Chapter 241: Seeking the Self, Seeking the World, Divine Sword, Divine General

Murong Longtu's challenge to the Jianghu spread swiftly throughout the world.

On that day, when the Master Jiankuang departed, the storm had already been stirred; warriors from all sects and schools moved in response, and even many reclusive swordsmen emerged from their hiding places, as all directions roiled, hastening toward the Academy.

To witness this grand spectacle—the greatest gathering of martial artists in history.

The Tianxia Diyi Lou of the World forged a stele from Qinggangyu, a material capable of forging Xuan weapons and Shen weapons, and erected it outside its gates; only those whose Wu Gong could leave marks on the Qinggangyu were granted entry to the Academy to observe up close.

This required Wu Gong capable of shattering Xuan-level weapons.

Thus, the fervor cooled slightly, yet even so, these Jianghu swordsmen and martial artists all surged toward the Zhongzhou Realm, determined to at least witness the fierce sword intent and sword qi, even if they could not draw near.

For these Jianghu warriors and wandering heroes,

if they missed such an opportunity,

they would, even at eighty years old and lying in bed, smash their mattress in rage, sit up, slap themselves, and curse aloud.

In three hundred years, Zhongzhou had never been so noisy or lively.

Heroes and warlords from across the world would come; the Son of Heaven would conduct a royal tour.

Jianghu masters and legends would arrive, answering the sword's call.

The Academy's students awaited all this, while Jianghu martial artists were about to flood in—civil and martial paths, rarely so harmonious.

For these days, the gates of the city housing the Zhongzhou Academy never ceased to swell with visitors.

The newly opened Changfeng Tower made a fortune beyond measure.

There were Westerners with slender swords, Central Plains swordsmen, Buddhists, Daoist Priests—utterly bustling; had the Tianxia Diyi Lou's lord not directly displayed Xuan and Shen weapon materials as the test, these ordinary warriors would have exhausted every means to rush as close as possible to witness the battle.

Masters of the realm, with a single gesture, could manifest cosmic forms, stir primordial energy, enough to shatter mountains and sever rivers, permanently altering the geography of a region; ordinary warriors dared not even observe a Master-level clash without risking their lives.

Yet this crowd would absolutely do such a thing.

Die?

Ridiculous!

To observe such a legendary battle between Masters and legends—even death would be worth it.

The only concern was whether those lofty Masters and legends would accept the challenge.

This worry was shattered the next day.

Three cracks appeared on the Qingyu stele outside the Tianxia Diyi Lou of the World.

One was a tranquil character: "Dao."

One was the scar left by a spear's blade.

At the very top, upon this Shen-weapon-grade material, a winter plum blossom had sprouted, blooming fiercely against the blazing summer sun.

The Dao Sect, the Divine General of the Army, and Changsheng had all answered the call.

Even among the Hundred Schools, they were martial artists; all martial artists carried three parts ferocity, and as Masters, each possessed one part of proud bone—by the second day, ten Master-level marks had appeared on the Qingyu stele.

By the third day, it exceeded thirty.

Far surpassing the number of warriors Master Jiankuang had invited, every hidden martial artist in the Jianghu rushed here to witness or participate in this battle destined to be etched into history. Some students worried that so many people—representing countless factions, sects, righteous and evil—would disrupt the Academy's order and taint its scholarly aura.

Gongyang Su Wang of the Academy laughed heartily, saying: "The Academy is a place for learning; studying literature and martial arts are both the righteous path. Moreover—"

This generation's Gongyang Su Wang sighed, glanced around with a smile, and spoke calmly: "We must let future generations know our splendor."

"Is it not delightful when friends come from afar?"

"Murong Longtu, come!"

"Jianghu, come!"

That day, all six gates of the Academy opened wide.

The Dao Sect's Xiantian, the Confucian Masters.

The Northern Pole of the Central Heaven, the Living Buddha of Zhongtu.

The Mo Juzi's weapons were plunged into the road before the six gates, their aura soaring, filling the entire Academy and Zhongzhou with the exhilaration of weapons and Jianghu; suddenly, many swordsmen in blue robes appeared among the travelers.

Eight hundred years of Jianghu exuberance reached its peak; it was widely said this would be the greatest event in Jianghu history—yet in Jiangnan, within the Murong household, Murong Qiushui, who remained behind, sat in silence for a long time after hearing the news.

Murong Qiushui's qin music grew chaotic.

"Grandfather is leaving."

