Chapter 87

“Pei Ye!” the black cat suddenly called out, snapping Pei Ye out of his frozen stare at the battle.

“We’re going ahead,” it said.

Pei Ye turned his head and saw Ming Qitian holding his sword beside the city wall, giving him a slight nod before leaping down.

Pei Ye scrambled up the wall and shouted: “I’m coming too!”

“You don’t need to,” the black cat said. “Wait until it’s safer to join.”

Pei Ye paused: “Oh.”

Suddenly, a deafening explosion rang above—the sky burst open in a massive firework, casting Pei Ye’s face in an eerie blue glow. He snapped his head upward and saw the old man falling like a broken kite.

……

Yue Muzhou struck the ground, looked up—and the Immortal Lord plummeted like a cannonball.

Yue Muzhou spun his blade; a sharp, invisible, icy sword qi shot skyward like a night owl through the forest, and he followed it upward to meet the Immortal Lord.

The Immortal Lord’s lower half was sheared off by that sword qi, yet its assault remained unweakened. It punched Yue Muzhou’s shoulder—while Yue Muzhou’s blade reversed and sliced into its neck.

The severed portion caught up, transforming into a spear aimed at Yue Muzhou, while the Immortal Lord drove its knee upward.

Yue Muzhou’s blade traced a winding yet fluid arc—this technique must have had its original form, one far less perilous and sharp, yet in Yue Muzhou’s hands, it appeared perfectly natural.

This strike first severed the spearhead, then blocked the Immortal Lord’s knee. One blade motion: first cut, then parry. This was pure “technique,” refined during the blood-soaked years of the old man’s life when he was below the Four Lifes, in the Foundation Establishment realm.

But the Immortal Lord possessed perfect “technique” too—its knee flesh instantly reshaped and wrapped around the blade. Yue Muzhou twisted his hilt to break free, but the Immortal Lord’s fist was already before his eyes.

Yue Muzhou met it with his other fist—a surge of qi exploded outward, clearing the ground for dozens of paces, snapping trees, hurling stones.

In the next exchange, the Immortal Lord pressed forward with full force; Yue Muzhou had to retreat, for based on the pace observed earlier, this area would soon be flooded with its cold fire—and erupt.

The Immortal Lord pressed relentlessly; Yue Muzhou had to search for openings to retreat, naturally falling behind. He braced his blade against a punch, took minor damage, and planned to use the impact to escape.

But the searing heat exploded at that exact moment!

Yue Muzhou had calculated his timing precisely—he had a threshold in his mind: the minimum time needed for enough flame to injure him.

He began creating his escape opportunity three breaths before that threshold, intending to leave one breath before the explosion.

But the firestorm ignited one breath early.

And the quantity was already sufficient to harm him.

In all prior detonations, the Immortal Lord had deliberately delayed by one breath!

Under the shockwave, Yue Muzhou’s posture faltered for an instant—the Immortal Lord’s fist struck home. Yue Muzhou took the blow without delivering a sufficient counter.

His “momentum” was compressed even tighter, lower.

With no chance to breathe, the Immortal Lord unleashed an unmatched, furious assault, ignoring all of Yue Muzhou’s counterattacks.

If the Immortal Lord now faced that technique, [Clouds Veil Eyes, Feathers Lost], it would not retreat again.

It was a simple truth: when two opponents are evenly matched, they fight fiercely—but also cautiously, constantly weighing gains and losses, each clash aiming to gain more than the other. When a clash shows signs of disadvantage, they avoid it.

But when advantage accumulates, the goal becomes denying the opponent even a single breath—even trading ten for seven, without hesitation. If that advantage grows further, into the killing phase, even trading ten for one becomes a firm advance.

Yue Muzhou tried several times to break the deadlock, but the Immortal Lord’s assault remained unshakable—preferring to let Yue Muzhou gain minor advantages rather than interrupt its attack.

Compressing his “momentum” ever tighter.

The Immortal Lord was like an iron hammer—each strike heavy, forceful, its rhythm unbroken. Yue Muzhou was the iron beneath it: each blow he met, never shattered, yet never perfectly deflected, let alone countered—only deformed, squeezed smaller and smaller.

Gradually, the space Yue Muzhou could move in grew ever tighter; even his arms could not fully extend, as if beaten inside an invisible cage.

This was the helplessness of facing “another self”—never making a mistake, never missing an opening; once a sliver of advantage appeared, it seized it and held on.

If it found even the tiniest tear in the fabric, it slipped a finger through immediately.

Then expanded it with flawless precision.

Yue Muzhou’s movements grew fewer and fewer—he could only parry, parry, parry. Anyone could see: the battle’s end was certain. The next strike—or the one after—his compressed defense would shatter.

Yue Muzhou had become a tiny boat in a storm—his “momentum” crushed to its lowest point.

In the Immortal Lord’s dragon eyes, the defensive “barrier” was frail beyond repair.

This punch.

It would not delay a single instant, nor waste any intermediate step.

At the moment the goal was attainable, it moved straight toward it.

It struck—and the barrier shattered as predicted.

Then, the entire forest fell silent.

Only after two breaths did they regain awareness—not because all sound vanished, but because a dragon-like sword shriek drowned out everything else.

A torrent of sword qi drowned the Immortal Lord.

The hammer strikes the iron—the iron does not break, only grows purer with each blow.

The “momentum” crushed by the Immortal Lord did not vanish—it was compressed into the old man’s body, becoming denser, purer, harder—and desperate to be released!

This was the sword strike Yue Muzhou had been preparing since [Clouds Veil Eyes, Feathers Lost].

It was the pinnacle of his life forged on the sword path, born from years of lying in darkness, listening to cold rain, imagining the moment he would soar.

It was a rise from the abyss straight to the ninth heavens.

When his life’s “momentum” was crushed to its lowest point, he held on—he did not break. So that momentum did not shatter or fade; it was buried in his fate, waiting for the moment to ascend to the azure clouds.

The old man, with genius, channeled this “momentum” into battle—unleashing ultimate power from ultimate despair.

This sword strike had never appeared in the world before—and would likely never appear again for a long time.

But even this once was enough to prove Yue Muzhou’s sword had entered the highest realm of this world.

The sword techniques used for killing were “technique”; even the ultimate move [Clouds Veil Eyes, Feathers Lost] was merely “intention” and “heart.”

They were peerless sword arts—but like the Heavenly Tower and the Xuan Gate, mountains cannot touch the sky.

Until this sword.

The old man grasped the intangible “momentum” in his hand and wove it into his technique—truly stepping into the realm of “Dao.” A talent that even the Sword Lord would envy.

This was the final form of the Snowy Night Flying Geese Sword Style.

[Heaven-Toppling, Life-Inverted]