Chapter Fifty-Four: You and I Are but Small Figures, Fleeting as Mayflies in This World

The ink pool sword in An Le’s hand had been brought from the Sixth Mountain, a personal gift from its master. Though it was not of high grade, few dared underestimate it. As for the other sword—a battered bamboo blade tucked at the youth’s waist—it drew little attention. What threat could an old, broken bamboo sword pose? Perhaps it was merely a childhood toy whittled by an elder in his family, carrying special meaning, a symbol of the boy’s youthful dream to wander the world with a sword.

No one knew the origin of the bamboo blade—not even those afar in the carriage, Qin Qianqiu and Wang Qinhe. Neither connected the battered sword at the youth’s waist with the legendary blade once carried for centuries by a famed figure of the Zhao Dynasty. Thus, when Zhushan unleashed the surging power of his refined blood and spirit, he focused all his attention on the ink pool sword, scrutinizing and anticipating An Le’s next move.

But the ink pool, which Zhushan had been watching so closely, suddenly vanished—as if a blot of dark ink melted into the blackness of night, disappearing without a trace, gone from both his sight and mind! A wave of mortal threat, raising every hair on his body, swept over him.

Where was the sword?

A gust of wind arose, sharpness manifesting out of nowhere. Starlight cascaded from the heavens, spilling before Zhushan’s eyes, and a blade of sword-light, accompanied by the gleam of stars, emerged from the darkness. Tip, blade, guard, hilt—a complete sword appeared in midair, streaking toward him like a bolt of black lightning across the endless night!

Too close!

Only then did Zhushan sense its presence, and in a single instant the threat of death enveloped his entire being. His muscles seemed to stiffen in terror, yet he did not surrender. He wished for the gentleman to leave Lin’an unscathed—how could he fail at his very first attempt? If he were to fall now, what meaning would his battle for the gentleman hold? It would only thrust the gentleman into a dilemma.

With a low roar, like a beast at the end of its road, Zhushan’s blood-forged internal core spun rapidly in his dantian, compressing and driving forth tremendous strength to every corner of his body. His burly form and knotted muscles suddenly swelled, skin, muscle, and spirit bones exploded with force, twisting his body as if his sinews were braided ropes.

A sharp sound!

The ink pool, catching Zhushan unawares, pierced his shoulder, drawing a spray of blood, slicing through flesh and skin, accompanied by the sword’s song and the shattering of blood droplets, even shaving off a corner of the hat atop Zhushan’s head.

His blood burned like fire, his legs drove into the stone beneath, fracturing the ground as he spun and halted. The ink pool, accompanied by a flash of sword-light, returned quietly to the white-robed youth’s side, hovering serenely.

Zhushan panted heavily, sweat rolling down his forehead, eyes bloodshot. Though he was a martial artist of the third stage, with blood refined into an inner core, his advantage was nullified—he was suppressed from the first exchange. The ink pool sword was like a venomous serpent in the night.

“Sword control? Divine refinement, transcendence?”

Zhushan stared incredulously at the youth.

But An Le gave no reply. Since Zhushan had made his choice, he would have to answer for it. An Le raised his hand, lightly tapping the ink pool’s blade. At once, a breeze swept by, and the sword vanished once more into the night, like a master assassin hidden, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

“No, your spirit has not transcended—like me, you are still at the prenatal stage. This is not sword control!”

Zhushan took a deep breath and moved again.

Beneath his skin, every pore oozed misty blood, forming a coiling serpent that circled him at speed, controlled by his mind, ready to guard against a strike from the ink pool lurking in the darkness.

Zhushan knew he must close the distance, press his advantage in body refinement—a stage above An Le’s. Only then would he have a chance: An Le’s refinement had barely broken the second stage at the Sixth Mountain. Once Zhushan drew near, he could kill An Le outright.

Blood surged onto his broad blade, his spirit taut as a bowstring, provoked by the hidden ink pool.

A thunderous crash!

Zhushan moved, shattering the stone beneath his feet, body trailing a mist of blood as he charged toward An Le. The youth’s white robes fluttered; he raised his hand and pressed down gently, his mind as fine as silk.

A gentle breeze, sword energy at hand!

Starlight spilled; the ink pool reappeared, as if an artist had dropped a spot of ink onto white paper. It appeared with uncanny precision at Zhushan’s neck, sharp sword energy pulsing, instantly breaking through his blood defense.

An Le’s spirit was already approaching the third stage of divine refinement—something Zhushan had not anticipated, and its pressure chilled him to the bone. Yet he refused to yield; he had reasons that compelled him to succeed—only victory would ensure the gentleman could leave Lin’an unharmed, even if it cost Zhushan his life.

With a roar, Zhushan kept charging. The blood-forged core at his surface compressed, transforming into a roaring serpent that crashed toward the ink pool, intent on breaking through.

