Chapter 598: Dragon Palace Water Mansion

River waves surged violently, tossing the boats up and down.

As soon as contact was made, the Qingcheng Sect gained the upper hand.

Though no ancient monsters from the mountains came this time, all were elite experts—their main force on external missions.

They had previously fought against the southwestern heretical sects and knew this terrain intimately.

Moreover, Ming Shanzi had played a trick.

After dispersing the malevolent entities that appeared at the Kan position, he used the residual force to chant a spell and guide the thick mist gathered on the sword altar toward the river.

Soon, the river surface was shrouded in dense fog.

Stars and moon were obscured; vision was blocked.

In the haze, only shadows and flickering sword glows were visible, red lanterns dim and haunting, and divine fire guns occasionally spewing fire.

The Black Feather Guard's advantage was neutralized.

Though their divine fire guns were immensely powerful, their vision was obstructed, and in panic, they fired wildly.

Boom!

Fire sprayed in all directions, tearing apart distant figures.

The Black Feather Guard felt a surge of joy, unaware he had struck a cursed heretical sorcerer.

Before he could check, a pair of massive hands reached out from the fog, robes billowing, fingers shaped like crane beaks, thumb and index finger clasped together, smashing twice against his skull.

The Black Feather Guard's Lianquan and Tiantu acupoints burst into gushing blood; he lost consciousness and collapsed to the deck.

This was Qingcheng Sect's "Heavenly Gang Crane Grasp," renowned for its perfect balance of hardness and softness, its locking and seizing techniques—its "Crane Beak Choke" could effortlessly end opponents.

The attacker was a Qingcheng Daoist.

With his left hand, he slew enemies using the Heavenly Gang Crane Grasp; his right hand did not rest, swirling his sword into a blossom before executing "Su Qin Carrying the Sword" to guard his back.

Clang!

A blade flashed through the fog, sparks flying.

It was a southwestern heretical master intercepting him.

The man wore a white cloth wrapped around his head, his skin charred black, a bone necklace dangling from his left ear, wielding a long saber—clearly dressed as a southwestern border dweller.

His saber technique was fierce; seeing his strike blocked by the longsword, he followed through with an upward sweep, sparks flying, aiming straight for the Qingchen Daoist's face.

The razor-sharp blade touched the tip of his nose.

The Qingcheng Daoist remained utterly calm, crouching low while flipping his wrist.

Hum!

The sword bent like a bow, then snapped straight with even greater speed, stabbing straight into the enemy's throat.

This was Qingcheng's sword technique: "White Snake Spits Its Tongue."

The border man was no fool—he retreated with the momentum, raising his saber to block—but fell for the feint.

The Qingcheng Daoist flicked his wrist again; the swordlight suddenly arced upward, piercing straight through the man's wrist.

"Ahh—!"

The man screamed in pain, then muttered frantically under his breath, as if cursing wildly.

The Qingcheng Daoist's vision darkened; he sensed disaster.

It was clearly some kind of soul-summoning secret art.

Though not lethal, in the midst of blade-to-blade combat, even a momentary lapse meant death.

"Die!"

The man rejoiced and swung his saber downward.

But at that instant, another figure descended from above—massive fingers like iron hooks, arms bulging with corded muscle, seizing the man's head and tearing it apart.

"Watch yourself!"

A cold voice rang out.

It was the earlier white-haired, scarred, towering Qingcheng elder.

This elder's Dao name was Chongchenzi; he specialized in thunder arts and eagle claw techniques, having once been a martial artist who turned to Qingcheng cultivation.

His thunder arts and Li Yan's were two different paths—less powerful, but focused on close combat, relying on paralyzing enemies to control the battlefield, allowing longer endurance.

After saving the Qingcheng Daoist, the old Daoist Chongchenzi chanted a spell with both hands; his eagle claws crackled with lightning as he leapt onto another boat.

Lightning flashed; flesh and blood flew.

Anyone he touched who wielded a weapon would shudder violently, exposing their defenses, and he would rip open their throats with a single claw.

