Chapter 28: Your Sword Is Wrong

Zhao Ti and the others followed Ma Wude to the entrance of Jianhu Palace, where Zuo Zimu, master of the Eastern Sect of Wuliang Sword, came to greet them.

After exchanging pleasantries and the usual Jianghu flattery, they entered the training hall and took their seats.

Zhao Ti had originally planned to slip away on his own, with Zhou Dong and Su Yuan following the route he’d given them later.

Traveling together would alert the Wuliang Sword sect; if they launched a full mountain search afterward, it would be crude and unnecessary—the Langhuan Fudi was still there and wouldn’t vanish, so there was no need to make things too obvious.

But along the way, Duan Yu had chattered incessantly in his ear, and once inside the palace, he clung to his side, asking question after question about the scenery and customs of Great Song.

Zhao Ti, growing weary, considered feigning a need to relieve himself to leave Jianhu Palace—but Duan Yu grabbed his arm, insisting, “Brother Zhao, come with me, come with me!”

Duan—true—sticker—annoying—Yu!

Zhao Ti could have forcibly broken free, but this kid was a blabbermouth; if he returned and made a scene, he might exaggerate wildly.

So Zhao Ti kept a grim face, sitting motionless in his chair in the training hall, while Duan Yu sat pressed tightly beside him, as if afraid he’d flee, holding his arm and chatting away.

Only when the duels began did he finally quiet down, letting Zhao Ti exhale in relief and once again ponder how to find an opening to escape.

The two sects exchanged blows, their swords flashing cold and sharp; Zhao Ti watched, frowning.

This was his first time witnessing a martial sect’s duel—different from the brawls of Dongjing gangs, and unlike the sparring of household guards and masters.

As he watched, a flicker of disappointment rose in him: they weren’t nearly as impressive as he’d imagined. Perhaps Wuliang Sword’s inherited arts simply weren’t refined—either way, they failed to impress.

All combatants used swords; regardless of whether their techniques were refined, to Zhao Ti’s eyes, there was only one word: slow!

Too slow. He had trained since childhood in swift swordplay; though he couldn’t match the phantom-like speed of the Kuihuabaodian , he was certainly far faster than these Wuliang Sword disciples.

As memory dictated, when Gong Guangjie of the Eastern Sect faced a disciple of the Western Sect, he executed the “Fall Step,” swinging his sword with exaggerated force, his body swaying as if about to topple.

Duan Yu suddenly let out a “chirp” of laughter, then realized his lapse, quickly clapping a hand over his mouth.

Zhao Ti sighed inwardly.

Sure enough, the Western Sect disciple swung his palm toward Gong’s back; Gong stepped aside, his sword instantly circling, shouting “Hit!” as he pierced the disciple’s left thigh—the match ended.

Three wins out of five—Eastern Sect claimed victory again. Xin Shuangqing, master of the Western Sect, turned pale; for the next five years, the Eastern Sect would remain in Jianhu Palace to study the Wuliang Jade Wall, while the Western Sect returned to refine their arts, awaiting the next contest.

Zuo Zimu beamed, boasting to Xin Shuangqing for a moment, then his gaze suddenly shifted to Duan Yu.

Zhao Ti sat nearby with eyes half-closed, indifferent—until Zuo Zimu provoked his disciple to challenge Duan Yu; when Gong Guangjie failed to draw Duan Yu into the arena and marched over, slapped him, then drew his sword and reached for Duan’s collar, Zhao Ti’s hidden steel blade snapped up, its tip pointing less than a foot from Zhao Ti’s chest.

Zhao Ti raised his eyebrows slightly; behind him, Zhou Dong and Su Da shouted in unison: “How dare you!” and stepped forward to block Zhao Ti.

Everyone in the training hall froze, all eyes drawn to the scene.

Ma Wude’s face turned purple; Duan Yu’s slap had already humiliated him, and now his own group was about to spark trouble—he leapt to his feet: “Brother Zhou…”

He knew Zhou Dong’s martial skill—he wasn’t some weak scholar like Duan Yu—but this was the other sect’s domain; any fight would only end in loss.

