cry and was dragged away.

Feng Yi casually caught the opponent's saber, and in an instant it felt as if he were back to the day he slaughtered Mongol soldiers with the Blood Blade.

Hai! Two curved sabers and two spears, borne on a fierce wind, came slashing at him.

Feng Yi's Blood Blade Scripture technique had already reached perfection; using the fist and sword principles from the Nine Yin True Scripture to mutually corroborate, upon grasping this Mongol saber he felt as if he and the blade were one, utterly unified.

He casually swept left to right, tracing a circle around his body. With a ding-dang clang, four Mongol soldiers involuntarily grunted in pain; their sabers and spears flew up, and a flash of Feng Yi's blade sent them tumbling from their horses.

Suddenly, with repeated swish-swish, several feathered arrows shot toward Feng Yi out of nowhere.

Feng Yi waved his saber to block, about to press on, when he heard a loud shout: Stop!

Feng Yi then saw a Mongol official spur his horse forward, with twenty-odd Mongol soldiers behind him nocking arrows, all aimed at him.

The Mongol official shouted, "Who are you? Don't you want your head?" His pronunciation was proper and clear; he was actually speaking Chinese.

Feng Yi chuckled and said, "Sir, if you want my head, I doubt mere official authority can achieve that."

The official blinked slightly, seemingly not expecting that there still existed someone so reckless with his life.

Seeing Feng Yi's indifferent tone, as if he paid no heed to himself, the official flared in anger: Hmph, you know not life or death! He then waved a hand, and the soldiers' feathered arrows were already loosed.

Yet Feng Yi swung his single blade, deflecting the arrows and charging forward, but hearing repeated swish-swish, the soldiers' bows shot with extreme speed, and a sky-full of arrow rain pressed down on him like a tide.

Feng Yi needed only to block a wave of arrowheads; by the time they prepared a second volley, he had already leapt into the enemy formation. Seeing that shooting would hit his own men, the official gave the order: Kill!

The Mongol soldiers at once leveled their spears and slashed with sabers, charging forward.

Mongols esteem warriors, fearless of death, and their formations are strict; advance and retreat are orderly, the troops' long spears thrust forward, all attacking together, truly formidable.

Yet Feng Yi wielded his blade, swaying east and west, targeting vital points; with each sweep, bodies fell, cries of misery rose and fell, utterly grim.

Soon, the hundred-man formation was shattered by Feng Yi into disarray, over half casualties; Feng Yi shouted Hai! sharply, like a thunderclap exploding on flat ground, leaving the soldiers dazed; he leapt up and lunged at the Mongol official.

The official thought, "This person's martial arts are superb, but if you think you can deal with me, you have greatly underestimated me!"

With a hiss, he swung his blade toward Feng Yi's head.

Feng Yi saw that his strike was forceful, his blade technique fierce, as if he had received instruction from a master.

Before the words could finish, the moment arrived; Feng Yi blocked with his saber, and with a clang the official's tiger's mouth bled, his blade flying from his hand—but he suddenly sprang up, arms outstretched, fingers like eagle claws, raking fiercely at Feng Yi's wrist and neck, actually employing the fierce Great Power Eagle Claw Technique.

With a snort, he swung his knife and chopped toward Feng Yi's head.

Feng Yi saw that his strike was powerful, his blade technique fierce, as if he had been instructed by a master.

No sooner said than done, Feng Yi raised his knife to block—clang! —the official's tiger mouth split, blood flowing, his single knife knocked from his grasp; yet he suddenly sprang to his feet, arms outstretched, fingers like eagle claws, lunging at Feng Yi's wrist and neck with the fierce Great Strength Eagle Claw Technique.

Feng Yi gave a faint smile: "Still got a couple moves!" He pressed his left hand on the man's shoulder, using the force to glide past like a ghost, and Feng Yi's right-handed saber slash cut the two Mongol cavalrymen into four pieces, their torsos writhing in agony on the ground.