In every strike, no one stood a chance.

The other Qingcheng experts likewise employed their own unique arts.

The middle-aged Daoist nun's golden needles trembled and hummed; enemies around her were ensnared in illusions, their vision swirling with false figures, unable to distinguish real from fake.

Meanwhile, the nun swung her sword left and right, wielding Qingcheng swordplay with eerie, ruthless precision.

As for the remaining Qingcheng experts, they relied on their formidable divine arts to hunt down and kill the Black Feather Guards.

Within a few breaths, both the Black Feather Guards and the southwestern heretics suffered heavy losses.

Of course, Qingcheng disciples also sustained many casualties.

Some were terribly unlucky—struck by wild shots from the Black Feather Guards, losing limbs or dying instantly.

Others were overwhelmed and killed by heretical cultivators.

This was no mere martial feud—it was a small-scale war, where swordlight and fire weapons clashed, and no one could guarantee they'd walk away unscathed.

Amid the chaos, the center of the fleet remained eerily quiet.

On the deck of the central ship, Zhao Jie stood with arms folded in a green robe, his face cold, eyes scanning the surroundings.

Behind him stood an altar, densely packed with incense candles flickering in the wind.

In the flickering firelight, the altar held numerous bamboo tally talismans—ancient beyond reckoning, their surfaces thick with patina, dark yellow, the vermilion blood inscriptions now blackened.

Though the talismans appeared chaotic, they clearly mirrored the positions of the stone arrays previously sunk into the riverbed.

Beside the altar lay over a dozen corpses.

Some were salt guild boatmen; others were heretical sorcerers.

Judging by their postures, all had died protecting the altar.

Around the main ship, three broken boats rocked violently.

Lingyunzi, Ming Shanzi, and Master and Disciple Cheng Jianxin surrounded him from three directions.

"Cheng Jianxian?"

Zhao Jie glanced at Cheng Jianxin, lips curled in mockery. "Who would have thought the once-mighty sword immortal who terrified Sichuan now looks like this—joining others to ambush me?"

"I am truly honored…"

Facing his sarcasm, Cheng Jianxin remained expressionless, white hair whipping in the wind, calmly replying: "I'm old. Even eating is hard. I can't beat the young—what's so funny?"

"Hmph! If you're old, stay home and don't embarrass yourself!"

Zhao Jie shot him a cold glance but still made no move.

His words were light, but his back was already taut.

Lingyunzi and Ming Shanzi were manageable—though threatening, they had no chance against him.

Only Cheng Jianxin—seemingly withered, trembling, barely able to stand, even blind in one eye—

Yet those cloudy eyes felt like a blade; merely meeting his gaze sent sharp pain to his chest and between his brows.

Such powerful sword intent!

Others didn't understand, but Zhao Jie knew the terror of a Grandmaster.

He had cultivated Gang energy; at this stage, one could gather the essence of Gang and Sha through spiritual power, enhancing strength and dispelling ordinary spells with a mere wave of the hand.

Fully unleashed, Gang energy shielded the body, rendering it utterly invincible.

In a way, it resembled Li Yan's "Divine Transformation Art."

But Gang energy relied on one's own formidable spiritual power and martial intent to gather Gang and Sha essence—perhaps weaker than the "Divine Transformation Art," yet far more enduring.

Above Gang energy lay the Primordial.

All humans are born with mortal flesh; reaching this stage means exhausting all postnatal potential, truly beginning to touch the Dao of martial arts.

Every movement carried immense power.

Above that was the Grandmaster.

A "Grandmaster" was the pinnacle of martial cultivation—deeply versed in the Dao, founding a school to pass down teachings for millennia.

At this level, it was no longer about strength.

The key from Primordial to Grandmaster was whether one could forge one's own path.

Legends spoke of even higher realms beyond Grandmasters—where even those without cultivation talent could ascend to godhood through sheer spiritual power.

But that belonged to myth, harder than ascending to immortality.

