Chapter 542: Heaven and Earth, the Martial World!

The magnificent, radiant sword light seemed ready to tear apart this eight-hundred-year river.

The sword's light, like the bold spirit of the human heart, surged to its peak, then slowly faded; Yuwen Lie swallowed his blood and charged forward with his heavy spear—ten thousand armies could not break him, yet all he saw was the wind raging across heaven and earth, the ink-blue dragon-pattern banner whipping wildly.

The emperor’s blade fell; the martial world’s legend drew its sword.

Waves surged into the sea.

Murong Longtu retracted his green bamboo sword; the Emperor of Ying refused to fall, only sighing in admiration. The swordsman turned and walked forward, his aura vast and mighty; Yuwen Lie, He Ruo Qinhu, and Qin Yulong all gripped their weapons, ready for this battle.

The surrounding thousands of troops advanced, their deadly aura piercing the heavens.

But the Emperor of Ying merely raised his hand and said, “No. Let him go.”

The Sword Madman Murong Longtu—the only one among the legendary figures of the world capable of piercing through ten thousand armies—swung his long sword, encapsulating eight hundred years of martial world elegance.

The Emperor of Ying smiled: “To have such a man in this world—how utterly exhilarating!”

Murong Longtu said nothing; his back remained straight, his white hair hanging down. Behind the Emperor of Ying, the eight-hundred-year national destiny—carried at the cost of everything he had ever held dear—had already shattered after Ji Zichang’s death.

Shattered by Murong Longtu’s single sword stroke!

Eight hundred years of pride, eight hundred years of glory, all those grand ambitions and vile conspiracies—like the dark clouds obscuring the sky—were now shattered and scattered by this sword. The Emperor of Ying stared at his own hand and whispered:

“It cuts qi, not men… Sword Madman…”

“A single word ‘mad’ cannot capture your spirit.”

The twisted national destiny of eight hundred years dispersed; yet in that moment, a mournful, chilling dragon’s roar echoed through heaven and earth. Vast clouds stretched endlessly, faintly revealing crimson-gold scales—the Ancient Crimson Dragon silently observed this scene.

The human battle, especially after Ji Zichang burned away the Crimson Emperor’s lineage.

The Ancient Crimson Dragon could not possibly intervene in this battle.

Yet now, this Ancient Crimson Dragon, who had witnessed countless heroes rise and countless champions fall over millennia, let out a long roar. Murong Longtu, in his green robe, leapt into the air; the arrogant Ancient Crimson Dragon allowed this human swordsman to tread upon his head.

Finally, he gazed upon the Emperor of Ying, standing tall with his long sword beneath the ink-blue dragon-pattern banner—Yuwen Lie, He Ruo Qinhu, and the fifty-thousand-strong army, capable of crushing the Ancient Crimson Dragon—but the Emperor of Ying merely raised his hand, halting the divine generals.

He leaned on his sword, still composed, still majestic.

The Sword Madman, green-robed and sword in hand, stood atop the Crimson Dragon’s head—a transcendent moment, the final convergence of the last great ruler and the martial world’s free-spirited sword, coming after the end of eight hundred years of Crimson Emperor rule, before the conclusion of three hundred years of chaos.

Waves surged into the sea; the Ancient Crimson Dragon roared. Before the eyes of the three armies and ten thousand troops, it tore through the clouds, soaring into the heavens. The dragon’s roar thundered as the aged swordsman gripped its horn, cradling his green bamboo like a sword, and slowly sat down.

The Emperor of Ying watched as the Ancient Crimson Dragon carried away the Sword Madman Murong Longtu.

Still composed, he went to soothe his troops—but did not press forward to reinforce the front. He returned to the central command tent. Yuwen Lie and the other three of the world’s top ten divine generals followed behind. Yet the moment the tent flap fell, the once-unshakable Emperor of Ying suddenly changed expression.

He staggered, collapsing forward, yet still held his sword against the ground, swaying unsteadily. Sword Madman—how arrogant! One sword shattered eight hundred years of national destiny, yet did not kill him.

Was it because he could not be killed—or because he should not be?

The Emperor of Ying did not know.

He only knew that he, having channeled his last breath and all his strength to control the eight-hundred-year corrupt destiny, still lived—only because the destiny itself was so vast, that even drinking poison to quench thirst could prolong his life briefly.

“...Is this the limit?”

The step a monarch could only take upon abandoning life—yet it came from an external force, utterly shattered by that carefree, composed swordsman’s single strike. The Emperor of Ying’s lips twitched.

Yuwen Lie and He Ruo Qinhu supported the Emperor of Ying.

