Chapter 289

The rise and fall of the world's martial world, winds rising and clouds surging in change—Murong Longtu, the Master Jiankuang's era, was two hundred years ago; back then, a young swordsmith whose family was annihilated, how did he bring the martial world's sword arts to ruin, and how did he gather all the famed swords into his own hands?

Even today's white-haired old martial masters do not understand this; even Xue Daoyong, a man who lived over a hundred years, had not yet been born when Murong Longtu, sword in hand, swept clean the martial world for sixty years.

The people here do not know how heavy this old man's aura of slaughter is.

They came only for the name; the old man lifted a branch as his starting stance, and the first to leap forward was wrapped in aura of slaughter and fate—this martial master, whose personal Wu Gong was no lesser than General Yue Qianfeng's, was already flung away.

Yet someone swiftly approached and said:

"Master Jiankuang, forgive the offense!!!"

He was a suffering Monk.

He was none other than the Living Buddha of the Western Regions; previously, during the Longshengke affair, he had intervened because these two had fought into the Western Regions, but the old swordmaster had beaten him senseless without distinguishing friend from foe—the Monk had his own temper, and now he too came to join the spectacle.

He seized with one hand the Grandmaster who had been thrown back by the Master Jiankuang's sword qi.

He struck back.

Glazed Jin Gang Physique!

But it was halted by a branch a child could snap.

It was not the branch that stopped him—it was the man who held the branch.

The Buddha says a strongman can move mountains.

I say,

No.

Boom!!!!!

The former third-ranked master among the Ten Greatest Masters of the World, the most outstanding Living Buddha of the Western Regions in three hundred years, famed above all for defense and physicality—everyone expected he might hold out longer against this swordmaster, yet no one anticipated.

A glazed physique, indestructible as vajra.

One sword shattered it!

The old monk who inherited three hundred years of cultivation from the Western Living Buddha, ranked third among the Ten Greatest Masters, was so ranked only because his strength was truly third; the white-haired Master Jiankuang ranked first among the Masters, not because he was stronger than all, but because the Ten Greatest Masters list simply could not go higher.

Sword qi surged to the heavens!

Beneath a certain pavilion hid a man, seemingly forty or fifty, his eyes sharp and lively—it was Tu Shengyuan, the first-ranked guest of Tianxia Diyi Lou, who had arrived early to mooch meals and drinks from the famous school.

During the Master Jiankuang's pursuit of Longshengke, relying on his peerless lightness skill, he had secretly trailed along, witnessed the Master Jiankuang's opening strike, been stared at by Longshengke, turned pale with terror, and spent long moments in panic before realizing he had already been struck.

After being healed by the Daoist Immortal Ziyang, he had not rested long before rushing here to watch—he stuck his head out, gazing at the heavenly manifestations in the sky, counting one by one: thirty, thirty-five.

Forty-seven in total.

The Grandmasters hidden across the martial world—from the northern grasslands to the western deserts to the eastern seas—excluding forces like the Mo Sect and Ghost Market, and military generals embedded within armies—all had been drawn out.

The Master Jiankuang charged into them alone.

He moved back and forth, crisscrossing.

At first, it was still a branch.

Then sword qi filled all directions—it was clearly a sword.

In a single blink, the world turned snowy white; silver light darted like fish, swirling everywhere—this was already a vast ocean, sword qi like a sea. Tu Shengyuan watched this scene and murmured: "Such sword qi—hahaha…"

"Peerless in the world."

"Unmatched in history!"

He suddenly sat down, clapping and laughing long and loud—the ancient swordmaster stood alone against these many martial greats, dragon roared, tiger howled; the vendor's legs trembled, yet he realized the sword qi never once harmed his side.

Only then did he realize he meant to flee—he dropped his pole, took two steps forward, but turned back, looked at the wine and fava beans in the pole, thought of his two five-year-old children at home.

He suddenly gained the bold spirit of a martial world hero.

Clenching his teeth, shuffling step by step, he walked forward, seized the pole.

He hoisted it onto his shoulder.

