Chapter 730: Inside and Outside

The capital, drenched in days of rain, wore an entirely different visage, its city walls and tiles washed clean and gleaming anew.

Poets with bright futures composed grand verses; those whose careers had stalled wrote verses of confusion; even the most dull-witted sensed the unusualness of this weather. In the capital, everyone spoke of the rain—common folk sighed and complained, spreading tales of aquatic anomalies; martial cultivators sought its origin, and those who had witnessed it firsthand by the Wei River became sought-after figures.

The same event yielded different levels of information to people of different strata.

A black cat sat crouched on the windowsill table, gazing outward, commanding a full overlook of the entire capital.

Li Jian stood beside him at the window.

“Won’t you act yourself?” the black cat said.

“The Immortal Hunter grows anxious and acts rashly,” Li Jian replied. “I cannot act lightly.”

“Afraid of exposing your methods?”

“Exposing methods is fine—it’s exposing that I have no methods at all that would be ruinous,” Li Jian said. His face was stern, rugged, and plain—no one could tell whether he never joked, or if he wore this same expression even when he did.

The black cat felt neither scenario was good.

“You said there’s a Chan General beneath the water—so who did you assign? Can Li He even defeat him?”

“Two swords.”

On the night Pei Ye entered the water, on the empty boat, the candle had not yet fully extinguished when a middle-aged man with an umbrella and sword suddenly appeared at the prow.

He tucked the umbrella’s handle under his arm and ate from a bowl of noodles, his back soaked while the noodles in his hands remained perfectly shielded.

After a moment, a woman’s voice came from behind: “Li Jianzhu, long time no see.”

Li He had just lifted a mouthful of noodles—he set it down and repeated: “Li Jianzhu, long time no see.”

Then he lowered his head and swallowed the bite.

“We’re both in the capital—afterward, let’s chat more.”

“No, no—I, Li He, am loyal to the sovereign and devoted to the nation.”

The woman laughed, stepping forward, her red skirt fluttering in the wind: “Why rush here without eating? You’ve been Benbo on the Eight Waters these days—poet, you’ve worked hard.”

“Li Jian pressed me hard—I said I’d eat a bowl of noodles first, but he said no,” Li He continued eating, head down. “He said it was about dealing with one person, but gave no time, no place, no method. Do you have any news?”

“I asked Li Jian—he said he didn’t know.”

Li He lifted his head from the noodles: “Hm?”

“Hm.”

Li He thought for a moment, then lowered his head again to eat.

……

……

There seemed to be wind beneath the water.

Newly sprouted Luoshen flowers swayed as two figures, one wielding a spear, the other a sword, faced each other.

Yong Ji stood motionless; Pei Ye walked steadily toward him.

They had just

Fought a brutal battle mere hours ago—their blood had not yet been wiped clean.

Though brief, that clash had reached an extreme intensity within mere exchanges—each had fought solely to kill the other: intent-sword, True Beast qi, Immortal Authority, Heart Sword… ordinary techniques were nearly invisible.

The outcome had been stark: in close combat, Pei Ye had pierced Yong Ji with three sword thrusts and one spear strike, effortlessly, yet none had left a true wound; while Yong Ji’s single punch left Pei Ye barely able to resist—the sheer power was nearly double that of the boy.

Once they entered the realm of Immortal Authority, [White Water] had utterly suppressed [Black Fire]; had Li Xizhou not swiftly carried the boy away, even without the monk’s intervention, Yong Ji could have killed him.

But now Li Xizhou had erected this barrier solely to let them fight again.

Yong Ji simply could not fathom what change could occur in a few hours—could Li’s princess really strengthen his muscles and bones?

Pei Ye drew within ten zhang.

Yong Ji slowly raised his spear.

Pei Ye stared at him, crouched, bent low—and in an instant, a white line surged upward from the water, its tip a brilliant blade.

Yong Ji struck the spear shaft aside, deflecting the sword, his voice cold: “Beast.”