When they lifted him, they realized the aged monarch could no longer even take a step forward. He Ruo Qinhu said, “Your Majesty, your body… you cannot fight anymore.”

Qin Yulong held the Emperor of Ying’s sword.

Though supported, the Emperor of Ying suddenly gripped Yuwen Lie’s hand with immense strength: “Do not retreat! Do not retreat!”

Yuwen Lie and He Ruo Qinhu froze. The aged monarch’s gaze burned like fire: “Do not retreat! Push forward! Continue the advance!”

Burning fire.

The Emperor of Ying sat there, gripping his sword, murmuring: “The Grand Tutor still stands at Zhenbeiguan facing Li Guanyi. This opportunity cannot be missed. No matter what, we must keep fighting.”

“Push forward!”

Yuwen Lie said, “Your Majesty, rest first.”

As they removed his heavy armor, they saw that the once broad-shouldered monarch—who, as a young man in the Imperial Guard, had been famed for his vigor, bravery, and striking appearance—was now skin stretched over bone.

It was as if everything within him had been burned away, fueling the fire of his battle will.

When the wind blew, his robes revealed grotesque, skeletal frames.

Discord had already spread through the army.

Men’s hearts could not be controlled.

Even Yuwen Lie, He Ruo Qinhu, and Qin Yulong could not fully suppress the troops.

Yet the thoughts within their hearts still surged like hidden tides, spreading silently.

The green-robed swordsman had come alone before the army; the brilliant, magnificent sword light he unleashed, followed by the arrival of the Ancient Crimson Dragon carrying away the Sword Madman, had dealt a massive blow to the entire army’s morale.

Under these circumstances, if the Sword Madman had breached the camp and the Emperor of Ying had not appeared, the army’s morale would have collapsed. The next day, contrary to Yuwen Lie’s expectations:

Beneath the ink-blue dragon-pattern banner, the armored monarch reappeared—broad-shouldered, his brow radiant, his white hair meticulously woven into a crown, bold and majestic.

He could still wear that heavy armor, drape his imperial cloak, mount his warhorse, ride through the camp, his eyes bright and blazing like fire. He spoke loudly, laughed heartily, and even recalled the names of veteran soldiers he had known decades ago.

Morale surged again.

Two more days passed; they continued advancing toward the Qilin Army’s position.

The Emperor of Ying personally rode forth, spear in hand, reciting poetry. On horseback before the mountains, he gazed at the raging waves and said: “The final battle of this world is coming. Soldiers, you will soon face the Qin Army.”

“Come! Tonight, we feast! Let joy reign!”

“Meat to eat. One cup of wine.”

Qin Yulong watched the Emperor’s back, slowly bowed, and said: “Yes!”

The Emperor of Ying smiled: “Go.”

The general, who had married a high-ranking enemy noblewoman yet still earned full trust and use—slowly withdrew, then went to deliver the Emperor’s orders.

The slight unrest from two days prior had been entirely suppressed by the Emperor’s recent conduct. Now, with battle imminent, men could eat meat and drink wine.

The entire army rejoiced. Fifty thousand troops, stretching across endless camps, went to fetch meat, wash rice, cook meals. From generals down to soldiers, all carried worry and tension for the coming battle—but now, they could briefly forget and set aside these burdens.

They feasted, celebrated, and cast aside their sorrows. The Emperor of Ying himself came among the veterans, recalling past battles and duels, laughing heartily—remembering past joys, past pains.

The Emperor could still eat meat, drink wine, remain composed.

Then he rose and said: “Gentlemen, pause your drinking…” As he stood, the veteran soldiers and fierce warriors rose respectfully, gazing at the monarch who had led them to conquer the land, who had brought Ying to its historical zenith—and now stood on the brink of peace.

Then he rose and said, “Gentlemen, set down your cups for a moment…” As he stood, the veteran soldiers, those fierce warriors, all rose respectfully, gazing at the man who had led them to conquer the Four Directions, who had brought Da Ying to the zenith of its history.

“To the Emperor!”

As the sun set, staining the forests red, Jiang Wanxiang stared at these warriors, at these fierce soldiers—his vision blurred, then sharpened; memory and reality intertwined.

The sun dipped low, staining the layered forests red; Jiang Wanxiang stared at the warriors before him, at the hardened troops, and grew dazed—their faces blurred, then sharpened again, memory and reality intertwining.

“To the Great King!”

The men bearing the blue dragon-pattern laughed:

“General, drink! You must drink too, hahaha! Don’t you dare lose to us again—don’t pretend to be drunk like before! Gao Xiang, second brother, help me pour wine for the boss—don’t just sit there grinning!”

