Chapter 446: Sword Immortal Arrives a Hundred Years Late

The young crazy monk's direct eastward path allowed jianghu figures to anticipate his approximate route, leading to a crowd of onlookers gathering early to wait. They initially stood scattered but later instinctively converged, genuinely fearing the monk's unstoppable momentum and worried about being accidentally killed. They believed that grouping together would increase their chances of survival; even if they were unlucky enough to be on his direct path, they would all die together, making good companions on the road to the afterlife. Thus, fifty or sixty people clustered together in a mixed crowd, including renowned jianghu heroes, sneaky outlaws, unknown newcomers, and young female martial artists whose average appearance was already quite captivating. Several pairs of old enemies, for the moment, disregarded their feuds and did not draw their swords, but they remained secretly wary of each other. Some popular female martial artists either smiled and flattered famous heroes or coldly endured persistent advances from various jianghu youths. In the current martial arts world, where anyone who has fought a street brawl with a brick dares to call themselves a martial artist, it's like the Yellow River carrying both clear water and sediment – one cannot expect everyone to be as free-spirited and talented as Li Chungang or Deng Tai'a. A few years ago, a young, well-regarded prodigy claimed he would emulate the ancients by performing a feat similar to crossing a river on a single reed, and he actually succeeded, earning countless praises at the time. Unfortunately, a few days later, his jianghu peers exposed him, revealing that he had floated across the river by having an iron chain suspended a few feet below the surface the night before. He was forced to withdraw from the jianghu in disgrace. This fellow didn't even possess third-rank light body skill, let alone approaching second-rank. This is where the jianghu gets interesting: you can never guess what incredible feat a true genius will accomplish, nor can you predict how ridiculous the next great joke for after-dinner conversation will be.

The young monk, who had already gained an infamous reputation, suddenly paused, causing the onlookers who expected the "useless monk" to cross the river directly to feel a tremor in their hearts. They feared he might act like a pedestrian who, upon seeing an annoying anthill, would extend a foot to crush the colony of ants. However, the subsequent scene brought not only immense relief but also a great unexpected surprise. From the opposite bank of Qingdu River, facing the monk, appeared a stranger in white, whose features were indistinct, making it impossible to tell if it was male or female. This figure stepped across the river. Just as the young monk came to his senses after scooping water to reflect his face, he tapped his toe and swept towards the river surface. The two met and immediately separated. The crazy monk, who had been invincible until then, was unexpectedly struck diagonally on his bald head by the person in white. The white-clad figure floated back to the east bank, each step on the muddy ground making a muffled thud. The crazy monk also staggered back to the west bank, his movements resembling both a stumbling drunkard and an actor shaking their water sleeves.

The power of that single step made the surging river water momentarily halt. Only after both figures landed did the river resume its flow.

The young monk with the tattered kasaya unhesitatingly initiated a second crossing. The white-clad figure simultaneously stepped across the river to intercept, this time landing a powerful kick directly on the monk's chest. The entire river beneath them swayed. In everyone's eyes, the white-clad figure, whose face they finally managed to discern, was incredibly heroic and handsome, clearly an otherworldly immortal who, despite appearing young, must have lived for centuries. The "useless monk" was, without a doubt, a monstrous demon patriarch in a kasaya, and it seemed that today evil was destined to triumph over righteousness. This time, both supreme figures of good and evil retreated to landing spots almost identical to before; from a distance, onlookers could barely perceive any difference. The white-clad celestial being remained expressionless, completely disregarding the adage of "no more than three times." The monk, who once resided at Gandhara and was like the Great Sun Buddha, also moved with grand sleeves, sweeping over the river. This time, the young monk, wearing a pair of tattered straw sandals, pushed out a palm, pressing it against the white-clad figure's sole. In this clash, visible layers of qi-cloud ripples appeared behind both individuals. The monk's body fell, his straw sandals sliding backward ten zhang across the river surface, floating directly back to the bank. The white-clad figure's retreat was slightly slower, but while the monk stood at the water's edge, the white-clad figure's landing point exceeded the previous two times. This back-and-forth situation made the onlookers anxious; could it be that evil was indeed gaining the upper hand over righteousness?

The monk lowered his head and looked at the straw sandals he had casually woven, then inexplicably began to stare blankly. In a life-and-death struggle between masters, victory often lies in mere millimeters. Was this crazy fellow, who constantly sang "useless songs," eager to reincarnate? Or did he not consider the white-clad celestial being a mortal enemy at all? Was it truly as he sang, that heaven and earth held no significance for him? Fortunately, the white-clad figure did not disappoint the onlookers; after three retreats, there was no hint of fatigue. This time, instead of stepping across the river, they leaped to the center of the river. With a flick of their toe, they conjured a water column as thick as a bucket. A sharp water-sword thrust forward, with the person following close behind. The nameless monk in tattered straw sandals and a worn kasaya gently raised his head, lifted an arm, and obscured his hand with his wide sleeve, forming a secret mudra. The water-sword violently struck about ten feet in front of the monk, shattering like an egg against a stone, bursting into countless water droplets. Surprisingly, the white-clad figure, knowing the difficulty, did not retreat, instead using a demon-subduing mudra to counter the monk's hidden hand seal. The two seals were locked in a stalemate. The white-clad figure then delivered a whip kick. The monk smiled unconcernedly, allowing the kick to strike his neck. His body spun in the air, landing in a lotus position, his fingers curled into rings like fireflies, utterly marvelous. The white-clad figure seemed truly angered, speaking coldly for the first time, striking the monk's bald head with a palm. "Five-Character Great Dharani!"

