Chapter 63: The Beginning of Legend!

Li Guanyi exhaled, gazing at the Xue Shen's inheritance aura, nearly perfect and untouched, clenched his fist, thinking that by the third year he would master the Spear-Entering-Realm techniques and learn the Rolling Wave moves.

And by the second year, he could learn the variations of Rolling Wave.

Then what would it mean if he reached perfection instantly, as he had now?

Could Xue Shen have never considered anyone could achieve this, and thus made no preparations?

Even the realm-entry techniques, mastered in an instant, defy normal logic.

At this moment, Li Guanyi felt unease, and the Xue Shen inheritance aura regarded him—it seemed to have regained its former restraint and coldness, saying calmly: "... Perfected. Can transmit 【Rolling Wave】."

Li Guanyi realized: this was inheritance, not instruction.

Xue Shen raised his weapon, pressing it against Li Guanyi's chest, his eyes clear and bright, then instantly dissolved into a pure spiritual essence, with no reserve, no loss, striking directly into Li Guanyi's third eye.

A boom echoed in Li Guanyi's mind.

His vision went blank.

A faint scent of water seemed to reach his nostrils, gradually restoring his awareness.

The flowing melody of the qin also stabilized his spirit; Li Guanyi opened his eyes and saw water murmuring around him, distant layered cliffs draped in green, rolling mountains.

He felt suddenly towering, standing upon flowing water; in the distance stood a woman in plain robes, her face hidden beneath a hood, black hair slightly falling—he saw a man before him, clad in heavy, intricate armor.

This was... Prince Chen?!

Li Guanyi looked down and saw his own hands: his left gripped a bow, his right a spear; he wore majestic, ornate ceremonial armor, golden threads binding the plates fluttering slightly, heard the vibration of his own throat.

He was smiling faintly: "Prince Chen, this is merely sparring—why take it so seriously?"

Li Guanyi understood.

He had entered that memory, merging into Xue Shen's body.

This was the highest form of instruction.

Not instruction. Not aid. Direct memory inheritance.

Nothing was more effective than personally experiencing a top-tier warrior's technique.

Prince Chen seemed to smile softly: "Your Majesty, today in the Taihe Palace, you evaluated the empire's greatest generals, saying your spear and my lance surpass even the fierce lords that Emperor Taizu faced—those are His Majesty's true thoughts. He says our Wu Gong are forces capable of rebellion."

"If we don't fight, His Majesty will remain uneasy."

These words were not in the earlier vision; Xue Shen smiled faintly, and Prince Chen lifted his lance.

At that moment, Li Guanyi felt the aura from across from him.

Heavy, domineering, like a rock standing firm beneath a raging current.

In the memory five hundred years past, Prince Chen lowered his faceplate—a dark gold mask, like ancient martial god armor, concealing the wearer's face and expression, leaving only two calm eyes visible.

When observing, Prince Chen, who had seemed feeble against Xue Shen, rose.

That mountainous, overwhelming aura made Li Guanyi's consciousness tremble.

To hold the title of Prince in the great strife of five hundred years ago.

Later generations learned his lance art, used his divine lance to slay the divine white wolf that invaded the Central Plains, charged into the imperial palace with his lance, and founded the Chen dynasty—yet now, this hero, revered as the founding ancestor of Chen, launched his attack.

Like mountains collapsing, earth splitting.

Li Guanyi's pupils contracted; his talent was truly strong—now, Prince Chen's lance strike, so domineering, slowed in his vision.

He had once, before entering the Realm, fought Prince Chen in the Mystical Realm, with Prince Chen suppressing his own cultivation.

He had seen his lance techniques.

Yet now, the Prince Chen Divine Lance, previously judged merely as superior lance art, transformed utterly—inch by inch, it brightened, then seared itself into Li Guanyi's spiritual soul.

Li Guanyi memorized that lance strike.

Then he felt Xue Shen's movement.

He felt the flow of qi, the contraction of every muscle, the tautness of sinew and bone, sensed the Bai Hu spirit form crouching nearby, felt the grip of his hand on the spear—everything, as if he had become Xue Shen wielding this technique.

This was inheritance.

The spear swept horizontally!

Rolling Wave!!!

…………

Before this, in the desert.

Po Jun and the old guide, their camel terrified to death, crawled painfully through the sands.

They lay beneath a dune; moonlight spilled like vast silver, the clean, bright sand reflecting the glow—almost as if they lay upon the moon itself, all around a hazy white.

Beneath the night and starlight, the desert stretched endlessly.

Without mounts, their situation was already dire; now they encountered desert bandits being hunted by Turkic cavalry—the bandits, driven mad, would kill even dogs; a handsome man like Po Jun would meet a terrible end.

