Chapter Thirty-Six: My True Talent Lies in Spending Money

Lin Ze gazed at the waning white radiance in the air, gaining a rough estimation of this sword energy’s might. Born from the Frostfall Leaf Sword, tempered further by the Eightfold Sword Array, it equated to a mid-grade technique at the mastery level. Yet, the gulf in cultivation between himself and his opponent was so vast that even the mightiest technique could scarcely bridge it.

Fortunately, his goal today was not to kill Zhao Jing, nor even to win; he needed only to delay him for a moment.

“I have no sword,” Lin Ze said, watching the flickering flame, shaking his head honestly.

At that, Zhao Jing paused, then shook his head with a soft chuckle. A sword cultivator without a sword—what a joke, like a butcher forgetting his cleaver or a seamstress misplacing her needle and thread. Without the tools of your trade, how can you contend with me?

Not bothering with further words, Zhao Jing carelessly tossed the flame forward. The fist-sized fireball swelled against the wind, morphing into a menacing face that lunged at the Daoist with ferocity.

Seeing Lin Ze seize the white radiance once more, mockery flashed in Zhao Jing’s eyes. The same trick again—was this all the man was capable of?

But in the next instant, mockery gave way to doubt.

The Daoist quietly tucked the white glow into his sleeve, then reached into the pouch at his waist. A round, smooth sword pellet appeared in his palm, which he crushed without hesitation.

A surge of sword energy, equal to the full-force strike of an early Foundation Establishment cultivator, sliced through the darkness, cleaving the fiery visage down the center with a deafening roar. Blue flames split from its brow, growing fiercer as they continued their assault.

“Fool,” Zhao Jing sneered inwardly—he knew well the sword pellets of the Eastern Mountain Sect. Priced at a single spirit stone each, these were of little use to high-level cultivators; expensive, yet less effective than his own efforts. The entire Huayang Peak’s monthly tribute required only six spirit stones to exempt hundreds of disciples from their duties, yet such stones were still hard-won, with most spending months on errands just to save one. Even Zhao Jing himself, if he abandoned his meditation to hunt monsters every day, could not earn more than five spirit stones a month—and that was hardly worth the risk to his cultivation.

Most spirit stones were needed for advancement, and savings were sparse. Only the youngest disciples, occasionally rewarded by elders, might carry a sword pellet for emergencies.

“To use such a thing against me?” Zhao Jing scoffed. Truth be told, this sword energy was weaker than the previous one—hardly enough to shatter his Heartburning Flame.

He stood quietly, prepared to capture and interrogate the Daoist once the fire had done its work. It wouldn’t take long—certainly not long enough for Yang Mu to get far.

As the burning face drifted closer, Lin Ze reached into his pouch once more.

When his hand emerged, Zhao Jing’s expression finally cracked.

Five sword pellets glimmered with a faint, ghostly light.

Again, Lin Ze crushed them all at once.

Zhao Jing unconsciously clenched his fist, staring intently at the blue-robed Daoist. In his sixty years of cultivation, thirty as an elder, he had never seen anyone fight like this—burning through six spirit stones without so much as casting a proper technique.

When the five sword energies effortlessly shredded the blue visage, darkness returned to the woods. Zhao Jing’s face darkened, his eyelid twitching.

Both his hands opened, summoning more flames, his voice cold as ice: “Such trinkets won’t last forever. I advise you to show your true skill.”

“Very well,” Lin Ze replied, growing weary of letting his opponent make the first move.

“Do you think you can outspend me?” Zhao Jing asked with a snort, though a secret sigh of relief escaped him. Though six sword pellets did not frighten him, the calm on the Daoist’s face as he crushed them was unsettling—as if those things were not bought with hard-earned spirit stones at all.

Thankfully, he must be nearly spent. In that case, an early Foundation Establishment cultivator was nothing to worry about.

But his thoughts ground to a halt.

Speechless, Zhao Jing watched as the Daoist produced over a dozen more sword pellets.

Veins bulged on Zhao Jing’s forehead. “Is this your true skill?!”

Before he finished, Lin Ze calmly crushed them all.

Razor-sharp sword light erupted, the screech of blades slicing the air. The very woods trembled violently.

What would it be like if fourteen early Foundation Establishment sword cultivators struck at once? Zhao Jing finally understood.

Panic surged through him. He hurriedly dispelled his flames and summoned a tortoiseshell artifact.

It was often said in the cultivation world that numbers meant nothing before true prowess. There was truth in this, but only if one’s cultivation was high enough to crush all opposition. Against a dozen sword cultivators, even Zhao Jing found himself in dire straits.

He had paid ten spirit stones for the tortoiseshell’s protection, but now it was like a leaf in a storm—barely holding back the sword energies, already showing cracks.

Gritting his teeth, Zhao Jing slapped his storage pouch in fury. So it was a contest of wealth? Did he look like a man without means? Who among cultivators had no life-saving treasures?

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Daoist toss the empty sword pellet pouch to the ground. Relief surged in Zhao Jing’s heart—finally exhausted!

Good, good! Now you will taste Zhao Jing’s might!

Yet his joy was short-lived. He watched in disbelief as Lin Ze quietly produced another pouch, bulging with at least thirty or forty more sword pellets.

To spend nearly a hundred spirit stones in one battle—was this even human?

“Madman!” Zhao Jing cursed, stuffing his talismans back into his storage pouch. Even if he managed to eke out a victory, he’d be crippled for a decade. What a joke—this was Huayang Peak, where allies were just a shout away. Why fight to the death over nothing?

Besides, he still knew nothing of the Daoist’s identity or purpose—this was a losing battle from every angle.

While the tortoiseshell still held, Zhao Jing formed a hand seal, cast a lightness spell, and fled toward a fellow disciple’s abode, shouting, “Patrol disciples! Where have you all gone?!”

Watching him flee in disarray, Lin Ze’s lips curved in a faint smile. He set down the pouch filled with Foundation Establishment pills—time had been too short; in just two days, he had only managed to gather those fourteen sword pellets, his last reserves. That Zhao Jing had withstood such an assault was a testament to his strength. Had he held out a little longer, Lin Ze would have had to retreat himself.

“But in the end, the result is what matters,” he murmured.

He glanced toward the summit, sensing a chill that vanished almost instantly. Perhaps no one else would notice, but Lin Ze had been waiting for this sign all along—twenty sword pellets in exchange for a breathing technique that radiated power. It was a trade more than worth making.

Before the patrol disciples could seal the mountain, Lin Ze strolled unhurriedly toward the peak, paused at the cliff’s edge to survey the view below, then turned and departed Huayang Peak along a quiet side path.