Chapter 543: The Grassroots Heroes of the Realm, Rising and Falling

Jiang Wanxiang is dead, but Yuwen Lie, He Ruo Qinhu, and Qin Yulong conceal his death, continuing as if the Great Emperor of Ying State still lives, leading their army forward toward the southern border, their morale calm yet surging.

The three divine generals suppress their inner pain and resentment, maintaining outwardly calm and composed postures to sustain troop morale and the grand momentum.

And on that city where Li Guanyi once fought Jiang Su.

Xue Shen’s automaton was clad in a general-grade armor; he extended his hand, clenched it, sensing the surge of his own power, while beside him, Guan Shier, hair disheveled, adjusted the automaton’s arm for Xue Shen.

“This armor is forged primarily from materials sufficient to craft Xuan Weapons and Divine Weapons, combining resilience and hardness, while also allowing internal Qi to flow efficiently, reducing consumption.”

“The last vestige of life force from that Longlife Guest has been extracted.”

“It has been channeled into your body—it can sustain a Master-level battlefield for an entire engagement, but if you output power at the Grand Master level, it may only last half a battle.”

“And if you recklessly unleash those few deathblow techniques, the residual life force in the Green Robe Guest’s arm will be utterly depleted within a few strikes.”

Guan Shier, adjusting Xue Shen’s automaton armor, said:

“The martial legends are truly martial legends.”

“That Longlife Guest was reduced to just one arm, yet after six or seven years, still possesses this terrifying power—enough to support a divine general like you to step onto the final battlefield. It’s unimaginable.”

“Just how strong was this Green Robe Longlife Guest in his prime?”

Guan Shier, the Mozi master skilled in automata, felt that martial masters above the Master level—though perhaps one in ten thousand, or even one in a hundred thousand—still exceeded his rational understanding.

Especially over the past few centuries, one might even say—

Over the past few thousand years, as martial arts flourished, the martial legends that emerged only in the last three hundred years have all been monsters.

What is this? Invincible on the battlefield? A single longsword in hand capable of overturning heaven and earth? Infinite vitality? Flesh and blood reborn?

What the hell is this?!

Monsters. Monsters.

My head hurts.

Yet Guan Shier raised his head, watching this five-hundred-year-old mummy now hopping about, flexing his wrists, and felt his common sense battered and forged once again—stronger than before.

Forget it, forget it. Just get used to it.

Guan Shier fully readjusted the automaton armor and said: “In any case, it’s up to you now, Xue Shen. What comes after—we’re merely Mozi automata artisans, lacking your strength. The rest is up to you.”

Xue Shen yawned: “Thank you.”

“Next time, I’ll buy you wine.”

Guan Shier snapped: “You say that every time! When, exactly?!”

Xue Shen replied with perfect confidence: “Next time, for sure.”

Guan Shier was helpless—often so furious he wanted to kick the automaton right in its frame, yet it was his own creation, and no Mozi artisan would destroy his own work.

Moreover, it’s made of Xuan Weapon material.

Guan Shier figured if he kicked it, his foot would break first.

The Mozi artisan grumbled as he left; Xue Shen watched him with a smile, then turned to gaze at the distant sky—martial energy surged heavenward as Ying State’s five hundred thousand troops surged forward, while Jiangnan’s forces were insufficient.

Even though Yue Qianfeng, Li Zhao, and others had led part of the army back via the swift waterways, they still couldn’t match the five hundred thousand. Fortunately, Zhen Kui was holding Si Wei and continuously reinforcing the city’s defensive array.

With barely half the troops, renowned generals, and arrays—

Relying on the city walls, they held firm against the enemy.

One army above, one army below.

Li Guanyi and Yue Pengwu faced the Divine General Jiang Su.

While Xue Shen, Yue Qianfeng, Li Zhao, Chen Wenmian, Xiao Wuiliang, Duan Qingyu, and other renowned generals, relying on the city, stood opposed to Jiang Wanxiang—who had burned his own fortune and lifespan to enter the realm of martial legend—true top-ten general of the realm, even a constant top-five: Yuwen Lie, He Ruo Qinhu.

Plus another top-ten general: Qin Yulong.

Qin Yulong could stand shoulder to shoulder with Yue Qianfeng.

Xue Shen’s task was to stall Jiang Wanxiang; all other generals had one goal: use the overwhelming tide of troops to stall the remaining three generals, trading blows evenly.