Po Jun was unskilled in combat; he and the old man concealed their qi, hid themselves. The desert bandits on horseback searched back and forth, but Po Jun found a clever hiding spot, masking their presence—they failed to find them, riding farther away.

But then, the spear exposed outside suddenly roared again.

The bandits heard the sound and converged; noisy shouts drew nearer; Po Jun grinned.

He prepared to fight.

One bandit charged on his desert horse, wielding a curved blade.

Po Jun drew a soft sword from his instrument and stabbed the bandit dead; the old man stared in shock. Po Jun said: "I'm not skilled at killing."

"Remember this: the words of the Central Plains people of Donglu must be pondered carefully."

"Not that I can't—just a little, I can."

He leapt lightly, swung his horse-head qin in a circle, smashing it onto a cavalryman's head; when the qin body emitted a screech and cracked, he drove the sharp-edged fragment into the third man's throat.

The hollow qin body became a blood-draining channel.

Blood gushed out, splashing onto his clothes; the guide stared, dumbfounded, watching the man who, in thirst, on foot, exhausted, had felled three mad desert bandits in one breath.

Po Jun picked up the spear, placed it on a horse, and made the old man ride the other.

The desert horse's build is not large; its body is dry and sturdy. Compared to the tall steeds of the Western Regions, they appear shorter. The horse classics write that desert horses lack one lumbar vertebra and two tail vertebrae compared to horses from the Central Plains and the Western Regions; their ribs are arched and round, their hooves tough, capable of galloping across the desert.

The old man rode the horse, and the two of them galloped under the moonlight.

The old man's heart pounded violently; bandits from behind were chasing and killing them. He shouted:

"Can your Central Plains strategists even kill?!"

Po Jun laughed loudly: "Even the frail scholar should at least master swordplay and archery, able to drive a war chariot pulled by four horses with one hand, and swing a battle halberd to sever enemies' heads with the other, chanting the Qin battle hymn aloud."

The old man admired: "The people of the Central Plains are truly terrifyingly warlike."

Po Jun said: "No, most Central Plains people are not skilled in war. My countrymen fear slaughter."

The old man frowned: "Why?"

Po Jun answered: "Because they seek to defeat enemies without injury. But once you wound them, make them bleed, you'll see their other side—crazy, furious, relentless, refusing to stop until they tear their opponent into shreds."

Po Jun slashed another man to death with one hand, his brow rising as he said:

"This is what the Central Plains army calls 'The Grieving Army Must Win' and 'United in Hatred.'"

The sound of arrows pierced the air.

Po Jun's Qi surged, but he was no warrior.

Warriors could endure dozens of wounds and roar in fierce battle; his Qi was ill-suited to shatter arrows. The arrows struck the horse, and the desert horse collapsed. As Po Jun fell, he instinctively clutched his halberd, protecting this divine weapon.

The old man had already galloped far ahead, but he gritted his teeth and pulled the reins tight.

The desert horse turned back; the old man reached out, shouting: "Go!"

But the bandits surged like a pack of wild dogs—riding short desert horses, faster than Po Jun could mount, wielding curved blades stronger than slender swords. Po Jun grimaced, feeling terribly unlucky.

He planted his halberd and rose to his feet. This divine weapon must not fall here.

Po Jun held a slender sword in his right hand, grimacing, his beautiful eyes filled with a fury even wilder than the bandits'. The Po Jun line, which kindled war, would burn the entire world to ashes even in death.

Behind the bandits, a line of torches flared—Turkic cavalry. In this situation, the bandits could only charge forward.

And at this moment—

In the Listening Wind Pavilion, Li Guanyi had just lifted the halberd within the Illusory Realm.

Far away in the desert, the ancient weapon seemed to sense it.

It shuddered violently, falling straight forward—firm and decisive.

The charging bandits were split cleanly in two; blood splattered the ground. The howling wind seemed stirred by the divine weapon—the bandits froze, their horses tossing their heads nervously, unwilling to advance.

The sound of hooves arrived.

Behind the bandits, the Turkic cavalry closed in rapidly.

The bandits gritted their teeth, jabbing their spiked boots into their horses' bellies. The mounts screamed in pain and charged forward.

The wind roared; sand gathered. Po Jun could no longer see ahead. Then the grit coalesced, forming a hand that reached from his shoulder, gripping the fallen weapon. The young strategist froze, watching the unseen lord step over him.

Li Guanyi fully merged his consciousness with Xue Shen's technique.

Beneath the moonlight, a storm erupted across the desert; the heavy divine weapon turned of its own accord.

