Chapter 6: Wind-Splitting Sword Art

“Master, can I learn the skill that leaves handprints on stone?” Wang Yu glanced at the stone weight nearby and asked the Daoist priest instinctively.

“Oh, you’ve got good eyesight—that’s Iron Palm, a brutal hand technique, but it’s not suited for you. You’re too young; practicing this external art severely damages the hand bones and hinders palm development, plus it requires soaking in medicinal brews—extremely painful.” The Daoist nodded, then shook his head.

“Then can I learn Brother Dongyue’s Golden Staff Art?” Wang Yu, disappointed, ventured another question.

“Come closer, let me feel your bones.” The Daoist paused, then instructed.

Wang Yu stepped forward two paces and let the Daoist probe his body.

After a moment, Daoist Chongyun frowned: “Your bones are average, even your qi and blood are weak. Golden Staff Art is broad, forceful, and ferocious—unsuitable for you. Stick to a lighter sword art.”

“Sword art is fine too—I beg you to teach me.” Since Iron Palm was out of reach, Wang Yu, though deeply disappointed, no longer cared what he learned; after all, he’d only be in this world for a month—anything would do.

The Daoist nodded, strode to the weapon rack, picked up a light wooden sword, and said to Wang Yu:

“My strongest skill is actually bare-handed combat; staff art is secondary; sword art? I only know a little. But the Wind-Splitting Sword Art I’ll teach you is simple, yet has a storied past—once, someone used it to slay several demonic beasts in succession.”

“What’s a demonic beast?” Wang Yu couldn’t help asking.

“Oh, I forgot—you’re from a remote place. Not knowing about demonic beasts is normal. Dongyue, explain to Qiuye.” The Daoist blinked, then waved Dongyue over.

Hearing this, Dongyue hurried over and explained to Wang Yu:

“Brother Qiuye, everyone in Huangshi City knows what demonic beasts are—they’re aberrant wild animals with abilities normal beasts lack. Some have unnaturally tough hides, others are gigantic, and some can spit fire or frost. Ordinary people who encounter them are dead. Demonic beasts rarely travel in groups; only large hunting parties or martial experts can handle them—like our Master here.” After a few words, Dongyue began flattery.

“Spit fire and frost… so they’re demons?” Wang Yu thought in shock.

“I’m no great expert. Let me demonstrate Wind-Splitting Sword Art once. Qiuye, watch carefully, then decide whether to learn it.” The Daoist dismissed Dongyue back to staff practice, gave Wang Yu a calm order, stepped into the training yard, and held his wooden sword horizontally before him.

Wang Yu instinctively held his breath—this was his best chance to verify whether the Daoist truly possessed supernatural power. He must see clearly.

The Daoist took two large steps forward, moved his arm, and thrust the wooden sword straight ahead; then stepped two paces right and thrust again…

Wang Yu stared without blinking. The Wind-Splitting Sword Art’s forms were absurdly simple—no matter how his stance or footwork shifted, it was always a straight thrust. Aside from each motion being clean and crisp, he saw nothing remarkable—even less impressive than martial arts performances back on Blue Star.

“Swoosh.”

The Daoist’s wooden sword suddenly flew from his hand, arced two zhang away, and plunged diagonally into the earth. Wang Yu jumped slightly in surprise.

“The final move—the released sword—is a desperate technique. If you fail to kill your enemy, you’re left unarmed and at their mercy. Only use it as a last resort.” The Daoist walked over, pulled the sword from the ground, and turned to Wang Yu calmly.

“Master, is that all there is to Wind-Splitting Sword Art? No more forms?” Wang Yu couldn’t hold back his question.

“Heh, think it’s too ordinary? Wind-Splitting Thirteen Forms was never a profound art—but it has one advantage no other sword art matches: its ceiling is extremely high. The same moves yield vastly different results in different hands. The key is speed. I slowed down earlier so you could see clearly. Now I’ll increase the speed severalfold—watch closely.”

Daoist Chongyun, sensing Wang Yu’s disappointment, chuckled, bent his knees slightly, and shot forward like a released arrow. His wooden sword blurred—and emitted a sharp hissing sound.

“Puff.”

The Daoist reappeared before a small tree at the edge of the training yard, his wooden sword piercing halfway through the trunk.

Wang Yu widened his eyes and sucked in a sharp breath.

Nearby, Dongyue, who’d been sneaking glances, gaped, mouth agape, unable to close it.

