Chapter Forty-Eight: At Seventeen, the Young Maiden Shatters Armor; With a Single Stroke, She Astonishes Half of Lin'an

A wisp of golden incense burned gently, its smoke swirling and drifting, gathering into the shape of a painting, recalling the resplendent years of the past.

Like a stone cast into a mirrored lake, the scene rippled and surged.

Anle felt a touch of curiosity—what memories could this fleeting strand of golden time, drawn from the gentle girl, reveal? What kind of Dao Fruit of Years might it condense?

That girl, who once stood quietly behind him under spring rain in the mountains, holding an umbrella, following him up three hundred stone steps of the green hills—Ye Wenxi of the Ye family… Rumor had it she too possessed the Minor Saint Token, and was thus a rival to Anle.

Therefore, Anle’s curiosity was piqued.

To strengthen oneself by drawing upon a competitor’s fortune—perfectly reasonable.

…

…

Evening clouds gathered thickly, while pure white snow, light as feathers, drifted down from the heights.

It carried a biting cold, wrapped in a chill that cut to the bone.

Falling upon the vast earth, it soaked up fresh blood, turning into a crimson even more dazzling than the bright moon, more blinding than the blazing sun.

“Wenxi, are you afraid?”

“No.”

“Where are the soldiers? Greasing their blades. Where are the people? Filling the ravines. Lament the land, its rivers and mountains unchanged, a thousand villages deserted. As a child of the Ye family, you must devote your life to crossing the great river—to charge across the Canglang, ride upon the old homeland, and reclaim for us the Central Plains.”

“Wenxi understands!”

“Go, then. Go to kill, to fight, to grow stronger. When you are strong enough, I will climb the Sacred Mountain for you and claim a Minor Saint Token. Then you may go to the Grandmaster and ask: can the sword and spear of the Ye family restore the heartland?”

“Yes!”

…

The calm exchange, laced with surging fervor, shattered the falling snow in the sky.

A man clad head-to-toe in armor, holding a long spear, stood quietly, his gaze lowered upon the still-young girl—like a tiger watching a cub’s first battle.

The girl, Ye Wenxi, still childish in appearance, dragged a long azure sword, eyes resolute, stepping onto snow stained red with blood. Her small frame shouted out, sword trailing behind, sprinting forward into the fray.

Lonely and slight.

Charging onward.

The squad before her, a unit of twenty or thirty cultivators, advanced on foot, their blood and energy woven like a curtain, their gazes fierce, murderous intent rolling forth as if to sweep away the evening clouds above. The clangor of steel and the thunder of horses suffocated the air.

At first, the girl felt fear, but soon her blood surged beneath her skin, her spirit poured forth from the palace of mind.

The sword in her hand burst with a thousand gleams, piercing the body of the leading cultivator, sending a head flying, hot blood splattering on snow, melting its coldness.

The rest of the cultivators rushed in, engulfing Ye Wenxi.

Battle, slaughter, and the unending pursuit of strength.

Ye Wenxi seemed to enter a trance-like state; her eyes grew ever colder, until they reflected only the urge to kill.

She had to become stronger, strong enough to inherit the Ye family’s will, to shoulder the family’s sword and spear, to let the hooves of Ye’s warhorses stamp across the lost heartland!

The armored man watched in silence, his spear darting out at key moments—any enemy master who threatened to intervene was instantly run through, their screams and fury staining the drifting snow and yellow sands with blood.

A quarter-hour passed, then another.

Ye Wenxi, gasping for breath, leaned on her sword, standing in the snow.

All around her, twenty-seven corpses lay fallen.

She raised her head, looking back at the armored man, smiling from within a mound of the dead.

…

With this, the vision faded away, dissipating like mist, the past irretrievable, time never to return.

Anle, glimpsing the girl’s splendor through the thread of years, felt his soul deeply shaken.

The images within this wisp of golden time differed greatly from those he’d seen before. Gone were the farewells and laughter; instead, there was a sense of heroism and duty. Through the vision, standing amidst the carnage, he could sense the girl’s stubbornness, and the expectation in the armored man’s gaze.

Anle slowly opened his eyes; night was deep, the chill biting. The spring frost that rose at midnight seemed to condense into dew on his sleeve.

His mind could not settle for a long time. Witnessing Ye Wenxi draw her sword to kill had affected him profoundly, as if he’d been present himself.

But what astonished Anle even more was that such a gentle, soft-spoken girl could, in the span of two quarters of an hour, take twenty-seven lives.

This contrast made Anle all the more wary of Ye Wenxi’s strength—and her extraordinary talent.

Madam Hua had said Ye Wenxi was the true prodigy of the Ye family’s generation. It was well-deserved. Her resolve was leagues above the tofu-like Dao heart of Luo Qingchen.

This girl would be his opponent on the Minor Saint List in the days to come…

As the cold of the spring night crept in, Anle felt a mounting pressure.

[Acquired Dao Fruit of Years: Self-Forgetting]

[Note: Self-Forgetting (Dao Fruit): In battle, triggers a state of selflessness, disregarding life and death, intent on fighting alone. Greatly enhances techniques, combat skills, and fighting spirit, thus greatly increasing power.]

A wisp of golden years had condensed into a Dao Fruit of Self-Forgetting.

It was somewhat similar to the Dao Fruit [Fearless Heart]—both belonged to the category that could not be enhanced by the power of years, but their effects were significant.

Fearless Heart granted Anle the courage to face any pressure or danger, to forge ahead fearlessly, and even receive feedback from the Dao Fruit.

Self-Forgetting, on the other hand, was meant for battle: once activated, it dramatically improved combat power.