Only when he had slowly shuffled out of the academy did he realize his back was soaked in sweat, his legs uncontrollably trembling, shaking violently—he turned back: what a battle! Celestial dragon linked to heaven, fierce tiger roared from earth, a giant wolf with wings dove down, a sharp sword pierced the sky—it was like a mythic tale unfolding, as if he had suffered a nightmare.

Earlier, he had been calm and aloof, boasting loudly that he too was a martial world swordsman.

He had spoken of how he must see for himself whether the Master Jiankuang's sword was truly invincible, whether such a noble scion was truly unattainable—now his face was pale, his jeweled sword trembling like a cane, propping up the ground.

The vendor walked forward and saw a young man approaching, carrying something—he kindly warned: "Young sir, ahead, there's fighting—don't go any further."

The young Daoist in blue robes thanked him, politely saying:

"Please give me a flask of wine."

"Huh?"

The vendor froze, thinking today he had met a most peculiar person—but peculiar or not, business must be done; his hands still shook as he pulled out a flask of wine and handed it to the young man.

The young Daoist took from a tattered sack all his coins—copper cash, some chipped—and bought one flask of wine and a portion of fava beans, tasted them, and said: "This flavor is excellent."

"My great-grandfather would like it."

"Please send some fava beans to my lodging."

The young Daoist took some coins, bought the vendor's remaining fava beans; the vendor mumbled an agreement. When the young Daoist walked far away, the vendor was dazed, truly perplexed—he felt today's fortune was both good and bad.

Although he had not sold his prepared goods, it seemed he had gained two bigger deals—he steadied himself, recalled carefully, thinking he must not forget these two addresses—but after careful thought, he froze.

"It's the same place?"

The guest of Tianxia Diyi Lou was carving with a knife the record of this battle destined to be passed down through ages—the Master Jiankuang's sword qi, dominant and composed, had reached the very limit he knew; these martial masters, the greatest of the past two hundred years, fought together.

All were Jianghu Grandmasters, all had heavenly manifestations; only those of this caliber had the right to stand before Murong Longtu, the right to offer a single strike.

But Tu Shengyuan knew this was only the beginning.

The Six Palace Masters of the academy had not yet moved.

The remaining three legends of the martial world had not yet moved.

Now, internal qi and heavenly manifestations clashed, unleashing wave after wave of overwhelming energy—Tu Shengyuan's breath grew heavy and stifled, yet he knew this was merely an appetizer; swords and knives sang, spears and halberds clashed back and forth.

All the great figures of the martial world's past two hundred years were here!

At that moment, Tu Shengyuan suddenly heard a string sound like silk tearing.

The string sound was grim and piercing, yet perfectly aligned, joining the clamor of swords and knives—suddenly, the entire battlefield's atmosphere shifted; Tu Shengyuan felt a chill burst from his tailbone, surging upward in layer upon layer of waves.

He shivered, then turned to look.

A boy in a blue Daoist robe removed something from his back; it was large, striking the ground with a clear resonance. He swept his sleeve, smoothing away the shattered stones left by the clashing swords and knives.

Unwrapping the cloth, inside was an ancient, simple qin.

Here, Masters battled, Dharma Forms roared, qi surged and transformed—so exquisitely that all previous onlookers had fled; now, those without sufficient Wu Gong could not stand here—anyone who drew near would be blasted back, even killed.

But the Master Jiankuang's sword qi was nothing.

Even the residual waves from other Masters scattered the moment they neared Li Guanyi; three steps ahead, wind rose and clouds churned, the heavens descended—as if from a mythic age—yet beside the boy, all was calm.

The ancient qin lay flat.

The boy held the wine he had bought with the money Shi Yisong entrusted to him.

This was Shi Yisong's wish—he said he hoped Li Guanyi would use this money to watch this great battle.

The boy set the wine beside him, then placed his fingers upon the qin strings, playing with calm composure; his voice, amid the clamor of swords and knives, was profoundly still, yet carried far and clear:

"Jiangnan Elder Murong's great-grandson, direct descendant, Li Guanyi."