Daoist Chongyun flicked his wrist, effortlessly withdrew the sword from the tree, and turned to Wang Yu with calm detachment:

“Wind-Splitting Sword Art seems simple in every form, but mastering it isn’t easy. It demands endless practice to gain fluency. The faster you move, the greater the power. Only when you can unleash all thirteen forms without pausing for breath have you entered the threshold. Only when you can pierce a wooden post with a wooden sword like I just did have you achieved minor mastery.”

Wang Yu rushed to the tree, touched the flat, clean sword hole with his fingers, confirmed it was fresh, suppressed his excitement, and turned to the Daoist respectfully:

“Master, Wind-Splitting Sword Art is incredible—I’ll learn this.”

“I want to learn this too—it’s way more stylish than Golden Staff Art!” Dongyue shouted from the side.

“You haven’t even mastered Golden Staff Art—what are you thinking learning sword art? Go back to practicing! Qiuye, follow me.” Daoist Chongyun scowled at Dongyue, then led Wang Yu to the other side of the training yard to teach him Wind-Splitting Sword Art hand-to-hand.

Wind-Splitting Sword Art was indeed simple. From posture to power generation, even breathing rhythm—the Daoist spent most of the morning teaching Wang Yu the first seven forms, then said only, “Strengthen your arms and legs,” before turning and walking away gracefully.

Wang Yu practiced alone afterward, but after dozens of thrusts, he was drenched in sweat, his arm swollen and aching—he had to stop helplessly.

Only then did he vaguely suspect he’d been fooled by Daoist Chongyun. With this body’s condition, he’d gain nothing from Wind-Splitting Sword Art—or any martial art.

“Brother Qiuye, your physique seems weak. Stop for today. In a few days, I’ll get you something good to strengthen you—then we’ll train properly.” Dongyue approached, smiling warmly.

“Something good? What did you mean, Brother?” Wang Yu’s interest stirred.

“Haha, you’ll see soon. I’m your senior—I’ll look out for you. Without that stuff, I never would’ve mastered Golden Staff Art so fast.” Dongyue patted his chest, grinning mysteriously—but his expression looked oddly sleazy.

Wang Yu was half-skeptical.

For the next two days, Wang Yu practiced Wind-Splitting Sword Art each morning and evening, but his body was too weak—he could only train briefly before gasping for breath. Naturally, he couldn’t even master the first form.

Frustrated, Wang Yu stopped practicing altogether for several days. Instead, after sweeping the temple and studying the cloud patterns in the Baiyun Scripture, he ran the entire hill around the temple, finding several plants with unusual shapes—he suspected they were species unknown on Blue Star—and secretly picked them, asking Dongyue about them.

But Dongyue said these plants were ordinary, worthless. He wasn’t a botanist and couldn’t confirm they were unique to this world—so he memorized their appearance and names, planning to return to Blue Star and have someone draw them for experts to analyze.

Wang Yu also cautiously asked Dongyue about true qi and internal cultivation methods. Dongyue stared blankly—Wang Yu’s hope died completely. Though the martial arts here looked powerful, they weren’t as profound as he’d imagined.

On the fifth day, noon.

After eating salted vegetable buns, Wang Yu stood before the main hall’s courtyard, hesitating whether to go train Wind-Splitting Sword Art, when a young Daoist entered through the front gate—sharp eyebrows, large eyes, fair skin, about twenty, carrying a black iron staff on his back and holding two large bundles in his hands.

Wang Yu blinked, then immediately stepped forward respectfully:

“Are you Brother Qingfeng?”

“Who are you? Where’s that lazy lump Dongyue?” The young Daoist frowned at Wang Yu’s novice robes.

Before Wang Yu could answer, Dongyue bounced out like a ball from a side room, shouting happily:

“Big Brother! This is the new disciple, Qiuye. I’ve been waiting for you! Did Dad ask you to bring the things?”

“I took a whole extra half-day detour just for this.” The young Daoist tossed one bundle to Dongyue, glanced coldly at Wang Yu, and said: “You’re Qiuye? I thought Master wouldn’t take new disciples. If you’re here, work hard. I’m going to see Master.” He ignored both and marched straight to the main hall.

“Don’t mind him, Brother Qiuye—Big Brother always talks like that, but he’s cold on the outside, warm inside. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have carried so much stuff from home for me. Come to my room—I’ve got something amazing to show you.” Dongyue hugged the bundle tightly, grinning at Wang Yu.

“Is it the stuff you mentioned before—the powerful tonic?” Wang Yu perked up.

“Haha, you know it already—come on!” Dongyue replied, hurrying toward his room with the bundle; Wang Yu followed curiously.