The woman, who had once stirred a region with her qin melodies, whispered softly, her heart filled with unspeakable sorrow; her palm pressed upon the strings, yet she could not pluck them, could not produce a note—she understood Murong Longtu.

Some men are not born to live.

Their lives wait only for how they will die.

Death is not the end.

Murong Qiushui held her qin, her heart in turmoil; while the Jianghu revered and awaited that battle, praising the Master Jiankuang, she felt only sorrow—for her, the Master Jiankuang of the world, the sole deity of sword Dao, was still the grandfather who carried her through springtime Jiangnan, plucking flowers as they walked.

Yet she also knew clearly what kind of man Murong Longtu was—he craved kinship, but kinship was not his entirety.

Murong Qiushui walked slowly through the Murong estate, finally pausing before that courtyard, standing at the gate, suddenly lost in memory—she recalled when, as a child, the blue-robed swordsman had let her sit upon his shoulders, like an ordinary elder playing with a child.

Back then, Murong Longtu was still tall, smiling gently, nothing like the legendary, arrogant, sword-wielding pinnacle of swordsmen—he would hold dolls in his sword-calloused hands and play with his granddaughter and great-granddaughter.

He would laughingly buy candied haws, and sit fishing, watching ripples spread across the water.

He would watch the two children play, then play the qin—his melodies were graceful and tender, nothing like the fierce, dominating force of a sword; whatever tune Murong Qiushui hummed, he could expand into a full composition; he excelled at delicate ink paintings, folding them into paper boats and setting them adrift down the stream.

The boats would scatter in the current, yet the ink on the paper would bleed, the spirit of the painting never fading—instead, gaining a misty, ethereal quality; many literati would squat downstream, reaching to catch the boats as if retrieving paintings—a cherished custom of Jiangnan Dao.

Murong Qiushui stood before the courtyard for a long time, then slowly stepped inside.

It was midsummer, hot and humid; the lotus pond bloomed fully, willows cast shade, cicadas were weary, calling only sporadically, their noise grating on the nerves.

Murong Qiushui picked up a stone and hurled it—the cicada crashed to the ground with a clang.

After Master Siming resolved her Fuxiang issue, she had grown much more at ease; her Yuanshen had recovered to the Fifth Heaven, flowing freely; she had never trained Wu Gong, yet her aim remained sharp.

Murong Qiushui brushed the dust from her palms, a faint three-tenths pride in her voice:

"Dare you keep chirping!"

She was never one to lament spring's passing or mourn autumn's decline; now, thinking of the old man and the boy, she was merely angry that they had gone to Zhongzhou without taking her—yet as she paced, she noticed the wooden sword beneath the old tree.

Two hundred years ago, Murong Longtu had wanted to learn swordplay, but the then-head of the Murong clan had scolded him, whipping his back dozens of times with a slender bamboo rod as punishment; Murong Longtu refused to accept it—he never touched any precious sword or sharp weapon.

He merely used a large stone to chip away at the heartwood, originally meant for firewood, shaping it bit by bit into the form of a sword—he had once shown it to Li Guanyi, and the old man said that when he was young, holding this sword he had carved himself, he had felt himself the greatest swordsman under heaven.

But later, with blood feuds and ancestral hatreds, he wielded a killing blade and roamed the Jianghu.

He reclaimed the dark weapons forged by his own family.

Then he challenged all heroes, crushed every sword sect and school, and ultimately mastered ninety-seven dark weapons, roaming the world undefeated—yet upon careful reflection, over two hundred years, except for the moment at age five when he held this sword, he had never again gripped this crude, ordinary wooden sword that had once made the boy feel he was the greatest swordsman under heaven.

The sword still rested upon that tree stump.

It was made of wood—indeed, the worst, most inferior kind.

Valuable timber was carved into exquisite objects for nobility; medium-grade wood became beads, gifted to aristocratic families and Buddhist or Daoist temples; straight, tall trees became palace pillars; sturdy ordinary wood became house beams.

The worst, twisted, useless wood was cut down and used as firewood.

This was nothing but a piece of firewood—nothing fine; merchants, craftsmen, and woodcutters all dismissed it.

After two hundred years of wind and rain, it had sprouted.

Even birds perched on the hilt of the wooden sword, lowering their heads to pluck insects from the old wood.

Tap-tap-tap, tap-tap-tap.

This sword was neither forged from celestial treasures nor tempered by fire; had it not been Murong Longtu's, this crude wooden sword would never have qualified to be placed here. Murong Qiushui worried for Murong Longtu, having heard he had returned his sword to the Jianghu.

