Chapter 20

He slashed his dagger, severing nearly the entire lower hem of his black robe, folded it twice, and tossed it—it flew like a large crow and landed steadily on the table.

Pei Ye frowned at the arc it traced, his gaze flicking to where it landed, then suddenly understood—his heart clenched sharply.

But he had no time to act; the crow spread its wings, smothering the flickering blue flame, plunging the cave into darkness that swallowed his constricted pupils and pale face. The flame had no heat—it could not ignite, nor pierce the cloth.

Those who harbor True Qi possess keener senses. When light fades, Wu Zaigu can see more than Pei Ye; when sounds grow faint, Wu Zaigu can judge direction more precisely than Pei Ye.

I lose nine-tenths of my sight but still retain half my strength; you lose nine-tenths of your sight and become useless. I truly cannot match your sword technique—but now, do you even know when to strike, in which direction, or how?

Pei Ye did not know.

No target, no details of the opponent’s move, no sense of distance, no time to react—he possessed supreme skill but could do nothing.

His senses dragged his sword technique down—or rather, his sword technique was so extraordinary that it had allowed him, against such overwhelming odds, to hold out this long.

The darkness around him bristled with sharp needles; a lethal strike could come from any direction, at any moment.

His heart nearly stopped; under the pressure of imminent death, Pei Ye raced through strategies—but none helped.

This was an open strategy, a chasm forged by raw power. A Seventh-Life Meridian Tree martial artist killing a landlubber was effortless—it was merely returning to the natural order.

No more time for thought; even the worst tactic was better than waiting to die.

So, despite the fire being nearly across the room, Pei Ye charged toward it by memory.

The room was no more than three or five steps wide—he drew near, faint light seeming to appear before him—but Wu Zaigu, of course, would not grant a cornered beast any chance; a sharp whistle pierced the air behind Pei Ye’s skull, the blade moments from severing his neck.

This, too, was the final opportunity Pei Ye had been waiting for!

I do not know from which direction you will attack, so I expose my most vulnerable back to you; I do not know when you will strike, so I lift the veil myself and force you to draw your blade now.

His long sword had long been primed—he gritted his teeth, twisted his step, spun, and struck!

In utter darkness, he surrendered everything to fate.

Let his sword cut the enemy’s throat faster than any other!

A clang of metal on metal.

Pei Ye’s heart sank to the abyss.

Even now, Wu Zaigu had not thrown himself into the attack.

Pei Ye had dared to gamble his life—but Wu Zaigu had never placed his own life on the table.

Pei Ye was luring him to strike; yet Wu Zaigu, too, had been waiting for Pei Ye to draw his sword. He sought not a single killing blow, but a clash of blade and sword.

The outcome matched his expectation: under the vast disparity of strength, Pei Ye’s sword flew from his grip, clattering to the ground like a goose with broken wings, crying as it fell.

In his thirty years of life, Wu Zaigu had endured countless life-or-death duels—from reckless, careless beginnings to his current seasoned mastery. He long ago learned that even a lion must use full force against a rabbit, and had seen countless masters toppled by trivial missteps.

He showed Pei Ye the utmost respect: he first blinded the venomous snake, then pulled its fangs, reducing it to a harmless worm.

Pei Ye stood motionless, the evaporation of his sweat now chilling him. He realized—he was truly meat on the butcher’s block.

In strength, experience, quick wit, decisiveness, and calmness, his opponent surpassed him in every way.

For the first time, Pei Ye truly felt this: all tricks exhausted, his fate utterly in the enemy’s hands—to kill as he pleased, to toy with as he wished.

This, then, was true desperation.

Previously, though he knew his enemy was powerful, that feeling had been danger and pressure—things that stirred his courage.

Now, for the first time, the terror of helplessness against death enveloped him—whether it was fear of death itself, or fear of helplessness, he could not tell.

In the darkness, Wu Zaigu let out a soft laugh, the sound of a blade spinning in his hand. He had never expected to feel joy facing a landlubber—but at least, it was over.

Draw the blade.

In the cold, numb darkness, his limbs paralyzed, the wind pressed upon him—fear and despair reached their peak.

In that instant, Pei Ye finally grasped the spark of insight.

It was not bad luck—it was that the essence of this sword art was “heart and sword as one.”

After decades of immersion, after mastering the techniques to their peak, the very realm those sword masters had strived for was the threshold to truly entering this art.

Only when the heart aligned could one truly wield this sword art.

And only after his heart was utterly drowned in despair did Pei Ye finally understand what it was trying to say.

Pei Ye.

—You believe yourself gifted, young enough to spar with elders of forty or fifty, praised by all, proud and satisfied—but have you ever considered you are merely a frog at the bottom of a well?

—You think your will unbreakable, bold enough to face hardship, relentless in adversity—but have you ever faced an insurmountable obstacle? Have you ever tasted utter, complete failure?

—You boast of courage, righteousness, facing powerful foes alone for kin and elders—but have you truly prepared to die? And in the end, whom did you save? If you could choose again, would you still charge forward without hesitation?

—You pride yourself on careful thought, sharp mind, adaptability in battle, habitually overcoming the strong—but have you ever truly faced a master? Now, before this enemy, are you not laughably naive?

When all you once took pride in proves worthless, who are you then?

Strip away these layers, from outside to inside, leaving only the original, weakest “I”—like a snow-covered goose with broken wings—that was the heart of the old man of the Yue family when he created this sword art.

If, at this moment, you still have the courage to raise your sword—

Then this sword will open its arms to you.

Pei Ye’s heart surged; darkness, fear, the taste of blood, the imminent blade—all receded. Irrelevant to life or death, he could not wait to unleash this sword, even if it were his final glimpse before dying, he wanted to see its form.

But where was the sword?

The sword was at his side.

Pei Ye reached out, grasped it—a three-foot-long bronze rod, one end razor-sharp, the other inlaid with a gourd.

In the silent, dark night, before the black curtain, countless white images surged forth: snow, a white horse like jade, ice, frost blooming on the sword’s gleaming surface, white, sharp feathers filling the sky…

Draw the sword.

Wu Zaigu seemed to plunge into true darkness.

Blind, deaf, numb—even his blade felt lost, as if trapped in the deepest dream, or buried in the darkest core of the earth; the feeling of losing every crutch was returned to him in full.

Only a sharp wind raced, howling past.

A searing pain tore through his throat; his senses snapped back. Wu Zaigu slowly lowered his head—his chin met a cold, hard bronze rod.

This was the first form of the Snowy Night Flying Goose Sword Style.

【Clouds Veil the Sky, Feathers Lost】