His eyes darkened to a deep crimson; his qi turned the same hue, swirling around the spear. Red usually evokes vividness and glare, but the crimson on Yong Ji’s spear was dark and heavy, like a thousand overlapping layers of blood.

As Pei Ye’s longsword was knocked aside, his hair flying, he raised his fist toward Yong Ji instead.

Yong Ji raised his fist in response—qi and water surged like a roar around his fist—but the next instant, his pupils shrank: the cold-eyed boy before him suddenly seemed to possess an uncanny foresight. He released his sword, twisted his wrist to deflect the incoming punch, then drew his fist back like a full bow and slammed it straight into Yong Ji’s face!

Yong Ji’s head tilted, hair scattering, his mouth instantly filled with metallic sweetness; Pei Ye surged upward again, driving his knee into Yong Ji’s chest. Yong Ji leaned back to evade, and Pei Ye hovered above him, snatching the returning longsword with both hands, raising it high, and driving it down with all his might.

Yong Ji roared, unleashing explosive arm strength—his spear swept horizontally in a crescent arc, clearing a hollow in the water—and just as the blade pierced his abdomen by a foot’s depth, it was swept aside. The next instant, qi and raging waves surged toward the boy, the water churning violently, dense bubbles exploding like a blizzard.

The next moment, Yong Ji’s cold, furious face burst forth, closing in on the boy’s front, and he slammed his fist down—Pei Ye blocked with his sword, his body trembling violently under the residual force. Instantly, Yong Ji hurled his heavy iron spear with one hand—within several zhang, chaotic currents exploded.

Pei Ye suddenly stilled for an instant—as the spear struck, his swordtip flicked lightly, that wondrous sword technique reappearing—he became a light, formless spirit, and under [Drifting Backwind], he reappeared instantly above Yong Ji’s face.

The swordlight slashed fiercely sideways—Yong Ji reacted swiftly, raising his

Arm to block before his face—a spray of hot blood erupted; Pei Ye charged straight through the spray, roaring, and slammed another fist into Yong Ji’s chest!

At that moment, Yong Ji snapped his head up, pupils shrinking, staring fixedly at the boy so close.

This punch did not inflict serious injury—the boy’s fist was like a heavy mallet, a rare swordsman with extraordinary physique—but it did not shock him.

He had become startlingly adept at everything in the water—fluid as a phantom. He had sensed it in the first round.

But in this punch, he now confirmed it: his control over water had weakened again.

——He was stealing [White Water] from within him!

……

Beneath a hundred-zhang tree.

The Jiao Pavilion was sealed; the Luoshen peach trees still grew sparsely, but the figures of Yong Ji and the others were no longer visible.

Li Xizhou gazed at the monk; the monk held his spear upright. The Luoshen Old Pavilion covered a hundred zhang; beyond it, black lightning connected, forming another, far vaster cage.

Several great demons of the mirage crouched, coldly watching, slowly encircling the woman; shadows crept over her.

The woman possessed no cultivation—within the churning heavens and earth of hundreds of zhang, she alone faced this Celestial Tower.

Yet she showed no fear; her pallor came only from blood loss. Saliva dripped from the jaws of the great demons beside her sheer veil, but she seemed not to see them.

The monk watched quietly as the Luoshen Palace—though not immune to heaven and earth’s influence—was being climbed by black fissures; where they touched, Luoshen peach trees turned to ash, and the Jiaoxiao slowly dissolved.

But it clearly could endure longer—the structure woven from Jiaoxiao was intricate and delicate, not something that collapsed at a single touch.

“Your Highness’s methods are divine,” the monk turned, clasped his palms in greeting. “Was this a legacy of the late Empress?”

“Does the Chan General know my mother?”

“My connection with the late Empress was slight—I joined the army after she had left the northern frontier. But Prince Yan mentioned old events from the former Emperor’s time several times; I could imagine her extraordinary bearing. Even now, many methods in the army for fighting the wilderness folk were left by her—I sometimes practice them, and think of her.”

