Chapter 732: Xiang Huang

White Water merged with the True Blood of the Shen Dragon, and after thousands of years, the Mirage welcomed its new sovereign.

Every contraction of the Mirage was a process of drawing closer to and connecting with the new sovereign; when this process concluded—the ceremony of the Water Sovereign’s ascension ended—the Mirage surrendered all of itself into the new sovereign’s hands, then began reconnecting with the mortal world.

Though to the overwhelming majority of people in the world, its departure and return were silent and unseen, to all who had encountered or were encountering it, this was a transformation that overturned heaven and earth.

The monk lowered his head; these thousand-year-old spirits had already climbed to his ankles. He knew the Mirage could now be entered and exited—someone was entering now, but he could no longer leave.

He had faced intent-swords before; most could not shake his resolve, a few required the radiance of Chan heart to dispel, and only a handful of people, a handful of swords in the world, could trap him within them.

And at this moment in the Divine Capital, encountering such an intent-sword, there could be no other candidate but that poet.

“Master of the Flying Light Sword, your humble servant greets you.” The monk bowed with one palm raised, inclining his head slightly. “I have long heard your renown, yet fate has denied us a meeting. To meet today only for slaughter is truly regrettable—might you appear before me?”

Amid the endless cold water of drifting spirits, a man in linen clothes and linen shoes materialized, clasping his hands in greeting: “General Chan, greetings. Each serving our own cause, I apologize for today’s conflict.”

The monk bowed again: “Your swordmaster’s bearing—I am instantly enamored.”

He bent low with his spear; boundless Buddhist light surged upward from Li He’s feet, locking him in place. The monk rose, the spear’s tip now aimed directly at him.

Li He sighed deeply: “Even monks lie!”

“You broke the precept against killing thirty years ago—you’re no true monk.”

Ten thousand spirits dispersed like mist; the iron spear’s killing force swept through a hundred zhang of water. Li He raised his sword to block—caught the thrust—but was instantly flung backward, crashing into the hard dragon bone.

Yet Li He still did not unleash the Flying Light’s power to sever lifespan. His form tore like paper, dissolving into nothing.

“The dragon bone beneath your feet—its soul-scent is detectable. Let me borrow it, Li He.”

A soft sigh echoed through the water. A man somewhere raised his hand and plucked—truly plucked—a colossal dragon spirit from its skeletal remains. The monk whirled around; this divine entity born of cold darkness shot straight toward him, as if carrying a silent howl.

His skin immediately turned visibly pale, as if life had been washed away.

The monk crossed his legs, spear held horizontally; golden lacquer-like color seeped from his skin in droplets, like liquid, shaping him into a golden-bodied Arhat.

All chill could not penetrate him. The monk assumed the wrathful Vajra gaze, raising his hand to grip the dragon spirit’s neck.

Most sword cultivators’ intent-swords are merely a single sword intent; the Twin Intent-Swords of Mingzhu Water Pavilion—[Illuminating White Moon] and [Dark Pearl Sunk in Abyss]—were already among the highest refinements in Shaolong.

But beneath the Flying Light Swordmaster’s blade lay an entire world of sword intent.

Those who knew called it the “Ghost Realm.” That resplendent, eerie, vividly colored world followed his sword—dead things became spirits, corpses reanimated—these were its most ordinary rules; unpredictability was what made it the most terrifying place to be slain.

And often it was soul-chilling, mind-ensnaring; many who died within it felt they ought to have died, drawn to the icy clarity beyond death, dancing forever with ghosts and spirits—this was the blurring of life and death.

But the monk’s golden body was nearly unbreakable.

He clearly had not pierced this world’s nature—he still suffered assaults from all directions—but none could truly harm him; he repelled each one, raising his spear like a Kunpeng rising from the earth.

The radiant, upright Arhat form within the poet’s Ghost Realm—Li He clearly could not fail to harm him; he had already surrounded the monk with countless intent-swords, yet the monk could barely glimpse his shadow.

Yet to kill this man, it seemed, would still require a direct, frontal battle.

The body forged on the Northern Wastelands, hardened in battlefield clashes—among generals, second only to breaking formations was not being beheaded. Zhao Lingjun failed in this realm and fell to the sword; but even if he fell to the sword, he would not die easily.

The monk clearly understood this. He did not know why the poet had not activated the Flying Light, but since a gap existed, he surged forward.

Golden scales on his body withered and peeled away, their color washed out—he visibly grew weaker, yet his Chan heart’s radiance remained, undisturbed by all spirits. Li He did not reappear; the Flying Light did not show itself—he broke free from this world.

And broke free from the lake’s surface.

The monk paused, startled. The lake was veiled in white mist, no shores visible, only torrential rain pouring down.

Li He did not follow him out.