Leveraging Zhen Kui, Si Wei, and Si Ming’s arrays and the defensive nature of the city, they sought to minimize the disadvantage of inferior numbers.

Xue Shen pressed his hands against the city walls, gazing afar: “Two armies, two fronts of battle—only one thought: whoever holds firm, who breaks first, who shows fatigue or weakness, loses.”

He paused, then asked: “How is the Sword God faring alone?”

Old Si Ming stared afar, silent for a long while, then shook his head: “Too chaotic.”

For centuries, as the world’s storms gathered, the immense momentum building toward the final climax grew ever more terrifying, powerful, and surging. In Old Si Ming’s eyes, the aura of heroes, the aura of emperors, the martial slaughter, the generals’ fierce battle spirit, the freedom of the Jianghu, the peerless sword intent—

These grand auras, rarely seen in times of peace,

Rose like dragons into the sky, clashing, entangling, bursting with dazzling light, tearing and colliding, roaring and shrieking—this felt like the final breath of eight hundred years of destiny.

Even Old Si Ming, a rare Yin-Yang master of the highest order, could no longer discern clearly.

Sword qi still flowed through the heavens, yet martial slaughter and imperial might remained—within the Yin-Yang master’s sight, these energies lingered in the sky, indistinguishable in dominance.

“Is that so?”

Xue Shen smiled: “Then we must rely on our weapons to determine supremacy, to probe the truth.”

“Still, I envy the Sword God. To this day, all he has done stems from his own inner sharpness. What a swordsman, what a man—living solely for himself, ha, free and unbound. It must make someone else feel quite miserable.”

Old Si Ming, slightly melancholic, grinned.

Though inwardly he thought: Is this general’s tongue coated in poison?

Such a sharp, venomous mouth.

Is that why he, as the first divine general five hundred years ago, managed to die peacefully?

Though Xue Shen didn’t name anyone, Old Si Ming and Old Xuan Gui instinctively turned their heads—toward the silver-haired man, who lifted his gaze and glared back, unimpressed and uncivil:

“What are you looking at?!”

Old Si Ming averted his eyes.

Eyes on nose, nose on heart, face unchanged: “Nothing.”

Old Xuan Gui kept his eyes shut: “We weren’t looking at you.”

“Old Xuan Gui keeps his eyes shut because he can’t lie with his eyes open.”

“It’s an ancient joke palindrome.”

Xue Shen volunteered the commentary, stroking his iron chin:

“Truly… hard not to laugh.”

“Hard not to laugh.”

Old Si Ming shivered.

The silver-haired Whale Fisher twitched his brow, gritted his teeth: “Can you just stop telling your ancient, rotten jokes?!”

“Didn’t Ye Buyi learn that from you?!”

Xue Shen rubbed his chin, genuinely puzzled: “Ye Buyi? That boy is resolute and solemn—I hold him in high regard, taught him some martial arts. What rotten joke?!”

Xue Shen puffed out his chest, lifted his head.

Slapped his chest with his palm, confidently: “In my time, that was a popular joke—every time Chen Baxian, that icy bastard, would laugh.”

The Whale Fisher hurled the array disc at him.

And couldn’t help but laugh.

When utterly speechless, one simply laughs.

He suddenly understood the second divine general of five hundred years ago.

Being the second-best under Xue Shen’s venomous tongue—

Was truly suffocating.

No wonder Chen Baxian spent his whole life trying to overthrow Xue Shen.

He growled: “Your era was five hundred years ago! That joke’s ancient dust now.”

Xue Shen said: “Ah, I know my joke is five hundred years old. But juxtaposing it with now makes it seem like I can’t tell past from present—a deliberate act of feigned ignorance. It’s truly…”

Old Si Ming turned pale.

Snatched up Old Xuan Gui.

Threw him with all his strength—using the turtle’s shell to block Xue Shen’s mouth.

Old Xuan Gui: “???”

Old Si Ming, sweating, feigned cheer: “Ha, ha, ha! By the way, can the Sword Madman hold off Jiang Wanxiang and the others?!”

The Whale Fisher fell silent: “...Jiang Wanxiang’s army has still arrived.”

“But the Sword Madman hasn’t returned.”

His voice trailed off, but the implication was clear—the Zhen Kui, who always boasted himself as the youngest martial legend, now felt strangely defeated.

He and the Sword Madman were both martial legends.