"I play the qin to aid your merriment."

His fingers pressed upon the strings; the bronze tripod roared violently, and the qi of over forty Masters here surged wildly into the tripod. Though it could not match the quality of the Blue Robe Immortal's, the quantity was truly immense!

So immense that Li Guanyi's gongti, propelled by this boundless yuanqi, was forcibly thrust into a higher level; so immense that, had Li Guanyi wished, he could have Broken Through the Realm immediately, reaching the peak of the Sixth Heaven.

Only the true threshold of the Master realm could block him.

But he did not.

With a flicker of thought, the bronze tripod inverted violently downward.

Yuanqi roared, swirling through his body, settling upon his fingers.

And he played the qin.

And the qin sound blazed, stirring countless waves.

The Master Jiankuang, Elder Murong, forced back several Masters and turned to look.

Li Guanyi and Elder Murong locked gazes.

He looked at the blue-robed swordsman; though his heart held endless reluctance, he forced a faint smile—this boy also had bold spirit, his voice clear and bright: "Great-grandfather, what kind of sword can be called the greatest in all history?"

"I still do not know what it means to be invincible in the Jianghu."

"I do not know what it means to be the Master Jiankuang of the World."

Tu Shengyuan shivered, his teeth clenched, and a curse burst from his lips.

His body trembled from tension and excitement.

He knew the effect this sentence would have at this moment; he knew Li Guanyi surely understood what it meant—

The son of Li Wanli, the offspring of Elder Murong.

Fuck!

Ha!

The qin sound never ceased; the blue-robed swordsman, seemingly exhilarated to the utmost, let out a roaring laugh:

"Hahahaha! Good, good! Using qin sound to aid sword qi—good, good, good!!!!"

He raised his hand and beckoned.

Boundless internal gong surged; the wine flask beside Li Guanyi exploded.

A stream of clear wine leapt upward, pouring straight into Elder Murong's throat—clearly thirsty for liquor, yet the flask held nothing but Jianghu spirit; the old man gripped his sword and swept it horizontally, his sword qi majestic:

"Fighting one by one is too dull!"

"Chen Chengbi, Mo Juzi, Gongyang Su Wang, the Old Living Buddha…" He held his sword, naming each one in turn; those named revealed torrents of internal qi. Finally, he gazed toward the empty air.

"Jiang Su."

The aura of weapons and blood surged skyward, darkening the heavens; an old man in plain cloth stepped forward, gripping an unusually long spear, as if a thousand armies and ten thousand horses followed behind him, his aura overwhelming.

"Dao Sect."

A white crane let out a long cry; a silver-haired man in Daoist robes sat cross-legged atop the crane, expression serene.

"Array Chief."

The silver-haired man stood with hands behind his back; the many arrays prepared around him flickered and faded in sequence. The three stood at three corners—this was the ultimate peak of the world's martial path to date. The Master Jiankuang, one hand behind his back, extended the other.

"All of you—come!"

The qin sound surged and transformed; the old man leapt into the air. Ordinary Masters could no longer join this battle; the Daoist Primordial, the Central Land Living Buddha, the Mo Juzi, Gongyang Su Wang—even the legends of martial arts—all soared into the heavens and clashed.

The sky seemed to darken; clouds surged and changed; long howls of swords, spears unleashing hidden power—Li Guanyi's qin sound blazed with grim intensity, unceasing, yet all the residual waves were calmed by the qin's tones.

Li Guanyi played on without pause.

The sword cries never ceased.

Tu Shengyuan, guest of the Tower of the World's First, nearly died from the shockwaves—but with agile body skills, he barely avoided them; now he stared wide-eyed at the scene outside, as Masters watched, let alone distant Jianghu martial artists.

Above the heavens, legends clashed; the Palace Lord drew his sword.

Upon the Dao, the Fire Qilin played the qin; Masters watched.

Sword qi stretched long through the Nine Heavens!

