Chapter 29

Zhao Ti sat in his chair, Qinggang Sword in hand, watching Gong Guangjie charge toward him in haste.

The opponent’s sword was slow, his footwork and posture sluggish; no matter how urgently he rushed, to Zhao Ti’s eyes he moved like a child running.

Originally, he had merely been quick with his own sword, but hadn’t truly perceived others’ slowness—until he practiced the Illusion Yin Finger technique, after which his perception sharpened and his hearing improved.

Gong Guangjie executed “Golden Needle Crossing Disaster,” extending one arm forward, his long sword thrusting straight ahead.

This strike emitted a hissing sound, carrying a powerful wind.

The Dongzong disciples of the Wuliang Sword Sect cheered, and Zuo Zimu’s face showed satisfaction.

Xin Shuangqing, the Xizong sect leader, was a woman whose disciples were mostly female; all now wore expressions of indignation, especially the female disciple who had just handed Zhao Ti his sword, her face betraying a flicker of concern.

Just as Gong Guangjie’s sword drew within a foot of Zhao Ti’s chest, a sharp crack rang out—Gong Guangjie cried out “Ow!” and his long sword clattered helplessly to the ground.

He clutched his wrist, face filled with shock and terror; Zhao Ti’s Qinggang Sword had somehow already rested against his neck.

The training hall fell utterly silent; most had not seen what happened—even Zuo Zimu and Xin Shuangqing had not clearly perceived it, both having focused entirely on Gong Guangjie’s “Golden Needle Crossing Disaster,” which had been executed flawlessly, without a single fault.

Zhao Ti sat in his chair, tapping Gong Guangjie’s shoulder with his sword: “Still refuse to admit you trained wrong?”

Gong Guangjie’s face turned pale: “I—I just slipped up…”

Duan Yu clapped his hands and laughed: “Brother Zhao, look how white his face is—I never knew ‘pretty boy’ meant him!”

The Xizong female disciples, who had been stunned moments before, now covered their mouths and stifled giggles.

The Xizong male disciple who had just been wounded by Gong Guangjie’s tripping step cried out: “Brother Gong, after I was stabbed, I was ready to continue fighting—yet you sheathed your sword and claimed victory! Now you dare say it was an accident?”

Gong Guangjie’s temple twitched as he muttered: “I truly slipped up—I was careless…”

Zhao Ti’s sword suddenly shifted from his shoulder to his cheek, tapping twice: “Your mouth is tough—but is it tougher than my Qinggang Sword?”

“D-dare you let me try again?” Gong Guangjie’s eyes bulged, fists clenched tight.

Behind him, Zuo Zimu frowned deeply, staring at Zhao Ti’s sword, lost in thought.

Xin Shuangqing, equally grave, lips pressed thin, seemed deep in contemplation.

Zhao Ti slowly withdrew his Qinggang Sword, tapping its tip against Gong Guangjie: “Come.”

Gong Guangjie picked up his fallen sword, drew a deep breath, eyes locked on Zhao Ti, searching for an opening—yet found every part of Zhao Ti’s body seemed an opening, leaving him bewildered, unsure where to strike.

“Hah!” He gathered his qi; this time he did not attack directly, but feinted first, then shifted his stance sideways, slashing diagonally—only to abruptly change into an upward flick, executing “Parting Grass to Seek the Snake.”

“Clack—whoosh…”

“Huh?” Gong Guangjie gasped—his sword vanished, somehow knocked away again; Zhao Ti’s Qinggang Sword now rested once more upon his shoulder.

So fast! Zuo Zimu’s face paled behind him—he had seen clearly this time: Zhao Ti had struck after him, yet arrived first, striking precisely the same spot on Gong Guangjie’s wrist as before.

“I…” Gong Guangjie’s face turned even paler, his body trembling.

“Still Bufu ?” Zhao Ti retracted his sword, speaking calmly.

Gong Guangjie dashed to the nearest Dongzong disciple, snatched his sword, and charged Zhao Ti again.

“Clack—whoosh…” His sword flew away once more; Gong Guangjie stood frozen, trembling, mouth opening and closing, unable to utter a word.

“Want to try again?” Zhao Ti smiled sweetly.

“Gong Guangjie, return!” Zuo Zimu called from behind.

“Master, I—I…”

“Return!” Zuo Zimu stepped forward, bowing to Zhao Ti: “May I ask your true name, your origin, and your purpose in coming to our Wuliang Sword Sect?”

Watching Gong Guangjie retreat, dazed and lost, Zhao Ti pointed his Qinggang Sword at Zuo Zimu, then at the sword at Zuo Zimu’s waist.

“Very well—if you insist on sparring, I shall not refuse your courtesy!” Zuo Zimu paused, then spoke solemnly.

He had no choice but to be cautious; he had misjudged—this white-robed boy was clearly a sword master. Though he believed he could defeat Gong Guangjie in one strike, he could never have done so so effortlessly, let alone without rising from his chair.

Whether friend or foe, it was safer to be polite; the martial world was not merely about fighting—it was full of social nuance.

He slowly drew his sword from his waist, then suddenly remembered: “Sir… won’t you stand up?”

Zhao Ti pondered: truthfully, he had no clear sense of his own martial strength. Since childhood he had trained in external fast sword techniques, and now practiced the Illusion Yin Finger method—but he had never sparred with any martial artist before.

Yet watching the Wuliang Sword Sect’s East and West factions duel, their skill was laughable; if the disciples were this poor, their masters must be worse—not arrogance, but truth: in Zhao Ti’s memory, Zuo Zimu’s swordplay was mediocre.

He smiled faintly: “I train seated sword. I fight seated. Standing would weaken its power.”

Zuo Zimu’s eyelid twitched—he didn’t believe a word. What sword style existed that was practiced seated? You’re showing off, and now you’ve turned it into a doctrine—unbearable!

Yet—social nuance!

He swallowed his anger, forcing a smile: “Then I shall take advantage of your courtesy!”

He flicked his sword in a flourish and launched “Rainbow Piercing the Sun.”

This technique was immensely powerful, demanding perfect coordination of arm and blade, alignment of waist and legs, unity of internal and external force.

The swordlight blazed like a rainbow, terrifying in its might, rushing toward Zhao Ti—its brilliance blurred the tip, making it impossible to discern where the blade truly aimed.

Zhao Ti squinted—this swordplay was decent; indeed, the master far surpassed the disciple—but still insufficient!

Had he possessed no internal qi, he might have struggled to break this sword pattern outright, for with internal power bolstering it, the blade was too solid to shatter—he’d need to use finesse.

But now, different—he immediately wielded his Qinggang Sword in “Parting Flowers, Brushing Willows.” Three sharp “ding-ding-ding” rings echoed as the Qinggang Sword pierced through the rainbow, slicing straight for Zuo Zimu’s wrist.

Zuo Zimu broke into a cold sweat—how was it so fast? His technique hadn’t even finished! He was forced to shift instantly to “Emerald Peaks Floating,” turning his strong offense into defense in a blink.

“Hmm…” Zhao Ti thought inwardly—so my sword is truly this fast? But then again, Zuo Zimu is weak; he couldn’t even survive two strikes against Yunzhonghe, the weakest of the Four Evils, and likely Yunzhonghe was merely toying with him.

Even Chu Wanli, chief of Dali’s Four Imperial Guards, had disarmed Zuo Zimu in a single strike—his martial skill was plainly average.

If so, could I also disarm him as effortlessly?