Gong Guangjie paused, pulling back his hand. Duan Yu patted his chest: “Why fight? Losing hurts and can kill. Put down your sword—reading and studying Buddhism is far better.”

“Shut up!” Gong Guangjie glared at him, his eyes darting between Zhou Dong and Su Da.

Zhao Ti cleared his throat: “Guangzu, step aside.”

The two moved back a step. Zhao Ti turned his head slightly toward Ma Wude: “Brother Ma, this place is dull. We’re leaving.”

Ma Wude said: “Alright, alright, let me see you off.” He rose to his feet.

Zuo Zimu said: “Wait. Brother Ma, is this man of yours just as clueless as that Duan scholar?”

Ma Wude couldn’t lie: “He’s not a sect member or relative, but he’s with an old friend.”

Zuo Zimu said: “Why rebuke my disciple? Are you allied with that Duan fellow? If you meant to lend support, why sit silently before now, pretending to be aloof?”

Zhou Dong snorted: “Your disciple doesn’t deserve it—he just pointed his sword backward at our Young Master. How can we not rebuke him?”

Zuo Zimu said: “So delicate, why even walk the Jianghu? In the Jianghu, strength speaks. Otherwise, like that Duan fellow—you get slapped, and it’s still just a slap.”

The training hall, filled with local martial folk and sect leaders, burst into laughter. Ma Wude felt utterly humiliated, covering his face with his hands.

Zhou Dong coldly said: “Then let me fight him.”

Zuo Zimu said: “Is your Young Master unskilled in martial arts? Then no need to fight—have your men step forward, prove their worth, and apologize to my disciple.”

Su Da roared: “We rebuked your blind disciple—how dare you demand our Young Master apologize? Come on, let me spar with you, old man!”

Gong Guangjie had stepped back, brandishing his sword, furious: “Who are you to challenge my master?!”

Su Da was about to reply when Zhao Ti said: “Ask him how he wants to fight.”

Su Da said: “How do you want to fight?”

Zuo Zimu sneered: “You need your lackey to speak for you? What an arrogant stance. If you defeat my disciple, I’ll retract my words and make him apologize to you!”

“Him?” Zhao Ti pointed at Gong Guangjie, lips curling as he shook his head.

“You little pretty boy look down on me?” Gong Guangjie roared in fury.

Zhao Ti blinked, turning to Duan Yu: “Brother Duan, he called you a pretty boy.”

Duan Yu shook his head: “No, no—I only wear a blue robe, making my face look pale. Brother Zhao wears white, so you’re actually paler. He meant you.”

“Then what do you want?” Zuo Zimu said, his expression darkening as Zhao Ti’s words seemed like child’s play, utterly dismissing him.

“If defeating the disciple makes him apologize, what if I defeat the master?” Zhao Ti said calmly.

The hall fell silent. All eyes turned to Zhao Ti—including a round-faced, big-eyed girl hiding on the rafters, holding a dozen small snakes less than a foot long, her gaze fixed on Zhao Ti in surprise.

“You mean to challenge me?” Zuo Zimu suddenly turned to Ma Wude: “Brother Ma, is this man here to challenge Jianhu Palace?”

Ma Wude thought: You’ve said it all—today’s face is completely lost.

Seeing his silence, Zuo Zimu said: “Arrogant fool—first defeat my disciple.”

Zhao Ti smiled: “So you agree? Bring me a sword—I’ll teach your disciple how to use it. His swordplay is wrong, and he doesn’t even know it.”

“You insolent brat!” Zuo Zimu roared. “Give him a sword—I’ll see what skill he has!”

A female disciple from the Western Sect hurried over and handed Zhao Ti a sword; Xin Shuangqing glared at her, and she stuck out her tongue, scurrying back.

Zhao Ti flicked his finger against the blade, nodded: “Acceptable. Come.”

Gong Guangjie said: “Step into the arena!”

Zhao Ti smiled and shook his head: “No need to stand. Your swordplay is wrong—you can’t beat me even sitting down.”

Gong Guangjie roared in fury, charging forward with his sword.

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