On that day, he went to the Tianxia Diyi Lou under Heaven with only fifty-five dark weapons.

Others said Murong Longtu no longer needed dark weapons—but cultivation realm and combat power were different; Murong Qiushui knew that even a swordsman who had long broken free from rigid constraints would fight stronger if he held a sharp divine weapon.

He challenged the Four Legends, the Six Palace Lords, the Ten Great Masters.

What if he had no suitable weapon?

Murong Qiushui sighed; her gaze swept over the plain wooden sword, finding nothing unusual, then turned to leave, seeking other weapons or blades—but the Murong clan could forge only dark weapons.

The wind blew, and the tree behind the wooden sword swayed slightly; a single leaf fell.

The leaf, broad and soft, landed precisely upon the wooden sword.

After two hundred years, this wooden sword—essentially just firewood—had not changed at all.

The leaf split naturally down the middle, falling to either side.

A faint sword hum rose from the blade.

The bird still pecked for insects, unharmed; the wind blew, all things moved naturally, and this sword was among them.

How, then, is a divine weapon forged?

What makes it "divine"?

How does it attain sentience?

………………

The recommendation letter written by the Mo Family Master for Li Guanyi was delivered by flying hawk to the newly built Changfeng Tower in Zhongzhou; though Zhongzhou was the center of the world, the imperial court and noble clans valued only the benefits the Changfeng Tower could offer them, and so it opened with surprising ease.

When the letter arrived, Ji Zichang, descendant of the Red Emperor, was personally examining the scholars' talents—rumors in the Imperial Academy spread that great lords had arrived, and that a true man must now display his ambitions and grand designs; how could Ji Zichang not know?

He chose not to silence these scholars outright.

Nor did he order the spreaders of rumors arrested and executed.

Instead, he seized the opportunity, arriving in person while the rumor spread, and set questions for the scholars to demonstrate their talents—such sincerity naturally won him much goodwill among the students.

Ji Zichang held particular regard for the few scholars with great reputations in the Imperial Academy.

Feng Xiao, Wen Lingjun, and Zhou Pinglu all displayed their talents.

Only Wen He's answer made Ji Zichang's eyelids twitch uncontrollably—

"Hmm?"

"Hmm???"

Ji Zichang looked at Wen He, an ordinary-looking young man; his question had been: With Zhongzhou undergoing such upheaval and talent flooding in, how should one resolve it? What clever strategy could ensure peace across the land?

Wen He answered: "All martial cultivators are present—why not poison the entire Jianghu, advance with armored iron troops, and sweep them all away in one stroke? Ride the Jianghu into dust."

"With the martial cultivators' power shattered, the realm will surely be far more stable than before. Jianghu cultivators, relying on their Wu Gong, break the law; the state's statutes declare murder the gravest crime, yet in the Jianghu, heroes are revered, and the people honor them."

"Such men gain fame across the land yet defy the sovereign's laws; if so, the sovereign's decrees lose authority, the state's dignity fades—kill the Jianghu to restore order to the realm."

Ji Zichang's eyelid twitched as he read Wen He's strategy.

Poison, incitement, a volley of crossbow bolts.

This was truly ruthless.

He meant to turn this great martial event into a grand martial sacrifice; Ji Zichang agreed the Jianghu was a grave evil—but such a strategy was too cruel. If it failed to wipe them all out, assassins would come without end.

No, no.

"This man sees clearly, but his methods are too venomous—he cannot be employed."

"Yet he cannot be killed; killing him would earn the reputation of destroying talent."

Finally, Ji Zichang's lips twitched, reaching a conclusion:

"Keep him."

Thus Wen He departed calmly; all were puzzled, except Wen Lingjun, who understood Wen He's choice and sighed: "By submitting this venomous plan, you ensure Your Majesty won't use you—yet also won't kill you. Wen He, you possess great talent—why do you scheme for your own survival instead of the state?"

Wen He's face remained expressionless; he said softly: "I am such a man."

He left Wen Lingjun speechless.

Wen He added softly: "The feudal lords gather; the realm is in upheaval. Ji Zichang, Your Majesty, has no land, no people—only the legitimacy of name. He will never end well. Staying by his side will surely stain you in blood. Lingjun, consider your escape route."

Wen Lingjun fell silent for a long while, then sighed.

Wen He's venomous plan had pulled him straight out of the whirlpool, preserving himself.