Having spent many days within the spiritual realm, he had nearly forgotten this world still had sky and air. He stood on the lake’s surface for a moment, then felt dazed, sensing he had forgotten something—but could not recall what.

At that moment, he saw a small boat drifting on the lake, its lantern still lit, upon it stood a woman in a red gown, tall and slender, her face covered by a golden mask, her long hair tied back.

The monk recognized her: Princess Jin Yang, the eldest daughter of the Great Tang. He felt a strange dissonance—somehow he felt he ought to know this princess well, yet upon reflection, he had never met her before.

He raised one palm in greeting, speaking slowly: “Your Highness, I greet you. Have I seen you in a dream?”

He straightened up—and truly detected no guards nearby.

The woman did not return the bow; she spoke evenly: “General Chan, it has been a long time.”

The monk was puzzled, then noticed the woman held a sword in a bamboo scabbard with a bamboo hilt—neither thick nor thin, slightly elongated, its deep green hue vibrant with life, like a freshly cut slender bamboo.

Only the tip hung over the boat’s edge; raindrops trailed down the scabbard, leaving behind speckled tear marks.

The monk felt dazed again, as if a mist had settled over his mind. He frowned, suspecting he was still within Li He’s “Ghost Realm,” raised his hand—and the red-clad woman was instantly frozen in place, as if strangled by invisible force.

The monk stepped forward, pressing the sharp tip of his spear against her throat: “Why have you come alone to meet me?”

The woman spoke evenly: “General Chan, have you forgotten who I am?”

The monk snapped his head up—only a wisp of mist lay where the spear’s tip pointed, cold droplets clinging to its razor edge.

In a flash, blades clashed—sparks flew everywhere! He threw himself back, drawing his short knife to slash at his throat—just as a foot-long blade emerged, the two blades struck, water droplets clinging to both edges scattered, mingling with sparks like a small, cold firework.

Then the monk saw his own short knife—cut clean through.

Not chipped, not dented—truly severed. The knife was two inches wide; now it split cleanly for over an inch. The woman’s soft red sleeve brushed past the edge of his vision; beneath the golden mask were clear, dark eyes.

The monk twisted his wrist, changing tactics—the short knife shattered. He raised the remaining half to guard his throat—a sharp clang, the half-blade was severed again, the bright, foot-long blade now pressed against his neck.

Blood trickled from his mottled golden skin; raindrops clung to the cold, smooth blade.

The monk stood motionless. His right hand’s spear still pointed straight ahead; his left hand’s broken knife rested at his collarbone—too slow to catch that blade.

At this moment, he truly knew who he faced. No wonder Li He had not rushed to shatter his golden body—no matter how hard to kill a general might be, beneath this blade, he was but one stroke from decapitation.

The woman stood beside him, holding the scabbard level, her long skirt soaked by rain.

Drawn ten li, mist is born—the sharpest blade in the world.

The famed sword: [Xiang Huang].

Li Tishui.

The monk stood rigid. One thought—and this blade would pierce his neck, cleanly severing head from body like a jade carving.

“To have two swordmasters strike me—I die without regret.”

Li Tishui said nothing. She held the sword steadily. Li He now climbed from the water, brushed water from his sleeves, inspected the blade resting against the monk’s neck, then lowered his sleeves in silence.

The monk looked ahead—where a woman in pure white, her robes stained with blood, had somehow seated herself upon the boat.

The rain seemed about to cease; mist still lingered. The monk stared for a long time, then suddenly remembered something. He lowered his lashes, sighing softly: “I wish Your Highness well. A brief parting, yet I nearly forgot you.”

Li Xizhou held no sword or knife. She looked at the monk: “General Chan, sharp and decisive—you are truly a famed general. Has Yongji been sent out yet?”

“Only one can live. One must live.”

“Keeping you alive is a satisfactory outcome,” Li Xizhou said. “Whether early or late, Yongji will not leave the Divine Capital alive.”

The monk closed his eyes: “From now on, all matters are no longer my concern. I have one humble request—might Your Highness deliver a final letter to my brothers at the temple?”

He pressed his lips shut, closed his eyes, standing tall and lean in the rain. The mottled gold had not yet fully faded—there was a solemn, reverent aura about him.

Li Xizhou watched him quietly, then smiled faintly: “General Chan, do you truly seek death?”

“...”

Silence settled over the lake. The monk opened his eyes, gazing at the woman seated on the boat’s edge.

“Can I... still live?” His pupils shifted slightly.

Li Xizhou smiled: “What do you think, General Chan?”

The monk replied seriously: “Your humble servant believes living is always better than dying.”

Li Xizhou laughed, raising her hand gracefully: “General Chan, you are a national treasure. How could I cut off my own arm? You have wrongly bound yourself to wolves and vultures. Better to train for several years in the Divine Capital Temple, then return to the righteous path.”