Zhao Jie knew his martial talent was extraordinary, yet he had no chance of reaching Primordial—how could he dare underestimate a Grandmaster?

Seeing a man who seemed withered and spent—who knew what hidden cards he held?

Merely this sword intent made him suffer. Splash!

At that moment, one bamboo tally on the altar suddenly shifted.

Zhao Jie's face remained unchanged, but his heart surged with joy.

He excelled in divination and water escape arts—how could he be trapped here?

He stayed here precisely to wait for the right moment.

Just now, an accidental blood sacrifice occurred—the stone arrays sunk into the riverbed now moved with the flow of earth qi.

As long as the position is adjusted correctly, the Dragon Palace's water mansion will open.

"He's stalling—attack!"

Cheng Jianxin suddenly spoke, casually drawing the long sword from Chang Gousheng's hand and pointing it forward.

Clang!

Though it seemed limp and powerless, the sword emitted a dragon's roar.

Zhao Jie's body hair stood on end; he stepped back sharply, eyes alert, his Gang-Sha qi gathering, the surrounding winds howling.

Cheng Jianxin exerted no force at all, not even a trace of magical energy visible, yet the sword in his hand quivered as if eager to leap free.

!

What kind of sword art is this…?

Zhao Jie's eyebrow twitched, his heart filled with dread.

He simply could not fathom how this dying old man had achieved this.

Before he could think further, two powerful gusts struck from behind.

It was Ling Yunzi and Ming Shanzi both attacking at once.

Both pressed talismanic seals with their left hands, spewing white qi from their mouths that coiled around their swords, unleashing hidden strength as they leapt into the air, stepping upon the water.

Clang! Clang!

Two sword beams struck—one from front, one from behind.

"Get lost!"

Zhao Jie cursed loudly, stomping his foot.

Thud! Thud! Thud! The corpses on the deck flew out with a whistle.

The corpses, propelled by force, landed perfectly in front of Ling Yunzi and Ming Shanzi, timed to perfection.

Hiss! Hiss!

Ling Yunzi and Ming Shanzi slashed their swords simultaneously.

Dao robes fluttered, white sword qi crisscrossed, cleaving the flying corpses cleanly in two.

After piercing through the blood mist, Ming Shanzi, still airborne, pressed a talismanic seal and tapped the hilt of his sword.

Hum!

The sword beam roared forward.

True flying sword techniques require constructing a sword altar—even the "human-sword" variant usable by a single person does.

This move was technically a thrown sword, but enhanced with Gang-Sha sword qi, its power was formidable.

The sword beam, launched later, arrived first, stabbing toward Zhao Jie's chest.

This was a refined sword technique of Qingcheng Sect.

One fighter feints from the front, while the other suddenly throws the sword—no matter if the enemy dodges or blocks, a gap opens, allowing the front fighter to strike.

Countless martial heroes had died beneath this sword art.

When used by these two, their coordination was flawless.

They had realized Zhao Jie remained on the boat solely to protect the altar behind him.

Force him back, destroy the altar—and tonight, they win.

Yet Zhao Jie did not dodge or retreat; his left hand rose, right hand fell, arms twisted, and he caught the flying sword between his palms.

Huh~

Whirling winds spun around him, his robes flapping wildly; the white sword qi on the blade instantly dissipated with the gale.

Eight Trigrams Palm, Silk-Winding Hand?!

Ming Shanzi stared, incredulous.

He had never seen anyone infuse Gang jin into ordinary martial arts, achieving power rivaling martial magic.

The Six Ren Immortal Sect excelled in divination—but they had no such technique.

Before he could ponder further, Ling Yunzi closed in, stomped the deck with his left foot, and shot forward like a bullet from a cannon, his precious sword wrapped in white sword qi, delivering seven rapid thrusts in succession: Shiiii! Shiiii! Shiiii!

The momentum was fierce, aggressive as fire.