“Grand General, drink! You’ve got to drink too, hahaha! Don’t you dare lose to us again by pretending to be drunk—no more of that old trick! Gao Xiang, second brother, pull the boss and make him drink—don’t just sit there laughing alone!”

The Imperial Guards gritted their teeth, eyes resolute: “Big Brother, we will win!”

The aged Emperor of Ying was lost in thought, seeing more faces in the fading sunset—but then a voice called: “Your Majesty? Your Majesty?”

The Emperor of Ying looked up. The fierce soldier dared to speak:

“Battle comes soon. Your Majesty, if you don’t drink, we dare not raise our cups.”

The Emperor of Ying stared at the wine in the cup, smiled, and burst into loud laughter. He gripped the hilt of his sword with his left hand, raised the cup with his right, and roared:

The Emperor of Ying stared at the wine in his cup, smiled, then burst into loud laughter—his left hand gripped the hilt of his sword at his waist, his right raised the cup high, laughing heartily:

“Fight for peace!”

The army erupted in response—heroes of the world raised their cups and bowls, shouting:

The army roared its assent, these heroes of the realm, raising their wine cups and bowls, shouting aloud:

The roar surged, boiling into the sky. The Emperor of Ying laughed loudly, gazing deeply at the men smiling at him. He turned, fingers clutching his cloak, his sleeves and robe swirling like black clouds swallowing the crimson glow of the setting sun.

The Emperor of Ying walked into his central command tent.

Then, he collapsed heavily forward.

He saw the sky churning, all things turning, the blood-red sunset suddenly reversing—like a coal burning its final light and strength in a furnace, falling to the ground, flickering.

He saw the sky churning, saw all things turning, saw the crimson sunset suddenly reverse—as if a coal, having burned its final light and strength within a furnace, fell to earth, flickering.

“Your Majesty!!”

Yuwen Lie and He Ruo Qinhu rushed over, supporting the Emperor of Ying. He finally collapsed onto his bed, his expression gradually fading. His eyes grew still as he lay there and whispered: “Yuwen.”

Yuwen Lie and He Ruo Qinhu walked over together, supporting the Emperor of Ying, who finally collapsed onto his bed, his expression gradually growing distant; his eyes lay still as he spoke: “Yuwen.”

The Emperor of Ying looked at the proud general and said: “Your nature is cold and proud, yet you possess the integrity and unyielding spirit of a true commander. Such a warrior is the pillar of the state. Our nation’s fierce valor cannot survive without you.”

“But excessive rigidity breaks easily. You are a sharp blade—do not let your pride snap you.”

The Emperor of Ying coughed several times, then turned to He Ruo Qinhu, beckoning him closer, whispering: “Qinhu, you have followed me longest. You are experienced, fierce, loyal to the state—but your ties to noble houses and factions are too many.”

“I do not doubt your loyalty to the state. But those forces entangled with you—do they not use your name to spread chaos? Will they not ruin your reputation?”

He Ruo Qinhu’s face turned pale. He knelt on the ground: “Your servant understands.”

The Emperor of Ying reached out, grasping the hands of Yuwen Lie and He Ruo Qinhu. His palms still held warmth. He held them tightly: “You are both the pillars holding up Great Ying. After I am gone, I entrust Great Ying to you two.”

The Emperor of Ying reached out, grasping the hands of Yuwen Lie and He Ruo Qinhu—his palms still warm—and held them tight: “You are the pillars holding up Da Ying. After I am gone, I entrust Da Ying to you both.”

“My sword… give it to him. Let him know—” He coughed violently. “—I never doubted him.”

Yuwen Lie said: “Your Majesty, rest now. Wait for your health to recover.”

The Emperor of Ying lay there, quietly: “After I die, do not announce my death.”

Yuwen Lie said: "Your Majesty, rest first, and wait for Your Majesty’s health to recover."

The Emperor of Ying lay there, speaking faintly: "After I die, keep my death secret."

Yuwen Lie and He Ruo Qinhu’s expressions froze; sorrow etched their faces.

The Emperor of Ying said calmly: “My death leaves you all equal to the enemy—but the Grand Tutor’s words are true: that mechanism was built by Xue Gong, the First Divine General of five centuries past, alongside fierce commanders like Yue Qianfeng. Our army rode in hard and fast; we may not gain advantage.”

“This battle may still fall short of my wish.”

“But!”

The Emperor of Ying gripped the two Divine Generals’ hands tightly, each word deliberate: “Even if I die, you must exhaust—those corroded remnants, the eight-hundred-year-old noble houses, those coughing, coughing, coughing… those things that threaten the peace of tomorrow.”