The monk’s expression turned solemn: “Your Highness has truly awakened a lost soul. Prince Yan is no true lord—I have repented.”

Li Xizhou smiled: “Our first meeting reveals your innate wisdom.”

The monk murmured: “Amitabha. I shall now proceed to Immortal Platform to meet the Platform Master and seek guidance.”

“When we meet again, we shall play chess.”

“Amitabha.”

The two swordmasters glanced at Li Xizhou. The woman bowed; Li He returned the bow. Li Tishui met the woman’s gaze, then the two swordmasters led the monk away.

Pei Ye lay sprawled on the boat’s edge, half his body submerged in water.

Li Xizhou lowered her head: “Still staring?”

Pei Ye frowned: “He didn’t even blush.”

Then he looked up, gazing at the woman’s pale face: “You didn’t either.”

Li Xizhou raised her hand expressionlessly and gave him a light “pop” on the forehead.

Pei Ye showed no fear, turning to gaze at the broad lake. The swordmaster had vanished quickly; mist was dispersing, rain growing lighter, clearer.

“Your trial is over. You passed,” Pei Ye said without turning. “Now, everyone should remember you again. I wonder what the situation is.”

“Only those who realized they had forgotten will remember,” Li Xizhou said. “To others, nothing will have happened.”

Pei Ye thought—this made sense. If you hadn’t noticed you’d forgotten something during those days, then when the memories returned, they wouldn’t surprise you.

The Mirage’s departure and return always leave the world with slight dissonance—but at least it’s finally over.

Thin mist gradually lifted; the shores of Longhu Lake became visible again. Distant figures seemed equally startled by the sudden end of the days-long rain.

The two swordsmen dueling on the lake also halted simultaneously. They looked around—and froze upon seeing the small boat, the woman in white robes stained with blood: black hair, clean face, like a wounded Luo Shen.

But the scene lasted only an instant—a water-monkey-like creature surged from the lake, seized her arm, and dragged her under. Only the drifting boat remained, making it all seem like an illusion.

The two men stared at each other.

Pei Ye grasped the woman’s forearm and plunged into the Mirage—as if returning to his own land.

He did not instantly master every detail of the Mirage, nor command it as effortlessly as his limbs—but he clearly felt that with each passing moment within the Mirage, his control deepened and expanded.

The Mirage had undergone a reboot.

The realm was updating itself; the new sovereign needed to learn his kingdom.

So he had many questions for this former crown prince.

“Look.” Pei Ye led Li Xizhou to the place that had just suffered great devastation.

The rift in heaven and earth had sealed; the area was now empty and silent, save for the vast, beautiful Jiao Palace—and on either side stood two colossal trees, over two hundred zhang tall.

The tree bore no leaves; its branches were straight and elongated, spreading in all eight directions, vast and shadowy. Deep within the shadows of these two towering trees, two slender forms, each over ten zhang long, had taken shape—one with a tiger’s head, the other with a rhinoceros horn—twining through the branches like small snakes.

“What is this?”

Li Xizhou lowered his head, first pulling his wrist free from his grasp, and smiled: “The Water Lord is the gateway to the mirage’s symbiosis. As long as the mirage endures, their lives are a cycle.”

“Mm.”

“They command all scaled beings, will guard your borders, and instinctively expand and enrich the mirage.”

“So that’s how it is,” Pei Ye murmured. His eyebrows lifted slightly, his eyes gleaming as he gazed at them. “But I wonder what their strength truly is…”

The previous Tiger Lord’s aura had far surpassed the Xuan Gate; though now diminished, it still radiated great might and spirit. Though one cannot measure it by human cultivation levels, within the water’s waves, it should easily handle ordinary foes—and perhaps even challenge a Ye Que.

Li Xizhou glanced at him, instantly understanding his longing, and smiled: “Congratulations, Pei Jun, on gaining two new great generals. May you soon reign for a thousand autumns and ten thousand years, unifying the Jianghu.”

Pei Ye laughed: “You are a princess of the fallen dynasty. With the dynasty changed, you ought to be executed. But I spare your life for your clever answers, and keep you near… for… consultation. I hereby grant you the title of… Hanlin… Hanlin…”

“Hanlin Scholar.”

“Yes. Hanlin Scholar.”

“Hmm, thank Your Majesty’s grace. But in tales, fallen dynasty princesses are usually taken into the harem.”

“…”

Pei Ye’s heart skipped. He turned to stare at her, but the woman spoke as if merely offhand, her expression calm. After speaking, she turned her head away, gazing into the distance, never meeting the boy’s eyes: “It’s a pity there are far fewer scaled demons in the mirage—you still have that matter of the Nine Lives, don’t you?”