That official was also shaken by his palm strike, his body jolted violently; he flipped backward, his feet just touching the ground, only to feel a sweetness in his throat as a mouthful of blood spurted out.

Even so, his legs went weak and he collapsed to the ground.

All that could be seen was the Mongol official's face ashen, staring at Feng Yi in disbelief.

He had once received instruction from a famed master of the Eagle Claw Sect in his youth, priding himself on his martial skill, yet in a clash with Feng Yi he was defeated in a single move; moreover, Feng Yi's saber flashed wildly, and while he was pondering, another five were slain.

Though the saying goes "to capture the bandits, first capture their leader," Feng Yi did the opposite.

Because he intended to leave no survivors, he did not use his full strength against the officials, lest the leader's death frighten the others into flight, making it hard to intercept them; thus his fiercest techniques were all directed at the soldiers.

"Sir, run quickly!"

Two personal guards lifted the official, but in a flash of a shadow, two miserable cries rang out—two of his men had already had their throats cut by Feng Yi.

This official was no incompetent; he had already seen Feng Yi's intent, yet he could only watch helplessly as the gleaming long saber flickered with deadly threats, sweeping toward his own troops, and he hastily shouted again: "Hero, hold!"

By now half the Mongol soldiers were dead, and Feng Yi, feeling the thrill of slaughter, paid him no heed—instantly he unleashed three slashes, felling three more.

The official called out again: "Sir, perhaps you could let us die with understanding."

Feng Yi gave a sinister smile, his saber flashing like a dragon, its light swelling and receding—wherever it passed, death or injury followed, flesh and blood flying, truly a carnage of Shura. The official watched, heart pounding, his face turning ashen, yet helpless, he cried: "I am Yelü Zhu; before I die, may I ask the hero's exalted name?"

Hearing that name, Feng Yi felt a slight surprise, but he paid it no mind, waiting only to slaughter every Mongol; he flickered into motion and arrived beside Yelü Zhu.

Yelü Zhu saw the blade-light filling the sky descend, his heart leapt to his throat, thinking death was certain, when suddenly the white light paused and he felt a chill at his neck.

Feng Yi withdrew his saber's force, his gaze fixed on Yelü Zhu, the corner of his mouth twitching in a half‑smile, and said: "Are you a Khitan?"

Yelü Zhu replied: "I am indeed a Khitan." Seeing corpses strewn everywhere, he thought of the personal guards who had followed him through life and death, and tears welled up as he said: "I do not know how I have offended the hero; I am truly most foolish."

Seeing Feng Yi give no answer, he went on: "Hero, why do you not speak?"

"Why?" Feng Yi expressed surprise, pointing at his own nose: "Are you asking me?"

Yelü Zhu swept his gaze over the corpses, steeled himself, and with a tear said: "In my life I have most admired heroic men of valor, yet I have never before met anyone truly capable; today to make the acquaintance of a lofty sage truly fulfills my lifelong wish. Hero, whether you kill or cut, I will obey your command."

These words, while lofty in bearing and dignified, also greatly flattered the other party.

Feng Yi, well aware that officials' abilities aside, their greatest skill is flattery of superiors—the more versed in bureaucratic ways, the less their sycophancy shows—he sneered: "You ought to have some shame; such talk is fit only for a green‑horn kid."

"Save it for me, the one who specializes in killing officials!"

Yelü Zhu could not help but start; his eyes fell on Feng Yi's waist‑worn saber, then he studied Feng Yi's features more closely, his expression shifting as he exclaimed, "Ah!" and fell to the ground trembling: "I have long heard of your great name, Sir, but I am blind and ignorant of your visage; please do not take offense!"

Yelü Zhu was the son of the Mongol grand chancellor Yelü Chucai, who aided Genghis Khan and Ögedei in pacifying the four quarters, achieving remarkable merit, yet he disagreed politically with the empress who now holds regency.