Tu Shengyuan, guest of the Tower of the World's First, trembled, whispering: "To witness such a battle is enough to be remembered for eight hundred years—I am not in vain, not in vain, hahaha."

Tu Shengyuan was chief guest of the Tower of the World's First; he pursued every rumor across the world.

But he also knew that even eight hundred years was not enough.

A single hundred years would be enough to erase the name Tu Shengyuan; in the Jianghu, across the world, waves surged and ebbed—new generations replaced the old. Where did the old go? They vanished, of course.

That was why he traveled the world, observing strange wonders, compiling them into volumes, hoping his name and deeds might linger longer in time—and now, Tu Shengyuan knew clearly: this battle would endure for a thousand years.

Tu Shengyuan was ecstatic: "This is something I must record!"

"Luckily we found this spot—out of the fray, yet clear enough to see."

"No one noticed me."

"Ha, when they find out, they'll be green with envy!"

Just as he was exhilarated, a sigh came from behind:

"Luckily we found this spot—out of the fray, yet clear enough to see. What good fortune, no one's spotted me yet."

"These sword-wielding fools will surely be green with envy!"

Huh????

Tu Shengyuan, who prided himself on being among the top ten in martial arts agility and the undisputed master of concealment, froze. He turned—and saw a massive black tortoise, its head pressed right before his eyes, startling him. Then he realized: it was an old man.

The old man had used the tortoise as a shield before him.

It had blocked the residual shockwaves from the Grand Masters' clash.

He'd crawled all the way here.

Now he was wiping sweat from his brow, shoving the tortoise beneath his buttocks as a seat, sighing with relief as if he'd narrowly escaped disaster, and speaking to Tu Shengyuan with casual familiarity: "That was brutal—they nearly didn't make it."

"Thank goodness my old friend's shell is thick and sturdy—perfect as a shield."

Tu Shengyuan: "…………"

The Guest of the Heavenly Tower said:

"Would you consider dropping the word 'old friend'?"

Master Siming replied: "No way!"

"In all this time, he's been my only beloved companion."

"He's blocked countless hidden daggers and ambushes for me."

Tu Shengyuan smirked, ignoring the old man, and fixed his gaze on the battle, murmuring: "Qin Wu Hou himself plays the zither to stir the martial world—he invites challenge. Future generations, when they speak of this legendary battle, will record it: I, Tu Shengyuan, was the one who documented it."

Master Siming said: "Hah. All that empty flattery is useless."

The old man, seated in this perfect vantage, gazed outward: on the great road, Grand Masters held weapons, their spiritual forms spiraled, and above, the traces of swords and spears had nearly torn holes in the heavens.

The youth in blue Daoist robes sat calmly, playing the zither.

He was here to play music, yet his expression was not that of a lord commanding the heavens, nor a hero who subdued the elite of his generation. His brows hung low—he looked like a lonely child abandoned again, lips pressed tight, face taut.

Master Siming felt he'd seen this scene before.

Was it the Tuyuhun man who sat alone all night beneath a Buddhist stupa, holding a bone artifact? Or Chen Wu Di, who shattered the first Red Emperor's renown by grinding royal kin into bloody pulp with his carriage?

Or the founder of the Ghost Market, who died young?

The old man watched quietly as this moment, destined to become legend, unfolded—as he had witnessed countless others. Above, the sword's cry shattered the formation; the formation's leader suffered a heavy blow, then the Dao Sect's divine aura spread out.

The sixty-four essential principles of the Book of Imperial Cosmic Order were exquisite—but each one was severed.

Though severed one by one, each was restored again.

Finally, only the spear, bold and composed, the war god who shed his heavy armor, grew even more relaxed and free—only he could duel the Master Jiankuang one-on-one without falling quickly.

In the end, even the spiritual aura of the Six Palace Masters of the Academy was suppressed!

Clouds and seas gathered in the heavens—thunder exploded.

"That's not thunder!"

Master Siming shook his wine flask softly:

"That's shards of swordlight and spearlight colliding and scattering."

Tu Shengyuan was speechless with shock.