“Wear them down on the battlefield!”

“Don’t pity them—they are things our future generations absolutely do not need!”

Yuwen Lie and He Ruo Qinhu felt the Emperor’s sudden grip—its power utterly unlike that of a dying old man. Their hearts ached. “Yes, we obey Your Majesty’s sacred decree.”

The Emperor of Ying lost all strength, lying still, and smiled faintly:

“Finally… I died of old age…”

“Truly… a pity.”

“Jiang Wanxiang, you really are a waste.”

He closed his eyes, then suddenly heard commotion outside. He frowned, asking what was happening. Qin Yulong entered and said: “A solar eclipse has appeared—soldiers are in uproar.”

The Emperor of Ying lowered his gaze.

Then Jiang Wanxiang laughed.

“Ah…”

“I heard that in ancient times, when great lords died, heaven itself would change. I, a lesser prince of the imperial clan, who once couldn’t even afford a fine horse or armor—have I truly reached this point, that heaven itself will shift for me?”

He closed his eyes and whispered: “Jiang Su.”

The three Divine Generals suddenly felt a pang of sorrow.

Jiang Wanxiang whispered: “Sing the Chile Song again…”

But at that moment, Jiang Su was still fighting desperately at Zhenbei Pass for the realm. Yuwen Lie clenched his teeth, strode out, and faced the panicked soldiers: “The Emperor is unharmed!!!”

“He merely felt a sudden urge to hear you all sing the Chile Song.”

The hardened soldiers stared, puzzled. They exchanged glances, none daring to start—yet one voice broke the silence. It was not a sweet or melodious tone; these men, who had marched the world and fought across its borders, sang with rough, harsh throats.

But one rough, off-key voice became courage when ten joined.

Ten thousand soldiers roaring together—that was a lament so vast, so grand, it shook heaven and earth.

For three hundred years past, the realm had split north and south. The southern Chen was the land of culture; the north stood against the steppes. The Beifu songs were bleak and grim—and now the sun and sky darkened as the three armies sang the Chile Song in unison.

“Chile Plain, beneath Yin Mountain, heaven arcs like a tent, covering all four wilds.”

“Blue heaven, endless fields, wind bends the grass low, revealing cattle and sheep.”

Noble songs never pass down; the tent-song is nature itself.

The heroic spirit of Zhongzhou through ten thousand ages.

Now it reaches Yin Mountain’s Chile Plain.

Jiang Wanxiang tapped his fingers to the rhythm, slowly closing his eyes.

The setting sun seemed to cloak him once more. He drifted, blinded by its glare—then suddenly felt a hand slap his shoulder. He jolted awake, back in his youth, sixteen or seventeen.

As he stared, bewildered, a voice called out:

“Hey, Jiang Wanxiang.”

A girl blinked at him: “What are you daydreaming for?!”

“Today we’re buying horses and armor—you said you’d change the world, didn’t you?!”

“You’re not backing out now, are you?”

“You said—coughing—real men wield weapons, ride warhorses, sweep the realm, end this two-hundred-year chaos, and bring peace!”

“Big talk. Shameless.”

The boy froze, then, for no reason, tears streamed down his face.

Watching his friend Gao Xiang’s retreating back, and the girl walking away, he grinned, stepped forward, and called: “Coming!”

Jiang Wanxiang tapped his fingers to the rhythm.

Then fell heavily.

Never rose again.

………………

That day, the Ancient Crimson Dragon roared, already bearing the green-robed swordsman on its back. This ancient beast, who had ridden across this emperor’s land for millennia, had never seen a man like him.

“One sword shattered destiny. For three thousand years before, and three thousand years after, there will never be another like you.”

The Ancient Crimson Dragon’s voice echoed. Murong Longtu sat atop its head, gazing at the world’s martial realm, and smiled: “Is that so?”

The Ancient Crimson Dragon said: “Ha! Do you think I lie?”

“Your skill—there’s no higher. None.”

“From ancient legends to martial myths, you stand alone—a singular grandeur.”

Murong Longtu sat cross-legged, leaning against the dragon’s horn, staring into the distance, silent. His last threads of life had already begun to scatter—the life-extending parasite feared sharp, fierce, dominant energy.

The aura of kings, the aura of armies, the piercing sword qi.

The swordsman gazed afar: “Old things must be handled by old men like us. You are an omen—you need not join such affairs. Ancient Crimson Dragon is the symbol of Chi Emperor’s line. If you appear, all the blood spilled before will be wasted.”