“Hm.” Li Xizhou lifted his head, gazing at the dreamlike ripples. “This too is her legacy.”

The monk raised one palm, closed his eyes, and bowed low.

“Twenty years, all things alike; now, suddenly, paths diverge east and west,” the monk murmured. “To face each other with white blades—I truly grieve.”

“Pour wine for you, you’ll find your own ease; worldly affairs ebb and flow like waves,” Li Xizhou said lightly, raising his hand with calm expression. “Chan General, choose.”

The monk opened his eyes, raised his head, and stared at the woman—a moment as if all heaven and earth pressed upon her; Li Xizhou’s face paled further, as if the world spun, and he steadied himself by gripping a nearby stone.

She swayed twice but did not collapse, smiling weakly: “That day, Prince Yan’s assassin nearly killed me—only half an inch away. Since then, my will has never wavered. Do you think I fear death now?”

The monk fell silent for a long while.

“Both of you are now in my palm.”

“True. The Jiao Palace will eventually be erased by the General; when heaven and earth are sealed, the General needs only a finger to kill us both,” Li Xizhou said.

“The Heir Apparent carries [White Water] and possesses the Mountain-Sea physique—he is hardest to kill with a strange sword. Within twenty exchanges, victory will be clear.”

“True. No matter how you think, Pei Ye cannot yet defeat Yong Ji,” Li Xizhou said with a faint smile.

“Your Highness is fighting like a cornered beast.”

“Indeed.”

The monk stared at Li Xizhou; Li Xizhou stared back at the monk.

Long silence.

“Twenty exchanges have passed,” Li Xizhou lowered his gaze and extended his hand again. “Chan General, choose.”

……

Pei Ye swung his leg like a whip, smashing down and driving Yong Ji hard to the ground from three zhang in the air.

Then he charged downward, driving his knee into Yong Ji’s abdomen again; Yong Ji gritted his teeth, coughed up blood, and Pei Ye, astride him, his hair wild as a lion or tiger, drew his fist back like a full bow and slammed it into Yong Ji’s face.

Yong Ji raised his arm to block, while simultaneously punching the boy’s ribs—bones cracked audibly.

Their blood mingled as they grappled bare-handed; Yong Ji occasionally inflicted clear wounds on the boy, but he was utterly overwhelmed—Pei Ye’s assault was a storm of fists, swords, and intent—Yong Ji had never encountered a martial cultivator in bare-handed combat who could match him, yet the boy truly was one.

He clearly had little formal training in fist and foot arts—none of the famed martial styles of the martial world touched him—but he possessed an uncanny sensitivity and precise understanding of combat, especially now, with the aid of the Mirage Dragon’s true blood and the Qunshou—Yong Ji could barely defend.

More importantly, he could not focus fully on the fight.

The loss of [White Water] was the paramount issue.

Yong Ji moved cautiously, afraid to make too much contact; Pei Ye, by contrast, showed no restraint—each punch carried thunder and wind.

And as the boy began to control a portion of [White Water]’s Immortal Authority, the advantage of water manipulation had clearly diminished.

After twenty exchanges, Yong Ji had remained purely on the defensive, gritting his teeth, cold-eyed, searching for the cause of this change—he dared not even activate the Zi Star Defense, fearing [White Water] would be stolen the instant it was exposed.

Until he suddenly noticed Pei Ye once again used only his sword to circle, then raised his fist to strike—warm blood splashed onto his face—and he suddenly realized.

His pupils shrank as he roared: “How do you have Mirage Dragon true blood?!”

Pei Ye did not answer—he charged again.

But Yong Ji’s face had turned utterly cold, expressionless.

All the humiliation and suppression he had endured in the past twenty exchanges would now explode.

Now that he knew it was Mirage Dragon true blood, there was no need for blind speculation—the only solution was to fully exploit the advantage of [White Water] before it vanished completely, and end this battle.