Yet the old man’s final aura clearly surpassed him.

As a martial artist of supreme pride, admitting he’d been surpassed was a bitter, crushing feeling—but Xue Shen only roared with laughter: “Excellent! What grand aura! In my time, I’ve seen many swordsmen.”

“All claimed to be heroes, yet none surpassed Murong Longtu in bearing.”

“Now that the army arrives, in this chaotic world, we have no choice.”

Xue Shen gazed at the Tiger Roar Heavenly Halberd beside him, sensing the dark-gold divine weapon’s hum, his expression calm and composed.

Yuwen Lie, He Ruo Qinhu, and Qin Yulong led their troops to the frontier.

As the deceased Jiang Wanxiang had planned, they formed ranks around the elite of the old Zhongzhou and Ying State aristocratic clans, charging toward Jiangnan’s Qilin.

An undeniable battlefield. An undeniable hard fight.

Yet Xue Shen sensed something amiss: “Yuwen Lie, He Ruo Qinhu, Qin Yulong—all remain at the rear, guarding? Their true elite haven’t pressed forward?”

Yue Qianfeng frowned: “So what?”

Xue Shen stroked his chin, thoughtful:

At this point, both sides have laid their cards on the table—it’s a battle of deep reserves, fortified camps and grinding warfare, with little room for maneuver. This isn’t a feigned retreat; in military strategy, momentum is everything. Once your line has been broken through, it’s nearly impossible to rally your forces again.

The fact that the enemy began this way leaves only one possibility.

They intend to use our blades to kill them.

Yue Qianfeng said: “Sharpen our own blades to kill these vanguard troops?”

Xue Shenjiang said: “No—it’s using their blades to wear us down.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Reminds me of the death-row camps from centuries ago, meant to exhaust us.”

“These men seem to come from all walks of life—many are elite, yet each bears the distinct style of their clans. Intriguing. Is Jiang Wanxiang using our hands to eliminate the powerful families under his rule who’ve grown too big to control?”

Yue Qianfeng fell silent. “What should we do?”

Xue Shenjiang said: “What do you think?”

Yue Qianfeng said: “The enemy has come. There’s no avoiding it. We must fight.”

Xue Shenjiang said: “Yes.”

“But we have other options. If we simply follow the enemy’s strategic intent, we remain passive. Ha—they want to use these clans as pawns in a two-way ‘borrowed blade’ scheme. Then let’s test them with our traps.”

“Bring up all the Mo Family’s mechanisms!”

“Activate them according to Lu Youxian’s battle formation.”

Xue Shenjiang, the former supreme general of the realm, though he never reached the legendary heights of martial cultivation in an era less turbulent than today, still possessed the unmatched strategic vision and battlefield acumen of a top commander.

Under Qin Wang’s seven-year, no-holds-barred support,

the Gongsun and Mo families had refined their mechanical arts to new heights. Outside this city, both sides clashed, relying on the Array Master’s formations and Mo Family mechanisms, allowing the Qilin Army to withstand these days of relentless assault.

Meanwhile, Yuwen Lie and He Ruo Qinhu had likewise worn down the elite troops of the noble houses, cleansing the ancient mire of Zhongzhou that Jiang Wanxiang had dragged into battle—the noble families left behind by the Red Emperor eight centuries ago vanished without a trace.

Then, the true struggle for all under heaven would begin.

After the subtle prelude, now sensed by both sides, the main act commenced: General Yuwen Lie and He Ruo Qinhu stepped onto the battlefield, honoring the dying wishes of the fallen emperor.

Even if Jiang Wanxiang had foreseen, in his final moments, that his hopes for this battle could not be fulfilled,

Yuwen Lie and He Ruo Qinhu still pressed forward with unwavering resolve, leading Ying Guo’s true elite into this chaotic battlefield, fighting fiercely. Xue Shenjiang’s expression grew grave as he ordered five commanders—Yue Qianfeng, Li Zhao, Xiao Wu Liang, Chen Wenmian, and Duan Qingyu—to all take the field.

On the battlefield, the killing aura surged to the heavens; the ringing of swords and spears echoed with the resolve of history itself, trembling with power. Yet even with the Array Master’s great formation, five against three, they still could not prevail.

Yet whenever Yuwen Lie and his allies were about to seriously wound their opponents,

arrows fell like streaks of light.

The twang of the bowstrings echoed like the low growl of a tiger.

