Chapter 90: Slaughter

Ming Qitian supported the frail, withered arm; the old man’s body was as light as paper, hard to imagine how he had just waged a brutal, blood-soaked battle with that resilient dragon body using this frame.

Ming Qitian poured his Qi into the body, plugging the leak of life force.

Though Qi borrowed from others was somewhat inconvenient, it was indeed usable in combat—but Yue Muzhou had no intention of doing so now.

He took the Zhanxin Liuli from Ming Qitian’s hand.

“Though Zhaokong Chan Master is known as a martial master, long before that, he was already a high monk of Buddhist doctrine,” Yue Muzhou said slowly, as the Immortal Jun repaired his body second by second, yet he seemed indifferent, “He first attained the realization of ‘The Buddha Sees Me’ in Buddhist doctrine, then wondered—if martial arts could serve as a raft, could they truly draw the Buddha’s gaze? He firmly believed the Buddha truly existed.”

“He pursued this possibility with near fanaticism; perhaps at some moment he briefly touched it—otherwise, how could a Tianlou have become half-mad?”

“Throughout history, half the sword talents of the world have dwelled in Yunlang. If you raise the bar for ‘sword talent’ high enough, this is no exaggeration—the realm Zhaokong Chan Master struggled so hard to attain, your Yunlang Mountain already had a senior achieve it.” The old man spoke in a steady, heavy flow like a vast river, “But that senior was one who no longer—how do you Yunlang Mountain phrase it?”

“Abandoned the sword.”

“Yes. This was a secret sword technique he realized after abandoning his sword. Not even Zhaokong Chan Master, let alone Yunlang’s own mountain, likely recorded this technique.”

“Of course, this sword technique cannot be recorded in books—it can only be learned through ‘witnessing’ and ‘realization,’” the old man said. “I received this sword from that elder at nineteen, and only at twenty-three could I barely wield half of it. You’re stronger than I was—I teach it to you today, returning the sword to its mountain. Whether you learn it is up to you.”

Yue Muzhou walked forward, his withered frame indistinguishable from the ancient trees around him: “This sword isn’t particularly strong, but it’s extremely dangerous for the wielder. Remember: you may use it only once a year.”

At last, the Immortal Jun absorbed the final trace of dragon blood, his shattered body fully restored.

Yue Muzhou staggered over, chuckling: “I hope your ‘final sword’ is real, little kitten. This blade might hold for two more strikes, but I can only strike once more.”

“Of course,” he said. “This sword strike is one that must land.”

The Immortal Jun cared nothing for their words; the moment his injuries were fully healed, his golden eyes locked onto the pearl beneath the black cat’s paw.

Dust erupted from its claw, and in an instant, the Immortal Jun lunged forward with ferocity.

The old man shuffled forward to meet it.

The Immortal Jun’s golden eyes were cold and indifferent; both sides were no longer at full strength, but another fight was nothing.

It possessed none of human emotion—neither victory nor defeat could affect it. Even after losing to Yue Muzhou just now, it did not lose a shred of confidence in triumph—or rather, it had no concept of confidence at all, no notion of win or loss; it simply devoted itself utterly to achieving its purpose.

A vast aura surged from the old man’s body.

He stood as straight as a pine, his right arm extended straight toward the lower diagonal, the sword held horizontally, its tip resting against his lower back.

It resembled a constable resting a hand on his waist saber—but far straighter, and thus far more solemn.

The Immortal Jun suddenly felt a gaze.

A gaze from the lofty, distant blue heavens.

“Life-sense” shrieked sharply—the old man advanced, his fluttering black robes transforming into an inescapable curtain.

It had descended into this world, always regarding all things with lofty disdain. This had nothing to do with power—even now, many beings in this world possessed far greater strength than it.

This loftiness came from level and station.

As a fragment of consciousness severed from the Taiyi True Dragon Immortal Jun, it came into this world like a master inspecting his pasture.

And now, for the first time, its station was challenged.

And the source of this challenge… was not unfamiliar.

It raised its head, knowing it had already lost.

This sword strike could not be dodged, could not be avoided—even its dragon eyes, which saw through all things, found no flaw; even its combat instincts, drawn from the Dao, could not raise a single block.

It became a prisoner bound for execution, and Yue Muzhou was the executioner raising the blade.

This sword strike would not be overly powerful—it could sever its body, but could not obliterate it as the previous strike had nearly done.

But this blade was called Zhanxin Liuli, and its consciousness was already a candle guttering in the wind.

The rushing wind roared past.

Yue Muzhou passed by it, thrusting downward, Zhanxin Liuli hanging before him.

The Immortal Jun collapsed behind him, its golden dragon eyes dimming slowly, finally becoming hollow, grayish orbs.

【The Immortal’s Gazing Sword】

He had truly slaughtered it.

Not defeated, not killed—this sword strike was like pinning a chicken’s head and chopping it off in one stroke.

This was indeed slaughter.

This towering, seemingly invincible Tianlou, its corpse now lay sprawled here.

All fell silent—the clear autumn sky, the thick pile of fallen leaves in the mountains, the light breeze brushing every face.

Pei Ye witnessed this complete sword strike.

When he stepped out of the forest, he saw the sword being retracted into the old man’s hand.

Pei Ye sprinted over and caught the staggering old man, holding his breath: “Grandpa Yue—”

He looked down and saw the large bloodstain on the black robe, his heart turning cold.

Yue Muzhou chuckled softly: “It’s fine. Find me a place to sit.”

Pei Ye helped him lean against a tree; the old man took a deep, labored breath.

Turning to see the boy’s stiff expression and body, the old man smiled: “Don’t worry—I’ve got plenty of Qi. I’ll live a good while yet.”

Pei Ye pressed his lips together, saying nothing.

He turned his head—the black cat was approaching, carrying the pearl in its mouth, while Ming Qitian still stared blankly at the Immortal Jun’s corpse, as if that sword strike still lingered in her vision.

The ability to enter the realm of Daoic realization at any moment was a privilege granted by the “Mirror of Ice and Clarity.”

“Girl,” Yue Muzhou weakly interrupted her realization, “Whenever you remember it, you can realize it again.”

Ming Qitian snapped back to awareness, turned, and hurried forward, kneeling before Yue Muzhou.

“Elder.”

“There’s something that must be clarified early,” Yue Muzhou said. “Little Ye has no Dantian seed—this—”

Yue Muzhou pointed to the pearl: “The ‘Binglu’—give it to him.”

Pei Ye cried out: “You can still use it!”

Yue Muzhou shook his head: “Each time it awakens, it requires a new host.”

“...”

“Alright,” Ming Qitian nodded.

That morning, the old man said he would teach her this sword—back then, he had already meant to entrust her with something.

But even if he hadn’t taught it, since the ‘Binglu’ already had a master, its fate was naturally up to the master—she would never seize it.

Especially now, after the old man had single-handedly saved them all.

“But,” the old man continued, his expression turning grave, “I want you to bear this reputation.”

Ming Qitian froze, understanding the old man’s meaning.

(End of Chapter)