The monk once again endured a palm strike, remaining in the lotus position. His body spun, settling onto the river surface, sitting steadfastly amidst the rolling southward flow, unmoved. The white-clad figure retreated ten feet east from where the young monk sat. With a raise of their right hand, a water-sword was forcibly drawn from the river. She, who once exchanged swords with Deng Tai'a in Dunhuang City, struck down with the water-sword upon that human Acala Vidyaraja. The water-sword broke. The crazy monk, whether a holy monk from Gandhara or Liu Songtao of the Demonic Cult, was half-submerged in the water. He then turned to lie facing south, propping his chin with his right hand, appearing even more peaceful and content. He had attained great freedom. Yet, the surface of Qingdu River was already splashing with myriad water droplets, perhaps because they found the loud and startled onlookers too noisy. Luoyang, who had fought her way through Beiliang to stand before the Empress and Tuoba Pusa, casually waved her hand. Rain poured like arrows, and without exception, all fifty or sixty people would have undoubtedly died instantly.

A young Daoist priest, clad in Wudang robes, had rushed a long distance and barely managed to catch this lethal rainstorm, standing between the onlookers and the splashing water. He formed a circle with his hands, gathering all the water droplets into a large orb between his palms, transforming it into a water sphere almost as tall as a person, which he then pushed into the rolling river.

Luoyang frowned.

The young Daoist priest did not speak to the white-clad figure but instead addressed the crazy monk who was slowly getting up during the lull: "Breeze is useful, it turns my pages. Kunlun is useful, I go to the mountains. Green grass is useful, I know its bloom and decay. Zen meditation is useful, it brings peace of mind. The great river is useful, a ladle quenches thirst. Sun and moon are useful, they illuminate my true heart. I am here, where I go..."

Though seemingly nonsensical, the Wudang Daoist priest ultimately offered his own interpretation of the crazy monk's "useless song." Unexpectedly, after the monk stood up, his eyes were no longer cloudy, but clear as a spring. With his hands clasped behind his back, between sitting and standing, his appearance had changed by more than a decade in the blink of an eye; the young monk had become a middle-aged monk. His previous ignorance and confusion were swept away, replaced by an imposing aura that looked down on the world. At this moment, Liu Songtao was truly the ninth Demonic Cult Leader at his peak. Standing on the river surface, he glanced at the young Daoist priest, then turned to face Luoyang in white, chuckling softly: "The current jianghu is truly eye-opening. I remember Wei Cao, the Sword Immortal, who was unrivalled in the world's sword forests back then. Foolishly, he rode his sword to Zhulu Mountain and stabbed me in the abdomen. I returned the favor with a sword thrust into his mouth, leaving his body hanging on the mountaintop. The enemies created by such incidents were far too numerous. Yet, the last time I walked the jianghu, I rarely encountered opponents who could even be considered evenly matched. That jianghu was dead and stagnant. Now, it's different."

Luoyang merely responded with a cold sneer.

Liu Songtao lowered his head, looked at his kasaya, and fell into thought.

Shaking his head, Liu Songtao looked up and chuckled, "It doesn't matter if I can't figure it out. Since I've truly remembered who I am, I can't let this trip be in vain. I don't care who you are. Since you intend to stop me, and I don't know when I'll lose my lucidity again, how about we make a wager? We'll bet on whether I can travel three hundred li eastward. If you lose, I'll go straight to Zhulu Mountain. If I lose, you'll become the Demonic Cult Leader after Liu Songtao."

Luoyang calmly stated, "If you're holding back, you won't even make it thirty li, let alone three hundred." In the distance behind her, a large crimson fish with the body of a carp and dragon whiskers materialized.

Liu Songtao laughed heartily. With a wave of his hand, he borrowed a sword from the waist of an onlooker, held it horizontally across his chest, and flicked it with his finger. The sound didn't come from in front of him, but echoed down from the Ninth Heaven. "The world only knows Liu Songtao as a demon who indiscriminately slaughters the innocent, always preferring to kill with his bare hands. Only one person truly understands the vast difference between Liu Songtao with a sword and without one. It's laughable to say, that generation of jianghu, including Wei Cao, at least produced five Land Immortals. Yet after I emerged from seclusion, not a single one was worthy enough for Liu Songtao to draw his sword."

Liu Songtao gazed at Zhulu Mountain, three hundred li away, his eyes tender and entranced.

"You said you wanted to witness the Sword Immortal's grace with your own eyes. I've come. That time, I was six days late. This time, I might be a full century late."