Xue Shenjiang, holding the Po-Yun Zhen-Tian Bow, stood atop the city gate, offering support. His gaze was calm, yet he sensed something: Jiang Wanxiang still had not shown himself.

“Still fishing…”

“Or perhaps Jiang Wanxiang is already dead on the road.”

Xue Shenjiang, having pierced the hidden strategy, murmured to himself:

“Using numerous clans as the vanguard ‘death battalion,’ their commanders charge with fierce courage, yet there’s an unmistakable air of sorrow. Clearly, the Sword God’s final strike has utterly severed Jiang Wanxiang’s grand ambition.”

The Old Fatekeeper fell silent. Though usually carefree, he still could not grow accustomed to farewells.

He did not know what emotion to feel for Murong Longtu’s final sword—was it heroic? Valiant? Unrivaled? Or utterly without regret?

In the martial world, in all under heaven—two mighty warriors reached the end nearly at the same moment?

Xue Shenjiang lowered his battle bow. “The real and the false are now clear.”

Jiang Wanxiang is dead. The family's vanguard has been worn out. Ying Guo’s forces can no longer hold us back. This stalemate is breaking. Momentum builds once, fades the second time, and exhausts the third. If we force them to retreat now, their morale will collapse.

“Yuwen Lie and He Ruo Qinhu will have no choice but to withdraw.”

“Their soldiers are not machines or mechanisms.”

“They grow weary. Even ‘borrowed blade’ tactics cannot erase the fact that these are comrades dying—this will devastate their morale. Ha—because I am a mechanism, and they are not, they resorted to mortal methods.”

The Old Fatekeeper’s face paled—he tried to stop it, but it was too late.

Xue Shenjiang spoke solemnly:

“It’s almost laughable.”

The Array Master grinned.

But Yuan Zhi, who maintained the city’s defense with the Eight Gates Golden Lock Formation, whispered: “...Yet right now, our five commanders still cannot match the three enemy generals…”

Or rather, Duan Qingyu was fighting desperately to hold back Qin Yulong.

Yue Qianfeng and Li Zhao faced off against Yuwen Lie.

Chen Wenmian and Xiao Wu Liang clashed head-on with He Ruo Qinhu.

All three fronts were losing.

Xue Shenjiang reached out, grasping the Tiger Roar Heaven Spear. His mechanical hand moved with the same calm as in his prime. Guan Shier’s lips trembled. The Old Fatekeeper understood—his eyes closed, pained.

Only one person could prevent this fatal deadlock.

Xue Duke.

The final battle of the realm’s greatest general, Xue Shenjiang.

Yet Xue Shenjiang raised his brows and laughed aloud: “Hahahaha! What’s this look? I’m already a dead man. To fight one last battle—how exhilarating!”

“The world is in chaos, riddled with crises. It’s our old generation’s duty to step forward first.”

“Only blood and steel can carve open a new world from this chaos.”

“My friends—”

Xue Shenjiang stood atop the city wall, back turned to the Old Fatekeeper, Guan Shier, and the Whale Fisher. His voice paused, then he smiled:

“Farewell.”

The void rippled. A white tiger from five centuries past growled softly.

Xue Shenjiang’s sleeves flared.

Crossing five hundred years of dim, yellowed time, he stepped once more onto the battlefield.

On the field, the modern white tiger roared, striking down Li Zhao and Yue Qianfeng in a single blow. Yuwen Lie looked up, seeing the piercing aura from the city wall. Cold and unmoved, he spurred his dragon steed forward.

Xue Shenjiang gripped his divine weapon, a faint smile curling his lips.

The casual air vanished. What remained was the solemn majesty of a martial general.

The world remained the same.

Chaos surged—but only in the darkest night does a blazing fire rise. The path ahead? Let us old men tear open the fissures. We bear the gate. You march toward the light.

After Ji Zichang, Ji Yanzhong, Qu Hanshou, Murong Longtu—

Xue Shenjiang.

Gripping his divine weapon, he charged into his final battle.

After this battle, whether victory or defeat, his consciousness will sink into slumber. Perhaps, after a thousand or a hundred thousand years, in a distant age when your names have become history, and history has risen to legend—I will awaken again.

Then, let me watch from the pages as you build your era of peace.

Two white tigers charged across the battlefield. Yuwen Lie and Xue Shenjiang both unleashed the piercing aura of the Ninth Heaven. The Old Fatekeeper opened his mouth—suddenly, he looked aged and worn, watching Xue Shenjiang march toward his end.

