Chapter 61: Hold the Divine Weapon Again!

Li Guanyi’s appearance froze the entire literary gathering.

Those scholars had just praised the young man as unparalleled, supreme above heaven and earth—but such honor only suits a dead man; if he were still alive, their earlier flattery would be nothing but sewing his glory onto their own reputations.

The aged laughter was grating.

Li Guanyi strode forward, right hand gripping his blade, left hand clutching the identity tokens of the assassins and fugitives; the scholars saw his bloodstained robes, torn at shoulder, thigh, and chest—clearly struck by crossbow bolts—radiating a chilling aura of slaughter.

The complex emotions of the gathering: the scholars’ secret delight at his death, mixed with their pretended sorrow and regret, had forged a false, peculiar atmosphere.

Scholars were weak, immersed in decadent customs.

All of it shattered at once.

Li Guanyi raised his hand and flung the wooden tokens to the ground; they clattered.

The Seventh Giant of the Mohist School’s expression darkened.

He recognized the assassins’ origins.

One scholar, throat tight, ventured: “You—you’re back, Brother Li? Truly… truly wonderful.” He forced a warm smile, but his hand tightened unconsciously around his fan.

Li Guanyi nodded in thanks, raised his brow—the old man sat cross-legged in the corner, dressed plainly, raising a ceramic bowl and laughing: “Hey! Li Guanyi! How many did you kill?!”

Li Guanyi answered: “Seven.”

Siming asked: “What realm?”

Li Guanyi walked forward: “Above Entry.”

Siming laughed again: “Thirsty? Here, I’ve something to quench it.”

Li Guanyi saw no familiar faces, strode forward, and the other scholars parted for him; he saw the calligraphy scrolls on the walls—poems praising valor, righteousness, lamenting early death, mourning spring’s passing, all veiled expressions of their own ambitions.

They claimed they too wished to be like this dead youth—bold, drawing their blades, and so on.

Even in death, they wrote, their glory blazed like celestial auroras.

These scrolls hung on either side, swaying gently in the wind.

But alas, Chen Guo’s literary style was ornate.

Such themes were equally limp; as a child fleeing through the world, he’d seen countless people—common folk in the markets rarely wore such hypocrisy: eyes revealing “You’re alive?”, tinged with faint regret, yet faces beaming with false joy—revolting.

Li Guanyi lifted his cup, drank the wine down in one gulp—not the mild rice wine of this world, but a fierce liquor; his body had never tasted alcohol, and now, driven by impulse, it burned like fire down his throat. He looked at the hanging poems, at the scholars, then at Wei Xuancheng, and said:

“I have one poem left unwritten.”

Wei Xuancheng handed him a brush: “Please.”

The boy pressed one hand to his blade, lifted the brush, scanned the words, then wrote—his grip on the brush like a swordstroke. Wei Xuancheng stood beside him, watching Li Guanyi wield the brush as if wielding a blade, and whispered:

“Ten years honing a single blade.”

Silence fell. Such plain words, unlike the ornate flourishes of Jiangnan, carried an inner spirit—perhaps not from the verse itself, but from Li Guanyi, who had walked in after slaying seven Entry-level warriors, radiating sharpness and edge.

“The frost-edged blade has never been tested.”

“Today I show it to you.”

Wei Xuancheng straightened his posture, softly speaking:

“Who has an unjust grievance?”

The Mohist Giant looked up at the upright youth, eyes alight with something new.

Li Guanyi finished the last line, flung the brush onto the table, spat out a rush of air and liquor from his chest—finally feeling relief, exhilaration. He thought these scholars truly had no meaning; he’d rather be a warrior.

“I’m done.”

He bowed, then strode out, seeking the Xue Laoyezi.

His poem and deeds, bold and spirited, left the elder scholars sighing.

Then hurried footsteps—before anyone spoke, a figure stood there: Xue Shuangtao stared wide-eyed at Li Guanyi. The boy’s earlier aura—mounting a horse to kill, dismounting to write poetry—vanished. He opened his mouth, wanting to ask who had touched his bow, whether the fifteen hundred guan could be…

Xue Shuangtao gritted her teeth, suddenly lunged forward.

No evasion, no retreat.

Then slammed into Li Guanyi’s chest.

Li Guanyi suddenly remembered how the young mistress often kicked his shin in frustration.

He recalled Xue Changqing’s words: “She’s a tigress.”