“Besides, fifty thousand troops plus the top ten Divine Generals of the realm—you’d die anyway. No need to risk it.”

The Ancient Crimson Dragon snorted bitterly: “Them?!”

“Want me dead? Do you know how I earned my title as the greatest omen in history?!”

Murong Longtu only smiled lightly.

The Ancient Crimson Dragon said: “Murong Longtu! Murong Longtu!”

Murong Longtu cracked open one eyelid, lazily replying: “Still alive.”

The Ancient Crimson Dragon said: “Oh.”

Murong Longtu gazed at sky and earth, then asked: “Do you think the world will never again produce a swordsman like me?”

The Ancient Crimson Dragon replied solemnly: “Never. For three thousand years before, and three thousand years after, there will be no swordsman like you. In my long life, I will never see another as brilliant.”

Murong Longtu smiled: “Still young.”

The Ancient Crimson Dragon glared, furious.

Murong Longtu chuckled, gently tracing his fingers over the green bamboo sword. Then he said: “Crimson Dragon, in all the eras you’ve seen, has any ever endured forever?”

The Ancient Crimson Dragon fell silent. “No. Even the finest ages change, accumulate contradictions, erupt into war, and are replaced by new dynasties.”

Murong Longtu said: “But isn’t humanity growing better?”

“Even through twists, it strides forward—like a swordsman’s life.”

He reached out. The swordsman’s hair was white. He brushed his fingers across the green bamboo: “As a child, I forged swords. After my family perished, I learned swordplay. After mastering the path of heartless sword, I turned to compassion. Then, one by one, my wife, my children left me—I returned to solitude, empty-hearted.”

“Holding the sword, learning the sword, abandoning the sword—finally, I no longer cared for the sword.”

“Six or seven years ago, in Zhongzhou, I challenged every Grand Master, all Six Palace Lords, every martial legend, declaring: ‘Let you know—no swordsman like me will ever come again.’”

“I sought to monopolize the world’s fierce, surging sword intent. But now I realize—I was still too much a swordsman then. Too proud. Too absolute.”

The sword madman smiled, speaking openly:

“I was wrong!”

“There will be swordsman like me again!”

“And not just one!”

The Ancient Crimson Dragon was stunned—but the sword madman remained calm, confident, hand on his blade:

“Solving all future hardships in one breath—even a born sage cannot do it. Even the world opened by Li Guanyi and others will face problems centuries later. Then, too, the realm’s destiny will be spent.”

“And someone will still rise, sword in hand, to make that world die.”

“And open a new era of peace.”

“Again and again—like climbing a mountain, like swinging a sword—always upward. My name? Just a wandering swordsman, destined to vanish into the dust of the realm. But the sword that makes the world die—will endure. In every age, it returns.”

“Is the sword path merely power?”

“As long as one sees such hardship—and still holds the will to draw the sword.”

“As long as one faces an invincible foe—and still clutches the sword within.”

“Even if one has no strength to lift a chicken—”

“Still—he is no lesser swordsman than Murong Longtu!”

“Today, in the midst of ten thousand troops, I severed a nation’s destiny, cut its life-force—so future generations know: no matter how vast the gap, such a sword still exists.”

The Ancient Crimson Dragon listened in silence.

Then the swordsman swept his fingers forward. His white hair lifted, calm and unhurried:

“This is Murong Longtu’s final sword.”

“I pass its true meaning to all living beings.”

“Sword pointed at the world.”

“May every soul in this realm hold this sword within. May every generation birth swordsmen who refuse to submit. May all people of this realm become swordsman like Murong Longtu.”

“Crimson Dragon.”

“How do you judge this sword?”

After a long silence, the Ancient Crimson Dragon said: “Best.”

Then the swordsman laughed aloud.

In his laughter, the sword’s chime rang clear—then slowly faded to stillness.

Murong Long Tu released his grip; the green bamboo blade shot forth from the Crimson Dragon, shattering midair—its fragmented radiance scattered like bamboo leaves, like the vast, mighty sword intent, falling upon every corner of the world.

The Ancient Crimson Dragon opened its mouth.

It felt once more the weight of sorrow, but it no longer called out to the sleeping swordsman; instead, it unleashed its dragon’s cry, a divine omen, and the sound of the sword’s resonance echoed across all provinces—swordsmen lifted their heads and saw the clouds churning in all directions, crimson and gold.

Layer upon layer, as if the celestial palace.

The Ancient Crimson Dragon bore upon its back a green-robed swordsman with white hair hanging low.

It swept across the martial world and the realm, soaring into the clouds.

Never seen again.

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