The fate of the pioneer in a dark age.

They could not stop it.

In chaos, heroes kill heroes.

This was no mere saying. On the battlefield, hooves thundered like rolling thunder; roars, clashing blades, whistling projectiles, muffled cries of pain, the stench of blood, the scent of steel, the taste of fate.

Xue Shenjiang stared at the modern, ferocious white tiger.

The Tiger Roar Heaven Spear rang out.

Yuwen Lie looked at the ancestor from five centuries past—offering no quarter.

Both weapons rose, nearly carrying the entirety of their lives’ resolve, their unyielding courage, to strike.

At that moment, a piercing, sky-splitting cry exploded.

Golden wings flared violently. A colossal eagle soared across the heavens. A long spear transformed into a roaring dragon, plunging from the sky, violently piercing the darkness and crashing onto the battlefield.

BOOM!!!!!

A shockwave erupted across the battlefield.

Golden light scattered, tearing through the dust and smoke, then swept outward—blades and blood flew apart. The golden roc soared proudly above.

Yue Qianfeng, spitting blood, froze—his eyes fixed on the majestic golden-winged divine form.

The Golden-Winged Great Peng!

The Liquefied Spring Divine Spear blocked Yuwen Lie’s heavy spear.

The mighty, steadfast general’s expression was calm.

Yue Pengwu, arrives!

Yue Pengwu roared. The Golden-Winged Great Peng’s divine form clashed with the white tiger. His spear swept horizontally, striking Yuwen Lie’s heavy spear. The collision of the two divine weapons unleashed a thunderous roar.

Removed Xue Shenjiang from the battlefield.

Yue Qianfeng gasped: “General Yue! How are you here?!”

Yue Pengwu and Yuwen Lie broke apart, evenly matched. Yue Pengwu stood before Xue Shenjiang, who was ready to die, and said:

“Yue Pengwu.”

“By my lord’s command, I’ve come to reinforce!”

Xue Shenjiang stared in shock, then raised his voice: “You came here? Then who’s left to face Jiang Su on the other side?! Can that boy Li Guanyi possibly stand against her?!”

Yue Pengwu gripped his spear, and for a moment, he saw again the divine dragon form roaring on the battlefield. A flicker of emotion crossed his face. He spoke slowly:

“No.”

“I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

"Our lord has broken through and achieved the legend of martial dao."

Xue Shen, Yue Qianfeng, the Old Fate-Weaver, and the Whale Fisher all fell silent at once. In this chaotic age, it was the elder generation who rode the winds and displayed their resolve—but this world was not theirs alone.

Not just the Jianghu, not just the court.

The battle spear stands alone to guard Zhenbeixiongcheng.

Right now, within Ying Guo.

A surprise force of roughly ten thousand rogue martial artists surged toward Ying Guo’s cities; their leader was a towering man with a solemn face and deep complexion. Dou De held a long spear, his voice deep and resonant, as he looked at the brothers before him and said:

"Ying Guo’s Jiang Wanxiang has mobilized a million troops to join the campaign against Qin."

"We are but ten thousand. On the battlefield, we are of no real use."

"The Qin King himself came to welcome us back then. A true man repays kindness without asking why, without caring if he lives or dies. The time has come."

"Follow me—we’ll capture Jiang Wanxiang’s two sons and the families of his many generals. Let’s see if this Ying Emperor still has the heart to press on, if they still have not a shred of mercy."

"If they hesitate even slightly, we’ll chip away at their fighting spirit."

"On this ten-thousand-li battlefield, this is how we repay the Qin King’s grace."

Dan Xiong looked at his brothers and sighed. "But even if Ying Emperor Jiang Wanxiang has taken all his elite troops, the internal strength of this great state is beyond our power to overcome. And if they turn back? What then will become of us?"

Dou De remained silent, only solemnly said: "A true man rises in this world—he does what must be done. What is there to fear for one’s life?"

"At most, we die repaying a debt."

Dan Xiong and the others exchanged glances. "Brother’s words are right."

Dou De, calm and steady, gripped his spear and mounted his warhorse: "Let the Qin King know."

"Are heroes of this world only found on the battlefield and in the Jianghu?!"

He cried out: "In such a world, we see princes, generals, and knights."

"Do they know of the rough men of Yan and Zhao, the butchers and dog-slayers?!"

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