In that memory-image, Li Guanyi's spirit, will, Qi, and dharma form all converged into this technique, stirring a tidal wave. If a storm sweeps the sea into surging waves and tsunamis, then the general wielding the halberd must be the storm that raises the chaos of this age.

He grasped the halberd.

Far away in the desert, the divine weapon, resonating with Li Guanyi and Xue Shen, awakened its spirit. Within the storm, the gathering sand seemed to form a figure. Po Jun saw 'him' lift the divine weapon, the halberd's blade pointing forward—as if legend had come alive.

He paused—then swung the halberd.

In the Listening Wind Pavilion, Li Guanyi mastered 【Rolling Tide】.

In the desert, the halberd named 【Tiger Roar Heaven】 swept through, its edge emitting a deep, solemn roar—the low tiger's howl turned tyrannical.

The storm ahead was torn apart.

Dozens of charging bandits kept advancing—cut cleanly in half as they ran, blood splattering, staining the desert red. The lead bandit chief flew upward, his blood spraying far, drenching half the young man's clothes.

Beneath the moonlight, the halberd fell before Po Jun. The wind swept across the desert; all around lay corpses. The young man stared ahead. The guiding old man hurried over to pull him away, but before they could move, torches loomed overhead.

The Turkic cavalry had arrived.

They rode warhorses, their armor less refined than that of the Central Plains, yet thick iron plates radiated a wild, savage lethality. One hand gripped the hilt of a heavy saber; the other held a torch—its flame bright, as if ready to ignite the moon.

At their head stood a young man, wearing a jeweled headband, watching the scene.

"... A sinister weapon."

He remarked. His warhorse stepped forward, leaving burning footprints on the sand—this was a steed with beast-blood lineage. The lord of the Seventh Tent of the Turks looked at the weapon and the man, and said calmly: "A man of the Central Plains."

"What are you doing here?"

For a thousand years, slaughter between the steppe and the Central Plains had never ceased. His words carried murder. The old man knelt pale-faced, surrounded by heavy cavalry like hell's emissaries, speechless. But Po Jun raised his gaze, calm as a guest: "I've come to deliver a gift."

The Seventh Turkic King showed little interest: "Oh? A gift?"

"What kind of gift?"

Po Jun looked at him and replied: "You are unloved here. You crave the glory of the steppe kings from five hundred years ago—you yearn for your people's Chancellor Chen Fu, for the woman you love, not for her to be taken into your father's tent, forcing you to call her mother."

The old man's scalp prickled.

He nearly screamed.

He wanted to grab a handful of blood-soaked sand and shove it into this Central Plains man's mouth to silence him.

The Seventh Turkic King stared fixedly at the man who had spoken straight to his heart.

Under the moonlight, the man's eyes burned—not with moonlight, but with the wild, unyielding fire of winter grasses set ablaze, a fire that seemed ready to consume the entire steppe—Po Jun smiled:

"I can grant you a thousand li of western territory, making you the most renowned among your brothers. Then your herds will graze on the Tuyuhun steppes; you will enjoy the beauties and feasts of the Western Regions, and a golden curved blade."

"Perhaps one day, all you desire will return to your arms?"

These words, spoken by this beautiful Central Plains man, sounded like the seduction of a demon from legend.

The Seventh Turkic King said: "What do you want?"

"I have only one wish."

Pojun gripped the weapon, now silent and unchanged.

"I hope you will send me back to the Central Plains."

"I must go to meet someone—no matter how chaotic the mountains and rivers, no matter how distant the road, I must rush toward my destined fate."

In the eyes of the old man who guided them, the fierce and tyrannical Seven Kings of the Steppe finally released their sword hilts, and the man in the bloodstained robe, half of his clothing drenched in crimson, caressed his weapon and smiled faintly—his smile calm, his eyes reflecting the torchlight, ablaze with fire meant to consume the Western Regions.

The young man historically known as 【Cunning and Ruthless】 revealed his fangs thereafter.

In the Listening Wind Pavilion, Li Guanyi released his weapon, his face pale.

He had learned—

Li Guanyi closed his eyes.

Xue family: Battle Spear Churning Waves.

Chen Duke: Divine Spear Shattering Mountains.

Five hundred years ago, the two famed generals, feared by the Emperor of the Central Plains as 【Fierce as the Marquis of Flame】, had their ultimate arts converge upon one man in the fifth century's wake; in the Xue family's guest chamber, Changsun Wuchou looked up at the sky, the starlight serene, and sighed:

"The stars are distant, the heavens at peace—today is indeed a tranquil day."

The merchant brought parchment, picked up his brush, and wrote to the Phoenix far beyond the frontier, recounting today's events.

"Second Young Lady."

He paused, then put brush to paper.

"Li Guanyi is alive again."