A peasant's son had been expelled; Xu Tiange refused to accept it, clutching a handful of grain, indignant; he returned to his place, shouldered his hoe, and hacked at the earth with furious thuds: "Why won't Your Majesty listen to us?"

"When the people have land to farm, food to eat, drink to consume, and money to spend, their hearts will stabilize; when hearts are stable, society will have fewer disturbances, and the people's morality can be guided well; soldiers who know they have land, fields, and grain will have fighting spirit."

"Where did I go wrong?!"

"Damn it, Emperor, I'll bury you in the soil one day!"

Xu Tiange, the old farmer, cursed under his breath.

"Ah... that's because the Central Plains today are small, and Emperor Ji Zichang, though possessing some ambition, sees the Great Emperor of Ying State swallowing ten thousand miles and the Fire Qilin of Jiangnan rising with vigor—how could he afford to wait for your slow results?"

A laugh came; Xu Tiange turned to see Wen He, a plain-looking scholar, raising a flask of wine: "Brought over from Wen Lingjun—want a sip?"

Xu Tiange granted the Agricultural School the highest honors.

He personally picked various vegetables, cooked a meal, rolled up his sleeves, and ate with them in the fields: "Wen He, why won't the Emperor be patient? The more urgent things are, the more one must endure."

"I submitted a strategy: when soldiers have land and grain behind them, their hearts are steady; when harvests are abundant, their morale swells. Protect farmland with soldiers and soldiers with farmland and harvests."

"Only when grain is plentiful can the people live well; when the people live well, the realm stabilizes, and more recruits emerge; when the army grows strong, it can protect more land; more land means more farming."

"But the Emperor said—"

Xu Tiange took a sip of strong liquor and said:

"The Emperor says: how can farming and warfare ever be placed together?"

Wen He said gently: "Yes, I agree with you. Only when the people live well enough can they attract the hearts of all under heaven; when they rest and recover, living in peace, they will display extraordinary morale when their own land is invaded."

"All under heaven wage war to seize land, yet fail to see the value of the people's hearts."

"If there were one man who could feed officials and soldiers, pacify the people, and make them content in their homes and fields, then the realm would submit without needing to mobilize armies."

Drunk, Xu Tiange blurted: "I knew you, Wen He, understood me."

"Wen He, truly a kind and virtuous gentleman!"

"A true good man!"

"Among all the feudal lords, who could match him?"

Wen He said: "Li Guanyi, the Fire Qilin of Jiangnan, could do it."

"Both the Chen State and Ying State are blocked by powerful clans; their so-called encouragement of farming is merely a desire for the people to work harder—ideally twelve hours a day in the fields. Li Guanyi's policies and strategies seem to align with yours."

"All scholars under heaven await the Fire Qilin, the Ying State, and the Chen State."

"But following the crowd inevitably sinks into mediocrity."

"Only by offering help in times of hardship can one act. Why not set out early? Before the second rice crop is sown, take your methods to Jiangnan and spread them."

Drunk, Xu Tiange was instantly persuaded: "Good!"

"Fuck it, if this place won't keep me, another will."

"The Imperial House of the Central Plains won't let me farm—I'll bury them all in the soil!"

Wen He smiled gently: "You shouldn't say such things lightly."

Xu Tiange laughed loudly: "You're a true good man—I only say this to you!" Wen He helped Xu Tiange prepare and offered several strategies:

"After you meet Li Guanyi, present four strategies."

"First: offer to disseminate the Agricultural School's farming techniques to the people. His nature will surely support this strongly—this year's second rice crop will see a great increase in yield."

"Second: propose that during the middle of spring and autumn, the Fire Qilin Army unify manpower, standardize measurements, calibrate scales, level containers, and repair irrigation tools to ensure accurate agricultural output."

"Third: use the Fire Qilin Army to control commerce, establish new rules, and prevent aristocratic heirs from disrupting farming."

"Fourth: the militia system—farming and warfare share the same root. Express the hope that the General will allow the people to rest and recover."

Xu Tiange followed every one of Wen He's strategies.

Only then did he discover Li Guanyi's letter—and he was overjoyed.

Holy shit, land is given!

Holy shit, people too?!

At the Imperial Academy, Xu Tiange had only a tiny courtyard to farm. Wherever he went now, wouldn't he be able to grow anything? Ha! If he could get ten or so mu to test, it would be perfect.

Xu Tiange organized his seeds.

"Anything that grows mutated, large tubers, edible, and doesn't care where it grows—take it!"