Because Feng Yi had again slaughtered many Mongol officials, the young Yelü Zhu was dispatched to Shangzhou, which links the regions of E, Shaanxi, and Yu, as a pacification commissioner—a post by no means minor!

Naturally he had also heard that on the Shaanxi road there was an expert who specialized in killing officials, but he never imagined he would encounter such a person on his own journey to office.

Feng Yi gave a soft chuckle and said: "You needn't flatter me; today it's just your bad luck to have run into me, Feng Yi."

As he spoke, he drew his saber across, leaving a blood line on Yelü Zhu's neck; his eyes showed a hint of despondency and unwillingness before he collapsed to the ground.

His eyes remained open; he could never have imagined he would die just like that.

Because he had already given his name.

His father was a meritorious chancellor of the Mongols!

Feng Yi also did not know exactly who Yelü Zhu was, but he knew that killing any Yelü was always right—the Yelü surname is Khitan; when the Khitan ruled they were enemies of the Han, the same when they surrendered to the Jin, and still so under the Mongols; thus they deserve to die.

Feng Yi leapt onto his little donkey, clamped his legs, and clopped away.

A gust of wind swept by, scattering the onlookers in the nearby woods; they heard the name of the youthful killer: Feng Yi.

……

Time flew, and it was March again. Because Feng Yi needed to kill officials, and especially because he had slain Yelü Zhu, the Mongols issued a wanted poster with his likeness; he had no fixed abode, spending most of his time staying in one place for dozens of days or facing pursuit.

Feng Yi paid no heed to this; he deliberately announced his name precisely so as not to implicate those ordinary folk.

So that the Mongols would know whom to seek for revenge; if he merely killed and left without leaving a trace, those civilians would likely all perish.

Yet this arrangement caused him to miss the rendezvous with Hong Lingbo at Bamboo Grove Pass; fortunately, Hong Lingbo's martial prowess was sufficient to roam the jianghu, so there was no need to worry.

Thus Feng Yi reached the Jingzhao region; such a short distance took him several months, bringing him into winter, with bitterly cold weather.

Feng Yi saw the sky darkening, his stomach growling with hunger, arrived at a market town, entered an inn, produced a tael of silver, and asked for an upper room, where he settled in.

After washing up, he went to the dining hall to eat; there were only a few scattered patrons, which he did not mind.

However, provisions were scarce now; the innkeeper, doing his best, could offer only a large bowl of spicy sauce noodles and a jug of rough‑brewed village wine.

The food was too crude; Feng Yi hastily ate a few bites, then put down his chopsticks, losing his appetite. Thinking of the absence of Hong Lingbo, he felt much less enjoyment—at the very least, roasting game together with her had been lovely—and he shook his head.

Suddenly the sound of hooves grew louder and closer; the attendant outside shouted, and Feng Yi glanced sideways to see a white‑clad woman step through the door.

The woman had a melon‑seed face, quite pretty, about sixteen or seventeen; although she was decent‑looking, her left leg was slightly lame.

The woman had taken only two steps when her gaze suddenly swept to a table in the corner, and she snapped: "What are you looking at?"

Feng Yi felt curious, turned his head, and saw her speaking to two gray‑robed Daoists in the opposite corner.

The two Daoists appeared to be around twenty‑six or twenty‑seven, wearing the robes of the Quanzhen Sect. Feng Yi held his wine cup, neither sipping nor setting it down, watching the spectacle.

One thick‑eyebrowed Daoist rose and said: "You little lass, how barbarically domineering!"

The other Daoist, with a huge mouth, a hoarse, raspy throat, and a loud voice, barked: "What's wrong with you?"

The woman gave a cold snort: "Then don't blame the maiden!" With a swish, she drew from her waist a thin, slender curved blade, like a crescent moon, its silver gleam dazzling, and lunged straight at the two Daoists.

Despite her limp and ungainly leap, her hop‑and‑skip still flashed with blade light; the two Daoists stared in astonishment, never expecting such a fierce woman—they had merely glanced at her lame leg, said nothing, and she already drew her knife.