After twenty rounds, Baishui had lost no more than one-fifth of its flow.

Beneath Baishui, could you endure twenty rounds?

“Zi Star Guardian · Baishui Illusion Lord’s Seat.” Yong Ji stared coldly at the boy and gritted his teeth.

Within the Jiao Palace, dozens of zhang of water churned into massive waves.

……

“I understand.” After a long silence, the monk sighed. “It’s the True Blood of the Shen Dragon.”

Li Xizhou said nothing.

“When the Prince entered the Shen Realm, it was for this very thing; when he obtained it, he had already planned today.” The monk looked at the woman. “That’s why you let the boy in—but how could he inherit the Shen Dragon’s True Blood?”

“When the path ends and dreams stretch far, one sees the spirit—a world of such gentleness.” Li Xizhou raised her hand; dreamlike ripples danced upon her palm. She spoke softly: “General Chan, since you have never truly regarded the Shen Realm, how could you ever touch its soul? Every Immortal Hunter’s pact carries its own inclination—so too does the Shen Realm.”

The monk fell silent for a moment: “Yet even facing the Shen Dragon’s True Blood, the Young Master, after his surprise, still had the strength to prevail.”

“Yes. Choose now.”

Li Xizhou and the monk gazed calmly at each other.

What to choose? Both knew full well.

After Yong Ji entered, the Jiao Palace became a black box.

When it opens again, no one knows what the outcome will be.

General Chan has already seized eight-tenths of this realm’s dominion—he has many choices.

He could continue meditating for another Qiba hours; no one here could threaten him. The Shen Realm would eventually fall entirely under his control, and then all problems would vanish.

Or the most prudent choice: lock and bind heaven and earth, drain the Jiao Silk. When the woman was far away, he had little recourse—but now they had walked straight into his trap. Li Xizhou had clearly expended all her strength; Yong Ji would kill Pei Ye, and he would kill the woman before him.

Or there were even more extreme options.

He had already seized eight-tenths of this realm’s dominion; he possessed transcendent power. He could pay a heavy price—his body, his life—to leave this place, or to open the Jiao Palace in far less time.

Whichever he chose, it meant forcing himself against the Shen Realm’s own rules.

If he made this choice, it meant he believed Yong Ji would lose inside that black box.

If Yong Ji lost, he would die.

Could the Yan Prince’s Mansion accept this

outcome?

The Yan Prince’s Mansion could not accept it.

The monk looked at the pale-faced woman across from him; her eyes were weary yet calm.

She knew the Yan Prince’s Mansion could not accept it.

Li Youlong had just become betrothed to Yong Ji; they had not yet married. The Yan Prince’s Mansion had invested much in the Divine Capital—if they could not bring back Baishui, they must at least return the Lin Blood.

Most cleverly of all, it was this very woman who had pushed forward Li Youlong’s betrothal.

Even if he made a choice, General Chan and Yong Ji would still have to lose at least one.

If he truly made a choice, General Chan and Yong Ji might still have one survivor.

…But all of this rested on the slender possibility that Yong Ji might lose inside the black box.

Yong Ji was destined to win—he would win. By expending everything he had to interfere with the Jiao Palace, he effectively saved Pei Ye. Heaven and earth would lose their lockdown; all prior efforts to control the realm would be wasted. He would grow weak… and the two before him might yet use the Jiao Silk to escape again.

Would he, frightened by this woman, make such a self-destructive move—like a man who fears shadows cast by a bow?

The monk fell silent.

It had nothing to do with cultivation. One move, and even the Heavenly Tower had no choice but to sit across the board and play a countermove against her.

The monk fell silent again, then silent once more, until finally he sighed softly.

“Your Highness braved peril alone—truly courageous.”

He closed his eyes briefly; when he opened them, all hesitation was gone, as if he were again sitting beside his senior brother in the old hall, reciting sutras.

He raised his hand without further doubt.