"Rice that yields three crops a year—take it!"

"Grain that won't fall over—take it!"

"This thing kills insects that eat it—take it!"

A single sack carried everything. Finally, he shoved a copy of the "Shennong Twenty Chapters" into his chest. The Agricultural School's Xu Tiange persuaded his fellow disciples to place their seeds on a single handcart.

All kinds: disease-resistant, toxin-resistant, everything.

And so he left, casually.

Meanwhile, Emperor Ji Zichang listened intently to the School of Diplomacy's strategy for dominating the realm.

Wen Lingjun looked at Wen He and shook his head: "What are you doing?"

Wen He said calmly: "Plotting for my own survival."

Wen Lingjun frowned.

Wen He said calmly: "Yuan Zhi and Xiao Zhi are now under Li Guanyi's command. Given their misunderstanding of me, Li Guanyi might kill me outright. To prevent this, I need Xu Tiange."

"Xu Tiange is broad-minded and cannot keep secrets—he will spread my name to Li Guanyi."

"Moreover, Xu Tiange's farming methods are highly useful to Li Guanyi now. If Li Guanyi kills me, the Agricultural School will turn against him. A man like him—even to protect Xu Tiange—won't kill me."

Wen Lingjun fell silent for a long time, then said: "Yuan Zhi wouldn't go so far as to kill you."

Wen He was surprised: "Really?"

He brushed his robe: "If I knew someone like me stood across from me..."

"I wouldn't be able to sleep unless I killed him."

Wen Lingjun opened his mouth, but for a moment, had nothing to say.

Wen He instead grew carefree, saying calmly: "A gentleman knows himself, and thus can protect himself; a gentleman knows the world, and thus can protect the state. I hope Xu Tiange truly protects my life, but I also truly hope Li Guanyi lives in harmony with the people."

"Only in an era of peace can people like you and me die peacefully; otherwise, as long as even one heart still harbors ambition, you and I will be dragged out; even if the world is unified, if the people's hearts are not settled, people like you and me will be killed for the potential to stir up chaos."

Wen Lingjun sighed helplessly.

"Wen He, you… what are you saying…"

A plain-looking young man walked past Wen Lingjun, his tone dull:

"If everyone in the world can secure their own survival without harming others, the world will be settled."

Wen Lingjun suddenly fell silent.

The Academy, the Jianghu, the Civil and Martial Paths—all have changed. Masters have emerged. The Agricultural and Mohist schools are nearly abandoning the Academy to enter the world. Yet on this day, as Li Guanyi trained in martial arts, he felt confused.

Since that day he broke through to the Fifth Heaven from the Second Heaven, the bronze cauldron had continuously trembled, as if desperately craving to absorb power, humming without cease.

Yet the peak Fifth Heaven aura of Generals Ling Pingyang, the bronze cauldron did not even glance at.

But for the Master Jiankuang and Master Siming, the bronze cauldron remained utterly still. As Li Guanyi puzzled over this, Ying State finally sent over the great ship—the Fire Qilin Army prepared to board and head for Zhongzhou.

Generals Ling Pingyang entered to report: "Lord, a guest has arrived."

Li Guanyi said:

"It's Jiang Gao, isn't it? As Crown Prince of Ying State, he naturally must see us off."

Generals Ling Pingyang paused, then said: "There is another person."

"The current Grand Marshal and General of Ying State."

"Also, the eldest son-in-law of the Xue family's Xue Daoyong."

Li Guanyi froze, recalling Zhao Da Bing's gossip: Xue Lao's two daughters—one became the current Empress of Chen State, the other, it was said, had wandered the Jianghu in her youth and met a Ying State general, marrying him. Li Guanyi said: "Bring the guest in."

Moments later, laughter rang out: "I've heard my Lady speak of you many times—finally I have the chance to meet you! Hahaha, Qin Wu Hou, I've long admired you!"

A man in armor, seemingly only in his thirties, smiled and bowed.

His brow sharp, hair bound by a jade hairpin, noble and handsome, beside him burned the fiery apparition of a beast—fierce and majestic—the general who had met Xue Daoyong's eldest daughter in the Jianghu, bonded with her in spirit, and married her.

Ranked eighteenth on the List of Divine Generals.

Qin Yulong.

Master Realm.

At that moment, Li Guanyi's bronze cauldron suddenly roared.

It began actively drawing in the aura emitted by this Master-level Divine General!

Jade essence, accumulating!