The two hastily ducked their heads, unaware that the girl's strike still carried momentum; her wrist trembled slightly, turning the blade in mid‑air, and it finally sliced the thick‑eyebrowed Daoist's left ear, blood spurting out at once.

This move was extraordinarily fantastical, its landing point unimaginable, hard for anyone to predict; Feng Yi glanced and recognized it as a typical technique of the Ancient Tomb School, thinking: "This must be Lu Wushuang!"

The two Daoists were both startled and enraged; the one whose ear had been cut felt excruciating pain to the bone and immediately howled in agony.

The other thick‑eyebrowed Daoist shouted: "Filthy lass, you dare!" Trembling with anger, he "whooshed" out a long sword and lunged ferociously at the woman.

The woman saw clearly, dodged the long sword, shook her hand and delivered three successive "hu‑hu‑hu" slashes; the Daoist retreated three steps, then the woman suddenly kicked out from inside her skirt, striking his knee squarely, causing him to collapse to his knees at once.

How ruthless the girl was—having such an opening, she would not let it pass; she brought her blade down upon his forehead with a "hiss," and once again sliced off his left ear.

Another Daoist, at this moment easing the pain, his eyes bloodshot, shouted: 'Today either you die or I perish!' He drew his long sword and also lunged forward.

This is at the foot of Chongyang Palace; the two Daoists originally did not dare to cause trouble, but seeing the woman so vicious, they could not bother with fighting two against one.

A surge of blush rose to the girl's cheeks; she coldly snorted, 'Stupid bull-nose, you deserve it!' Her knife flicked left and right, flipping up and down; the Daoist exhausted all his techniques, yet could not gain the upper hand.

Blood poured from the two Daoists; unable to withstand, they could only cover their ears and rush out.

The girl took a long breath; the flush on her face gradually faded, and she casually said, 'You overestimate yourself!'

She glanced at everyone, slipped her knife into her waist, walked to a table and sat down, saying, 'Waiter, bring a pot of tea first!'

The waiter, having seen her skill, had already lost his wits, his face pale; hearing this, he went to bring her tea.

The girl sat there, panting heavily.

Feng Yi never expected this woman to be so domineering; he too had a lame leg, and felt himself quite domineering and overbearing, yet he had never cut off the ears of anyone who looked at his lame leg! He changed his mind, fixed his gaze on the woman, not letting go; unexpectedly the girl turned her head, her eyes coldly staring at him.

When Feng Yi's eyes met hers, the woman coldly said, 'What are you looking at?'

Feng Yi was utterly bewildered; where did this woman get her confidence, as if the whole world were her enemies? He lightly said, 'How are you doing?'

The woman suddenly stood up; just then the waiter brought the tea, and she sat down again, snorting, 'Your luck is really good.'

Feng Yi couldn't help but be speechless; having learned only a bit of three-legged cat kung fu, not to mention Hong Lingbo, even the likes of Da Xiao Wu and Guo Fu were inferior to him, yet he was wildly arrogant, but for such an ignorant, overconfident person, he also couldn't be bothered to deal with.

Someday someone will teach her how to behave! Suddenly a loud shout rang out: 'Martial Uncle, right here!'

Three Daoists entered the shop.

Two of them were the ones who had just had their ears cut off, their cheeks bandaged; the other was about forty years old, very short in stature.

This Daoist glanced at everyone, looked at the woman, and said, 'I am Shen Zhi Fan of the Quanzhen Sect, Miss; who is your master?'

The woman completely ignored them, her eyes cold as she swept them across the three men's faces, actually treating them as if they were nothing.

Shen Zhi Fan said, 'Miss, you injured my sect's disciples for no reason; you must give an explanation!'

The woman raised the knife in her hand and said, 'If you want an explanation, then you must be able to defeat my Silver Fox Saber!'

The blade sliced through the air, emitting a buzzing sound.

(End of chapter)