But An Le’s mind surged, and the world seemed filled with countless strands of sword energy, as if manipulating the ink pool with invisible threads.

An Le’s palm pressed down.

The ink pool shuddered, accelerating its downward strike!

A clear, sharp sword-song erupted—a cry like a wild horse on the grassland. Hooves thundered, shattering the void!

Zhushan’s eyes narrowed; he felt as if a jet-black wild horse, fierce and untamed, was bearing down upon him—its speed beyond his senses.

The ink pool was a sword of painting and calligraphy; An Le had drawn the “Galloping Horse,” nurturing the sword’s energy with the spirit of a racing steed. Sword energy and artistry fused, birthing a phenomenon never seen before.

Zhushan’s hair bristled; even with his blood core, he could not evade this strike.

The blood serpent was severed!

Skin breached, blood gushed!

Yet Zhushan, eyes red, ignored the pain. In the fiery gaze, only the youth bathed in starlight remained.

“Kill!”

The ink pool pierced his neck, slicing the veins, blood erupted like a fountain.

But An Le’s eyes narrowed slightly.

He saw that the flesh at Zhushan’s neck, tough as forged iron, had trapped the ink pool. Boundless strength exploded—Zhushan, ink pool lodged in his neck, strode forward in giant steps, shattering stone with each pace, charging like a fierce bear in the forest, finally closing the distance. The pressure of his blood core descended like a mountain.

He swung his broad blade with ferocity.

This was the blow into which he poured all his faith, blood, courage, and hope.

Yet a battered bamboo sword, trailing a spray of blood, emerged from Zhushan’s back, its tip erupting forth, carrying an unstoppable force that shattered the air in ripples, threatening to pierce the heavens and burst the clouds.

Sword force, explosive!

The bamboo blade pierced through, shattering the blood core Zhushan had refined, carrying away all his energy and strength.

His broad blade fell weakly, brushed aside by An Le.

With a dull thud, the blade landed beside An Le, carving a mark in the stone, raising a breeze.

Zhushan’s burly body now bore a gaping wound, supported by his blade, blood streaming from mouth and nose, tears of blood flowing from his eyes, gazing at the youth before him with complexity and regret.

“Master An... please... forgive Zhushan’s offense.”

An Le looked at Zhushan, his eyes reflecting both admiration and release.

“You and I are but small figures, living in this world like mayflies, all beyond our control.”

“But in this world, there is always someone worth fighting for with your life.”

So An Le spoke.

“Master An... forgive me, I only wished for the gentleman to live.”

“The gentleman once saved me from disaster—now I wish to do all I can... to let him return to the place where his dream began.”

“This... this is all I can do.”

Zhushan coughed blood as he spoke. He did not blame An Le; he had tried to kill him, and if he died for it, so be it. His resentment was for Qin Qianqiu—the noble heir who forced the gentleman to his death. When the cunning rabbit dies, the hound is cooked; when the gentleman had lost his value, he was discarded like a worn shoe.

An Le said no more. All this was Zhushan’s choice, yet in truth, he had no choice. Qin Qianqiu had ordered him to kill An Le—such men’s words leave little room for the likes of Zhushan to decide their own fate.

The bamboo sword returned; the ink pool was gently withdrawn, both hovering at An Le’s side, unstained by blood.

Zhushan, soaked in blood, his will beginning to fade, leaned on his blade, standing still beneath the brilliant starlight and frosty moonlight.

He raised his head, gazing toward the end of the long street.

In the night, gray mist veiled the way forward, as if hope could not be seen.

Before his eyes, scenes of the past faded in like paintings.

He saw himself, blade in hand, striking down enemies and thrown into the Black Prison, hopeless, the gentleman arriving like starlight to save him with a smile.

He saw himself driving the carriage with the gentleman, galloping across Qingzhou to challenge all the talented, winning ten battles out of ten, watching the gentleman’s tower rise, his brilliance like a startled swan.

He saw the carriage leaving Qingzhou for Lin’an, traversing mountains and rivers, the gentleman singing with his sword, himself cracking the whip in harmony.

He saw the gentleman laughing in the carriage, himself smiling at the reins.

He saw...

He would never see again.

The long journey should lament the late spring; in the broken night, dreams are faint.

A sigh of regret escaped the burly driver.

“Gentleman, Zhushan can no longer drive you back to Qingzhou.”

...

...

Flowing cups along winding waters, small pavilions and humble homes.

Before Luo Qingchen, a silver sword hovered, his spirit deep as the sea, sword energy like frost, cleansing the dust from his Dao heart.

Suddenly, his heart trembled.

It was as if a sigh, wrapped in the chill of early spring night, drifted to him.

He opened his eyes abruptly, a trace of sorrow spreading like ink.

He rose swiftly, gazing toward the long street, clenching his fist.

The silver sword coiled about him like a snake.

He soared into the sky, racing madly toward that distant street.