Master Siming said: "A martial artist's individual power is one level. When battle fury surges, it's another. But when both sides' battle fury is fierce, clashing, they ascend to heights they could never reach alone."

"This is exactly what's happening now."

The aura of martial legend and battle fury had reached its peak—then the old man in green robes began to weaken. Li Guanyi pressed his fingers on the strings; the music grew discordant. He drew a deep breath and shouted: "Taigu Chilong!!!"

The boy's voice rang out with the zither's tone, followed by a chorus of dragon roars. His sleeves flared—and the Chi Xiao Sword leapt from its scabbard like a streak of fire, shooting straight into the sky. Then the entire heavens darkened.

No—it wasn't darkening. It was churning, crushing down upon the earth!

Clouds follow the dragon; winds follow the tiger.

Master Siming leapt to his feet, eyes locked on the sky.

The Chi Xiao Sword soared, its sword-song rising to its peak—then transformed into deep, resonant dragon roars. These roars differed from those of spiritual dragons: louder, grander, more real, radiating an indescribable majesty and sanctity.

The sky, previously shattered by the arcs of martial blades like thunder, now bloomed a crimson-gold radiance. The light was vast, boundless. As it slowly drifted forward, even from the ground, one could see scales of gold and red.

The Taigu Chilong.

Not just the martial world—this was the land of the Red Emperor's eight-hundred-year reign, the convergence of qi and fortune. Now, with the Taigu Chilong's appearance, to the people of Zhongzhou, it was legend made real—a divine miracle!

Emperor Ji Zichang ascended the highest point, staring in disbelief at his ancestor's legend.

Jiang Wanxiang gazed at the sky and said: "Red Emperor… divine beast…"

Chen Dingye's cup shattered in his hand.

Clouds and auroras slowly descended from the nine heavens.

The more they descended, the more they shattered—through the gaps between the dragon's scales, they poured like waterfalls. The immense, ancient Taigu Chilong drifted slowly, radiating divine majesty. The people raised their heads and saw the legendary dragon.

"It's the Taigu Chilong!"

"It's the Divine Dragon Lord!"

The eight-hundred-year legend had returned.

No one knew who started it—but hundreds of thousands of citizens in the city knelt on the ground, bowing to the divine dragon in the heavens, faces filled with awe and fervent hope. Master Siming stared fixedly at the ancient Zhu Long Lord that had appeared here.

"... The Ancient Zhu Long Lord—his indestructible dragon essence has returned, restored to full power."

"Appearing here… Chi Xiao Sword… Li Guanyi—did he make a wish for it to preserve Murong Longtu's life?"

The legends scattered in unison; the dragon revealed its divine might, whereupon the monarch descended the steps and the common people knelt in reverence, clouds and rosy mists churned, crimson-gold light radiated in all directions, yet one figure in green robes flared fiercely, descending from the heavens.

Elder Murong glanced at Li Guanyi.

His eyes were gentle and calm; his lips parted.

He spoke only two words.

"Sorry."

Li Guanyi's qin melody grew disordered.

Old man, I have greatly enjoyed this journey through the Jianghu with you. I have sometimes wondered whether I should lay down this sword, fulfill your wish, and grow old in peace—but that is your hope, not mine.

You, Murong Qiushui, you are both excellent; to me, you are indispensable presences on this path of life.

But indispensable as you are, you are not what my life is truly about.

My entire life, I cherish only the Dao of the Sword!

The sound of the sword's hum suddenly surged upward.

The crimson dragon soared into the sky; the green robes flared fiercely.

Amidst the kneeling masses, the monarch bowing his head, the heavens and earth vast and empty, the legends paying homage—

That old swordsman, his hair white as snow.

With but one step, he trod upon the crimson dragon's head, dragging the divine dragon down from the celestial realms and the kneeling masses into the mortal world. The old man's sleeves flared wildly, shattering the courage of all under heaven; sword qi surged like a tidal wave, and he let out a thunderous laugh:

"Since you've come!"

"Then let us fight!!!!!!"