Before he could react, Xue Shuangtao knocked him down; his exhaustion surged, vision inverted, the world spun—he crashed to the ground. Xue Shuangtao fell atop him, the crisp chime of her jade hairpins mingling with the clang of his blade hitting the floor.

Xue Shuangtao bit her lip, speaking fast and low:

“You big bastard.”

Li Guanyi grinned faintly, murmuring: “Young Mistress, someone touched my bow—can you reimburse me? I mean, can you get me a simpler one…?”

Xue Shuangtao suddenly laughed.

Her pale face still streaked with tears.

Crying, yet laughing.

Her eyes reddened at the corners, more brilliant than the finest rouge.

………………

The literary gathering ended. Many scholars and noble youths looked pale—whether from Li Guanyi’s killings or something else, Li Guanyi didn’t know who Master Wang Tong had ultimately chosen.

Only the Xue Laoyezi returned from outside the city, personally using his vast inner power to cleanse Li Guanyi’s wounds, then applying the finest pills.

Li Guanyi wanted to haggle the price of those pills.

But the old man waved his hand: “The pills? I’ll give them to you. Money? No.”

You must earn your own money.

Only then will you learn frugality.

That night, after his medicinal bath, Li Guanyi changed clothes, sipped tea in the Listening Wind Pavilion, and told the old man everything about today’s battle—omitting anything involving Xiang Yaoguang. Xue Daoyong listened, grim-faced, then sighed after a long while:

“If not for your arrow warning, old man might’ve been finished.”

“But how did you spot him? He’s among the top ten assassins in the world.”

“He’s killed and escaped after targeting a prince.”

Li Guanyi had already prepared his answer, pointed to his eyes, and replied calmly:

“It was a matter of angle.”

“Angle?”

“Yes. You were above, fighting—your focus entirely on your opponent, so you couldn’t notice him. I was below, and saw a glint of reflected blade behind you—so I shot the arrow to warn you.”

Xue Daoyong pondered: “So that’s it…”

“Didn’t expect his movement had such a flaw.”

Li Guanyi said: “Perhaps your qi disturbance disrupted his technique.”

The old man laughed: “Don’t flatter me—we’re not strangers.”

“You’ve called me an old bastard—now you say this?”

Li Guanyi lowered his gaze, eyes on nose, nose on heart, obediently silent. The old man poured him tea:

“Those scholars wrote poems mourning you—I got bored and stepped outside, missed you shaming them. Wang Tong said your poem was naturally perfect, plain yet vivid, a true masterpiece.”

“They thought you dead, so they gilded your corpse.”

The old man cursed: “Stuffy scholars!”

He sipped tea again: “Old man knows this much.”

“The title of ‘best literary talent in Guan Yi City’—I’ve got your back. Let them say it—they won’t take it back! Hmph. I’ll print your poem in hundreds of thousands of copies, send it across the Western Regions, Tujue, Jiangnan, Saibei, Zhongyuan.”

“Let you gain fame first.”

“Also, Lu Youxian, though blunt, keeps his word—he secured you a seventh-rank military post: Zhenwei Captain. Not bad, fits your injuries. Originally wanted higher, but beyond his authority.”

Xue Daoyong grinned with malicious delight.

When Lu Youxian announced the promotion, Li Guanyi’s return alone wouldn’t have counted—but too many scholars were present, and Xue Daoyong was there—the seventh-rank post was solid. Li Guanyi asked: “What’s the difference with a seventh-rank military post?”

Xue Daoyong said: “Exemption from taxes, exemption from land taxes.”

“If you’re outside the city, people will willingly become your tenant farmers, registering their land under your name to avoid land tax; you’ll receive annual land grants, imperial stipends, rewards, official robes—and as an officer of Jiangzhou’s left and right Guancheng, you must attend court for major state affairs.”

“Most importantly—you may wear full metal armor, not leather.”

“Go claim your equipment.”

“In a few days, I’ll accompany you to the Armory—you pick your own armor.”

“Also, if I’m not mistaken, your pass to cross the border with your aunt will arrive soon. This seventh-rank post occupies Lu Youxian’s own position—he has a wife, a family, talented young kin—this post, hey…”

“He’s upright, but he has a wife, a family, and useless children.”

Li Guanyi nodded, paused, then said:

“Xue Lao, I have something to tell you.”

The old man raised his brow, smiling: “Speak.”

Li Guanyi looked at him.

The elder understood, waved his hand—just as Sun Wu’chou had once spoken of the world’s great currents.

The hidden watchers in the Listening Wind Pavilion withdrew.

