Chapter 30

Zhao Ti sat watching the duel, unable to judge the outcome at first, but after three swift strikes, he sensed Zuo Zimu had no more powerful sword techniques left, so he used White Cloud Emerging from the Ridge, then followed with Heaven-Kun Inverted, his blade rising sharply from below with blinding speed, aiming for Zuo Zimu’s wrist.

Zuo Zimu cried out “Ah!” as cold sweat instantly soaked his back; he had no time to draw his sword back—his only option was to abandon it, or his wrist would be pierced clean through.

A clang rang out as the sword fell to the ground; he staggered backward five or six steps, still trembling with fear, and looked down at his right wrist—a red dot rapidly expanded, turning instantly into a blossom of blood; even with quick reflexes, the blade’s tip had still grazed him.

Inside the training hall, not even a pin could be heard falling; every face was stunned, the local sect leaders gaping with mouths wide open, unable to close them.

Five moves—only five moves—and Zuo Zimu’s sword was knocked away. Could they have misseen it?

They rubbed their eyes, realizing again something was wrong—the boy had been seated. If he’d stood to duel, what then?

Would he need fewer than five moves? Would he not merely knock the sword away—but kill Zuo Zimu outright?

Most of them were weaker than Zuo Zimu; the Wuliang Sword Sect was the most renowned in Weichu Prefecture and also well-known in southeastern Dali. Zuo Zimu’s martial skill was widely known—so how deep was this boy’s cultivation?

Everyone drew a sharp breath; their gazes toward Zhao Ti turned to reverence, some even dared not look again, fearing a single glance from him might leave them speechless.

Zuo Zimu stood dazed in the center of the hall, blood dripping “drip, drip” from his wrist; the disciples of the Eastern Sect were equally stunned— their revered master, whom they had always worshipped as invincible, had been defeated, and so utterly—only a few moves, and the opponent had still been seated!

Xin Shuangqing’s eyes flickered with doubt and fear as she stared at Zhao Ti; she had seen Zuo Zimu’s last few strikes—those were the most powerful techniques of the Wuliang Sword Sect, techniques even she could not execute with such mastery—yet this boy had disrupted every single one before Zuo Zimu could finish them, knocking the sword from his hand and forcing his retreat!

Zhao Ti scanned the hall, his gaze landing on the Western Sect’s female disciple who had lent him the sword, and he beckoned her over.

The girl blushed instantly, walking forward slowly; her eyes, once faintly shy and lively, now glowed with admiration and worship.

Zhao Ti returned the sword to her: “Thank you, Miss, for lending me your sword just now. May I know your name?”

The girl bowed her head: “I’m Chu Zhen.”

Zhao Ti nodded: “A fine name—‘Only green lotus and red lotus buds, open and closed, all in natural grace.’”

Duan Yu beside him said: “Brother Zhao, your verse is exquisite—it fits the moment, fits the scene perfectly.”

The girl’s face flushed even redder; she clutched the sword and hurried back to Xin Shuangqing’s side.

Zhao Ti glanced sideways at Duan Yu: “What nonsense are you spouting, Brother Duan?”

Duan Yu replied: “I simply feel it—when my heart stirs with emotion, I must speak it out.”

Zhao Ti had no reply; he shook his head—Duan, the innocent, the stubborn, the upright.

Zuo Zimu, as if aged ten years, spoke slowly: “You have won…”

Zhao Ti smiled, rising slowly, and said to Zhou Dong and Su Da: “Let’s go.”

Ma Wude immediately stood up too: “Old man will escort the Young Master.” He no longer called Zhao Ti “Brother Zhao,” but used the same title as Zhou Dong, his expression filled with deep respect.

Zhao Ti waved him off: “No need to escort me. If I have time, I’ll visit your home, Brother Ma—just don’t turn me away.”

Ma Wude’s old face flushed red; he understood Zhao Ti was giving him a face-saving way out, restoring the dignity he’d lost today.

He immediately slapped his chest: “If the Young Master graces my humble abode, I shall sweep the mats, fill the path with wine and food, and drink with you till dawn!”

The local sect leaders in the hall now looked on with envy; some sighed, some cursed inwardly—how had that old Ma gotten such fortune, to know a young master of such extraordinary martial skill? It was enough to drive one mad.

Duan Yu also stood: “Brother Zhao—”

Zhao Ti cut him off before he finished: “Brother Duan, don’t say it. I’ll stay in Dali for a while longer—we’ll meet again. Don’t even think of following me.”

Duan Yu looked baffled, thinking: This Brother Zhao is truly strange—he can read my thoughts? The Fomen has mind-reading abilities—has Brother Zhao learned them? Should I ask him to teach me? But if mind-reading is a martial skill… then I won’t learn it.

Zhao Ti and the other two left the hall; not a single person from the Wuliang Sword Sect spoke or followed. The gap in cultivation was too vast—like comparing a mortal to a deity—no one dared harbor suspicion.

Outside the Jianhu Palace gate, Zhao Ti whispered to Zhou Dong and Su Da: “Hurry!” Then he led them swiftly toward the back mountain.

He guessed Zuo Zimu’s injured younger brother, Rong Ziju, would return soon—if they got tangled up again, they’d be delayed.

The three of them dashed toward the back mountain, their speed swift; the sky neared dusk, and after traveling over ten miles, they reached the mountain’s rear.

The sound of a babbling spring reached them; a small stream came into view. Zhao Ti nodded—they hadn’t taken the wrong path.

They pressed forward further; the water’s roar grew loud, thunderous—a great waterfall, like a river fallen from heaven, plunged from above, revealing a massive cliff ahead.

Zhou Dong cautiously approached to look, then drew a sharp breath: “Young Master, are you planning to go down into the valley below? That’s impossible—it’s far too high, far too dangerous to descend!”

Zhao Ti remembered this place, but hadn’t expected such sheer cliffs; yet the other three sides of the valley were even more treacherous, even harder to reach.

The exit to Langhuan Fudi lay beside the Lancangjiang River—not only was time pressing, but traveling through the mountains might take days and nights, and even if they reached the riverbank, finding the exact spot would be like searching for a needle in a sea—it was wider, taller, and more vast.

At that thought, he suddenly recalled something: “Look below—see if there are any cracks.”

Duan Yu had once fallen off this cliff, caught by an ancient pine, then spotted a fissure in the cliff face, sliding slowly down into the valley—if they could find such a crack, they could descend through it.

Zhou Dong and Su Da hurried to search; soon Su Da called out: “Young Master, far below, it looks like there’s a crack!”

Zhao Ti walked over to look, then called Zhou Dong to confirm—yes, a fissure existed far below. He nodded: “I’ll descend from here. You two head straight for the Lancangjiang Riverbank. If I emerge, I’ll appear there—I don’t know the exact direction, but just head toward the river.”

Zhou Dong said: “Young Master, but—”

Zhao Ti cut him off: “No more talk. I have whale-sinew rope, and a short sword that cuts through iron like tofu—I won’t have any trouble descending.”

He pulled from his sleeve a thin whale-sinew rope—something he’d prepared in advance. Though scarce, he’d only managed to gather fifty or sixty zhang, but with the short sword to aid his descent, he wouldn’t face danger.

He found a solid rock at the cliff’s edge and tied the rope to it: “When I pull the rope three times, untie it here and drop it down—I’ll reattach it elsewhere to reach the crack. Once you drop it, go straight to the Lancangjiang Riverbank. Don’t wait here.”

The two nodded. Zhao Ti tugged the rope—it held firm. Then he stepped to the cliff’s edge, one hand gripping the rope, the other holding the short sword, and leapt lightly downward…