It was a curious state. Anle recalled the vision of Ye Wenxi charging alone, lost in the frenzy, slaughtering twenty-seven enemies.

An unexpected gain—such a Dao Fruit had little use in daily life, but might someday prove invaluable.

The night deepened; before he realized, it was already dawn, the horizon pale with new light.

Anle did not continue cultivating. He rose, entered his room, picked up a book, lit a lamp, and began to read.

There was another requirement for meeting the Grandmaster: he must take first place in the imperial examination!

Therefore, with the spring exams approaching, he studied daily without fail.

…

…

Prime Minister Qin’s residence.

In the winding corridors and pavilions, by the flowing water, though night was late, there were still figures seated and conversing in the water pavilion.

Young Master Qin Qianqiu sat upright in the pavilion—before him was not tea, but a rare wine of Lin’an, “Spring of Penglai,” brewed with spiritual fruits of heaven and earth, a wine that could nourish the body and slightly enhance cultivation.

Across from him sat Luo Qingchen, silent, a cup filled to the brim before him, untouched.

The atmosphere was tense.

For Qin Qianqiu kept drinking, his manner cold and taciturn.

He had once held great hopes for Luo Qingchen to ascend the Sixth Mountain and become its guardian, but when those hopes were dashed, all that remained was vexation and disappointment.

Luo Qingchen could sense it, but said nothing; he had no right to explain.

“Master Luo, this Anle… came from Chongzhou. His cultivation was newly awakened, yet he surpassed you, climbed the Sixth Mountain, claimed the Minor Saint Token, and even caused your Dao heart to be clouded again.”

“Master, every age brings forth new heroes. Your former brilliance has faded; frost has withered the flowers, and all that’s left is decline.”

Qin Qianqiu sighed, “I recall the days when you came from Qingzhou, dazzling as gold washed clean of dust. Alone with your sword, you won two victories in Lin’an, so proud, so triumphant.”

“This Anle is so very much like you once were.”

“But he has an even greater future than you. He holds the Minor Saint Token; his paintings are praised and circulated within the Literary Institute, and he has founded his own school of ink bamboo painting.”

“It is truly a pity, a loss, that such a talent may not join our household.”

Qin Qianqiu seemed troubled, draining a cup in one gulp.

Luo Qingchen turned to gaze at the flourishing water pavilions of the Prime Minister’s residence; his face grew calm. No matter that Qin Qianqiu’s words were harsh—he accepted them with equanimity. Perhaps he was simply used to such blows by now.

“Qingchen is ashamed of having failed to live up to the years of support and resources from the Prime Minister’s house.”

At last, Luo Qingchen raised his cup and drank, speaking softly.

Qin Qianqiu’s gaze rested on Luo Qingchen, his pupils reflecting the moonlight, cold and clear. “Master Luo, this newcomer to the Minor Saint List is deeply entwined with the Lin family, and our house and the Lin family are at daggers drawn. If he can be brought into our fold, so much the better. If not…”

Within the water pavilion, a murderous intent suddenly swelled.

From the start, Qin Qianqiu had dismissed Anle as a nobody, awoken to cultivation only at eighteen. But as the youth revealed his talent, claimed the Minor Saint Token, Qin Qianqiu took him very seriously. All this had changed in just a few days.

Luo Qingchen drank quietly.

“If he cannot be brought into the Qin household, then, Master Luo, I ask you to kill him.” Qin Qianqiu looked at Luo Qingchen, once more showing a fervent light.

Luo Qingchen met his gaze.

To kill one who had just won the Minor Saint Token, who was favored by Hua Jie Bing, and to whom the master of the Sixth Mountain had gifted a sword—was this not asking Luo Qingchen to trade his own life for Anle’s?

“Young Master, my Dao heart is clouded and I need time to recover. Please ask someone else to handle this matter,” Luo Qingchen said, standing, bowing, and turning to leave.

Qin Qianqiu sat unmoving in the pavilion, staring at Luo Qingchen’s retreating figure. “Master Luo, even if you put aside the East Sea Cleansing Pearl, surely, after all the honor and resources our house has given you over the years, it is time you repaid us.”

Luo Qingchen paused slightly, then strode from the Qin residence, shattering the chill of the night.

Qin Qianqiu sipped the moon-reflecting Penglai wine and gave a quiet, derisive laugh.

…

…

The warmth of dawn drove away the lingering chill of spring.

Yet all of Lin’an began to stir with restless excitement.

Yesterday, at the foot of the Sixth Mountain, a youth in white, sword in hand, ascended alone and plucked the Ink Pool beneath the peach trees. Those cultivators who witnessed the youth receiving his sword all sent their people to gather every bit of news about him.

Awakened to cultivation at eighteen, yet within days had reached the Refining Spirit and Embryonic Breathing realms, forging his body, tempering spirit and bone—late to mature, but now an extraordinary vessel!

Moreover, he was a newly minted scholar, come to Lin’an to take the spring exams.

What shocked people even more was his art: his unique sketches had won the Lin family’s favor, making him their court painter, and now his ink paintings of bamboo and stone were circulating in the Literary Institute.

The Ink Bamboo painting had drawn praise from two of the Institute’s masters, who personally shared and analyzed it.

They claimed it could found a new school of ink bamboo painting—declaring him a master!

One painting, one sword, one youth—he had amazed half of Lin’an.

That day, the Ink Bamboo painting he’d made for the Institute was in such demand that copies were impossible to come by; it spread like wildfire, causing a stir among Lin’an’s scholars and literati.

That day, the name of Master An swept the city like a hurricane!

That day, Anle rose early as usual, reading as he walked toward West Lake, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Celestial Lady Yunrou.