This was the core sword art of Qingcheng: the Wind-Fire Sword from the Yin-Yang Dragon-Tiger Sword, though an introductory technique, seven-tenths of its moves were straight thrusts, emphasizing "speed, precision, brutality"—perfect for ambush.

When paired with the Heavenly Gang Finger Qi Technique, few could withstand it.

Yet Zhao Jie still did not retreat; he rubbed his palms together, and Ming Shanzi's magical sword instantly reversed, now held firmly in his grip, humming.

Simultaneously, he stepped left and back with his feet, forming a Gang step, his body flickering faintly.

To Ling Yunzi and Ming Shanzi, Zhao Jie suddenly split into two, then four—four distinct figures, each wielding different sword techniques.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Ling Yunzi's Wind-Fire Sword was blocked outright.

Worse, two other figures simultaneously swept upward from the left, stabbing at his vital points.

Ling Yunzi gasped, sidestepped, and raised his sword to parry.

The sword light neared his body—then vanished.

It was an illusion…

Before he could react, another figure slashed upward, cutting across his chest and abdomen.

Ling Yunzi's alarm flared—he leapt back instantly—but it was too late.

Plop!

Blood exploded; his chest was slashed open.

Fortunately, the wound was only half an inch deep.

Ming Shanzi arrived in time, grabbed his belt, and yanked him backward—saving him from being disemboweled.

Zhao Jie was about to strike the killing blow, but his back tightened—he froze.

He turned his head and saw Cheng Jianxin had jumped onto the boat with Chang Gousheng from behind; he made no move, merely pointing his sword at Zhao Jie.

And on Zhao Jie's back, blood slowly seeped through his robes.

He wiped his back, glanced at the blood on his hand, and said coldly: "Even sword intent can wound. Impressive, Sword Immortal—but if that's all you've got, Zhao today will kill you and prove it."

Cheng Jianxin showed no anger, his voice hoarse: "It's Yin Body Technique. His Soul-Storage Iron Plate is on his left heart. Beware the Flying Knife, Inch-Cut."

Ming Shanzi and Ling Yunzi instantly understood.

The Six Ren Immortal Sect excelled in divination and numerology, but talismans were their essence, divided into Literary Talismans and Martial Talismans.

To cultivate this method, one must seal the body with character-charms, pass through the Red Gate, receive a Dharma name, and crucially, obtain a "Soul-Storage Iron Plate," into which the soul is secretly anchored via secret rites.

This not only wards off calamity but enables the Yin Body Technique.

Those figures were all manifestations of his Yin Body qi—similar to paper puppets—not illusions, hence real and false intertwined.

There is also the "Flying Knife, Inch-Cut," another famed secret technique of the Six Ren Immortal Sect: a knife inscribed with talismans, hidden at the waist, capable of launching at close range to kill.

Cheng Jianxin, experienced and sharp, saw through his true nature at a glance.

"The old bastard deserves to die!"

Hearing this, Zhao Jie's killing intent surged.

He felt as if every secret had been laid bare—this sensation was maddening.

Hululu~

At that moment, mud surged again from the water's surface.

Instantly, the entire river was churned.

The bamboo tally sticks on the altar shifted rapidly.

Everyone on the river halted their fighting, faces pale with terror.

The river water churned violently, thick fog rose, lightning crackled, winds howled—as if a sudden storm had descended.

But this rain came from beneath the water.

Before they could steady themselves, the gales, fog, lightning, and rain surged together, forming a dark, thunder-charged shadow that drifted swiftly away.

If Li Yan were here, he would recognize this scene—it matched exactly the moment the Divine Palace of Yunzhongju appeared.

"Hahahaha… it's done!"

Zhao Jie roared with laughter. "Gentlemen, farewell!"

With that, he leapt backward and plunged into the water, using Water Escape Technique, vanishing instantly.

Ming Shanzi stared at the direction the thunderclouds had vanished, murmuring:

"We were tricked—it's Chengdu!"

"That demon intends to draw the Dragon Palace into Chengdu Prefecture!"

(End of Chapter)