Doors and windows shut; the night pearl illuminated the room. Li Guanyi then took out the jade vial. As Xue Daoyong frowned in confusion, Li Guanyi smashed the vial on the ground—and the assassin’s recorded voice and image appeared. Xue Daoyong’s relaxed expression vanished.

The white tiger behind the old man lay still, crouched.

Claws retracted, but his eyes glowed faintly crimson.

He endured, suppressed his claws.

Xue Daoyong’s face grew calm, looked at Li Guanyi, and asked:

“Who else knows about this?”

Li Guanyi shook his head. The old man thought of Siming, who was close to Li Guanyi, of the Broken Army Eight Cuts Li Guanyi claimed to have learned on the road, and of Yue Qianfeng. He sighed, “So you’ve learned the Yin-Yang School’s methods? Come to think of it, was your sword technique really picked up from Yue Qianfeng, that soldier, during your flight?”

Li Guanyi’s expression didn’t change. “I never lied.”

The old man laughed. “I thought everything you said about meeting this person or that one during your escape was made up to fool me and Shuangtao. Turns out, Guanyi, you’re still an honest gentleman.”

Li Guanyi thought for a moment, but didn’t answer directly. Instead, he said:

“I am a warrior.”

The old man pointed at Li Guanyi with a finger and burst into helpless laughter.

Finally, the old man pressed his palm against the broken jade vase, his gaze complex, and said:

“Good, good, Dantai Xianming.”

Li Guanyi asked, “Does Xue Lao know him?”

Xue Daoyong said:

“Know him? Of course I know him. He’s a civil-military chancellor, his qi is formidable.”

“Born into poverty, yet he reached this position—he’s a rare genius. Before he became famous in Chen Guo, I met him. We took shelter together in a ruined temple, then broke out from a bandit encirclement. He drove the cart, pale with fear, while I swung a yoke to beat them down.”

“When we broke free, we were both exhausted, yet we laughed with joy.”

“Laughing made us hungry, so we stole some yams. But when we returned, the cart was gone—only two wheels remained. We just stared, laughing helplessly.”

The old man chuckled, stroking the jade vase. “He once held up his family’s jade pendant and swore to me he’d share his liver and gall, never betray me. Now it seems that scholar, who’d rather starve than eat a steamed bun, became a high official indeed.”

“And now he’s learned how to be an official.”

“He’s learned to strike hard at his Xue brother, even plans to kill his niece’s unborn son.”

“Becoming a true high official—I’m glad for him.”

Xue Daoyong tucked the jade vase away and said nothing more about Dantai Xianming.

Li Guanyi had wanted to ask about the Regent Prince, but this secret—tied to his greatest concealment with his aunt—demanded extreme caution. He said nothing, deciding instead to first search the historical records for traces, then approach his aunt.

As he prepared to finish his tea and leave, the old man called him back, turned, and pointed at the Cloud-Piercing Thunder Bow.

“Go on, try it.”

“When you entered the realm today, this bow suddenly howled.”

“The guards I subdued tried to suppress it, but were instead wounded in their heart meridians, losing at least a decade of cultivation. Divine weapons have spirit—this anomaly must be tied to you.”

Li Guanyi stared at the bow. He too felt the urge to grasp it.

The cultivation method for entering the realm was best passed down through lineage; Xue Shen’s story held countless secrets and mysteries; after the arrow’s cold light, new techniques awaited. Li Guanyi stepped before the divine bow, extended his left hand, and gripped it. The bow vibrated and hummed.

The White Tiger manifestation flared to life beside Li Guanyi.

Li Guanyi felt again the divine resonance of the inheritance. Within the bronze tripod, jade fluid slowly welled—indicating the portion corresponding to the White Tiger manifestation was nearly full.

But at that moment, the bow suddenly changed—its howl grew fierce.

Before Li Guanyi’s eyes, qi rose and coalesced into a vision: an endless desert, stars stretching for miles, vast and desolate. Before him stood a battle halberd, its shaft black as ink, etched with dark gold patterns.

The halberd bore a tiger-headed grip; when the wind passed, it faintly echoed a tiger’s roar.

Pointing straight at the celestial palace!

Li Guanyi, left hand still gripping the Cloud-Piercing Thunder Bow, hesitated, then raised his right hand and extended it.

As if touching the halberd within the vision.

He felt its solidity.

He spread his fingers, then clenched his right hand.

Li Guanyi, at once, held two divine weapons.