Chapter 87: A Lone Journey Through the Martial World (Part Five)

At the very moment when He Chang’an’s sword pierced through the brow of the Ape Chief, a piercing, mournful wail echoed across the distant Crow Mountain, three hundred miles away.

Deep within a cavern steeped in ghostly gloom, a thick mass of black mist churned wildly and swiftly coalesced into the shape of a black dragon-fish. Half-real, half-phantom, it was the remnant spirit of a great fiend, whose death had failed to dispel its resentment, allowing it to cultivate anew as a malevolent specter.

This dragon-fish had once been a black carp in the lower reaches of the great river. By devouring countless aquatic creatures, it attained sentience and became a spirit beast. Through a stroke of fate, it consumed and refined a fragment of an immortal’s bone, transforming into a flood dragon. For centuries, it reigned supreme at the river’s delta where the waters met the sea.

Later, it happened upon the words of a sage, who spoke of the Dragon Gate Falls—a wondrous place connecting to a celestial paradise. Ordinary carp, if they could leap across the falls, might be transformed into true dragons. Elated, the dragon-fish swam upstream, determined to attempt the legendary leap.

Yet, just as it vaulted over the Dragon Gate but before it could shed its form and become a true dragon, a divine thunderbolt of heavenly retribution struck it down without mercy. In mere moments, its body was destroyed and its spirit scattered.

Nursing its grudge, the remnant spirit practiced the dark arts, and after centuries of bitter cultivation, it regained strength, stirring tempests and wreaking havoc upon the mortal world. The soul mark on the Ape Chief was its doing.

Though He Chang’an had acted with utmost caution, severing the soul connection the instant he seized control of the Ape Chief’s mind, the ghostly being formed from the dragon-fish’s essence still sensed the intrusion.

At first, its suspicions were aroused by the sword intent, but soon it realized something was gravely amiss: the one who slew the Ape Chief was nothing more than a crude warrior!

Madam Black Jade, as she called herself, was beside herself with fury. She howled at the sky, rolled upon the ground, and transformed into a voluptuous woman. Bursting from the stone cave, she was intent on annihilating He Chang’an.

As soon as she emerged, the woman saw an unremarkable middle-aged man seated leisurely on a boulder not far away, a bamboo sword resting across his knees as he sipped wine unhurriedly.

Suspicion flickered across her face as she paused at the cave entrance. The fact that this man had approached her “lair” so silently, without her noticing, filled her with dread. Especially that bamboo sword—could it be…?

“So that’s where the fishy stench on Crow Mountain comes from—turns out it’s just a dead fish,” the middle-aged man remarked in disappointment, not bothering to spare her another glance. He lowered his head, took a sip of wine, and muttered, “How dull.”

With a long draught, he stood up, took a single step, and in an instant, was a hundred yards away. With a casual flick of his bamboo sword, Madam Black Jade—and Crow Mountain behind her—were sliced cleanly in two, as effortlessly as cutting through tofu, without a sound…

…

He Chang’an was gravely wounded, coughing up mouthfuls of blood, his complexion ashen and haggard, deep wrinkles etching across his face. Strangely, his vital energy showed no sign of decline; rather, from extreme weakness, it gradually revived, pulsing with renewed vigor.

From utter ruin came resurgence; his pulse beat like a drum. Scorching white vapor streamed from his nose and mouth, coiling and twisting like twin serpents, entwining and undulating in a dragon’s dance.

This uncanny spectacle left the burly old man and Xiaohui, who stood guard by his side, exchanging confused and worried glances.

“Grandfather, what’s happening to him?” Xiaohui, still youthful and impatient, couldn’t hold back her curiosity and sent a whispered question.

“Don’t ask… the more you know, the worse you’ll feel. Go tend the medicine,” the burly elder replied, visibly unsettled, unwilling to explain further. He rose and stood silently several hundred yards away before the waterfall.

Obediently, Xiaohui went to prepare the brew.

From afar, someone approached with strides spanning dozens of yards, calling out from a distance, “He Chang’an, do you know, I just split a mountain in half with a single swing of my sword—not even a challenge…”

Moments later, the newcomer arrived before the Dragon Gate Falls—a thoroughly ordinary-looking middle-aged man.

The burly old man stepped forward to greet him. Xiaohui, crouched by the medicine pot, craned her neck to peer at the visitor.

It was, of course, A’Fei.

He cast a casual glance at the old man and Xiaohui, strode quickly to He Chang’an’s side, and his expression shifted before breaking into a chuckle.

“This foolish boy’s not bad at all,” A’Fei said, plopping down beside him, clicking his tongue in amazement. “If only his talent weren’t so pitiful—he doesn’t have one ten-thousandth of my ability.”

The old man and Xiaohui found this hard to swallow, feeling the newcomer’s words to be rather exaggerated.

…

He Chang’an lay within a barren, dried-up sea of his heart, his body torn and bloody, his meridians shredded, his spiritual core shattered into pieces—a sight of utter misery.

He struggled to rise; even the slightest movement sent waves of excruciating pain through him, making it nearly impossible to breathe.

Yet he was not resigned to simply fading away. He was still young, had been granted a second chance at life, and there were still so many grand acts left to perform, so many flowers left to plant—he was only eighteen…

He Chang’an suddenly thought of Mr. Lü, the gentle, ordinary, and rather pedantic old scholar.

The old man had spoken often, rambling on as kindly elders do, taking simple matters and spinning endless lessons from them; yet when faced with lofty, profound questions, he would often dismiss them with a light touch.

Among those were matters of martial breakthroughs, sword cultivation, and immortality. When He Chang’an asked sincerely, the old scholar would respond thoughtlessly, yet with an air of utmost seriousness—

“They all say the path of cultivation defies the heavens. If you’ve rebelled against the heavens, how could your vital energy possibly remain smooth and unimpeded?”

“Breakthroughs, breakthroughs—if there are no boundaries, what’s there to break through? It’s more like a broken jar left to shatter.”

And so on, and so forth.

He Chang’an thought of many people: his father, Li Yishan, Zhao Zheng, Du Thirteen, Wen Taiyuan, Shen Yan, Lord Zheng, the little nun, Zheng Hongxiu…

And then there was A’Jiu.

That dark, delicate girl—so stubborn and resolute—how had she, with not a trace of spiritual energy in her, managed to kill with a single stroke of her bamboo sword?

It was sword intent.

But what truly was sword intent?

Lost in thought, He Chang’an felt the agony from his meridians, spiritual core, and very soul ease ever so slightly.

He remembered countless events, both from his past life and his present one. The dormant little black rod stirred faintly.

Suddenly, a glimmer of understanding dawned within him.

Forcing himself to endure the searing pain, He Chang’an slowed his breath and began to circulate his internal energy, guiding the little black rod through his meridians, no longer fixated on forced breath control.

Above the heart’s lake, white mist began to rise and gather, finally condensing into droplets of spiritual fluid that fell from above, striking the cracked, parched earth below.

One drop, two drops, three or five drops.

Like a long-awaited spring rain, at last it began to fall—soft and persistent, nourishing all in silence.

Bathed in the gentle rain, his torn meridians and shattered spiritual core grew supple once more, exuding a fresh, grassy fragrance.

Spring returned to the land; all things came to life.

In the distance, thunder rumbled, its sound like beating drums.

Upon the lake of his heart, someone slowly sat up and muttered, “That so-called sword cultivator A’Fei does love to boast…”