Chapter 595: A Stretch of River is a Sword

The notion that the martial arts of the jianghu were profound and extensive was, in Wang Xianzhi’s view, quite uninteresting. The old man had witnessed countless so-called unique and new techniques, which were merely old wine in new bottles, unable to escape the rules established by their predecessors. Especially for swordsmen, the peaks reached by their predecessors were truly too high, and most successors were still only halfway up the mountain. Therefore, any few or dozens of sword moves presented during this time offered no novelty, much less impressed Wang Xianzhi.

Yet, for Wang Xiaoping's half-sword—the initial raising and accumulating of power before drawing his blade—Wang Xianzhi did not take it lightly in the slightest. He had originally intended to use the same method he employed against the woman from Huishan: leveraging his unparalleled and immense aura to attack from a distance at will. Wang Xianzhi, who had been holding a mountain-like rock in one hand, ultimately did not act so freely. He switched from supporting the rock with one palm to propping it up with both hands, his steps never faltering as he continued to rush towards Wang Xiaoping by the shore. His left and right hands, with fingers like iron hooks, permeated the giant rock with internal energy. First, they tore open numerous cracks, then completely shredded the entire massive boulder into hundreds of thousands of fragments. Though scattered in form, these fragments remained spiritually connected, bound by wisps of internal energy.

With his wrists close together, Wang Xianzhi twisted both hands, and the numerous fragments, which seemed on the verge of disintegration, instantly re-coalesced, forming a stone formation that, from a distance, resembled a large circle. Countless tiny purple lightning currents wildly circulated within the gaps between the fragments. As Wang Xianzhi suddenly spread his hands, a flock of purple-black ravens, arranged in a semi-fan shape, seemed to appear above the old man's head.

The raven-like stone fragments were not static; each raven seemed to draw water. From the Guangling River beneath Wang Xianzhi's feet, arm-thick columns of water continuously surged from the surface.

If the flock of ravens was the fan's surface, then these rapidly rising and rotating water columns became the fan's ribs.

Wang Xiaoping had descended Mount Wudang to hone his swordsmanship, and today, with a single sword stroke, he challenged the mountain, forcing Wang Xianzhi to descend. However, an outsider arrived, also a "descender" of sorts. His timing coincided precisely with Wang Xiaoping's sword initiation and Wang Xianzhi's raven formation. He was neither beneficial nor detrimental to the overall situation, so both men consciously or unconsciously chose to ignore him. This uninvited guest wore an old, faded daoist robe, though not in the style of Longhu or Wudang mountains. He appeared to be a man in his forties. As he approached within a li of the Guangling River, he witnessed Wang Xianzhi's fist-aura white rainbow striking a figure in purple. The middle-aged daoist did not seem to run wildly; each step was still leisurely and unhurried, yet in the blink of an eye, he was near the riverside. Even when Wang Xiaoping wielded his sword to cut through the long rainbow, the daoist did not intervene. He then stopped by the shore, watching helplessly as the purple-clad figure from Huishan fell into the rolling waters of the river. The daoist seemed to let out a soft sigh.

The middle-aged daoist did not leap into the river to save anyone. Instead, he turned to look at the fan that Wang Xianzhi had elaborately created, and he frowned. Everyone knew that when Old Monster Wang presided over Wudi City, he welcomed and sparred with countless masters, never seeking flashy techniques in his combat. In short, fighting him would be messy and unrefined. Whether it was Cao Changqing, known for his unparalleled elegance, or the Peach Blossom Sword God, who mastered sword manipulation over mere sword control, none could provide an outsider with a truly awe-inspiring spectacle. The daoist remained perfectly still. His left hand drew an arc, creating ripples as if blocking something invisible, while the five fingers of his right hand performed incantations with blinding speed.

There are three aspects to a situation: timing, geographical advantage, and human relations. Yuan Qingshan, the Imperial Advisor of Beiliang, was skilled at calculating human relations; Huang Longshi was exceptionally proficient in calculating timing; and he excelled by predicting geographical advantages.

Among the few remaining Thirteen Jias of Spring and Autumn, this daoist, who had always deeply concealed his achievements, was counted as the Jia of Calculations.

He appeared to be in his forties, but in truth, he was already over a hundred years old. However, the path he cultivated offered no hope of ever reaching the heavenly realm of returning to youth. Otherwise, with his exceptional talent, he could have long since returned to simplicity and authenticity, enjoying a freedom almost comparable to Patriarch Lü's refusal to enter the heavenly gate five centuries ago. Yet, whether to ascend, which the world desperately sought, was merely a thought for him. Throughout his long life, he had witnessed countless worldly ups and downs. He had discussed the Dao many times with Qi Xuanzhen, the reincarnation of Patriarch Lü; he had raised a malevolent dragon for the Liyang Zhao imperial family on Difu Mountain; he had engaged in schemes with three generations of Longhu Mountain's sect masters. Even earlier, he had traveled the martial world with Liu Songtao, the seemingly invincible Sect Master of Zhulu Mountain from a century ago, being both his enemy and his friend. The daoist stopped his incantations, already understanding the distant battle between the two men.

Wang Xianzhi was nearly a hundred years old and had stood at the pinnacle of martial arts for almost sixty years. Compared to ordinary mortals, he had lived too long, to the point where almost everyone had forgotten that this burly old man was once a scholar with aspirations for the imperial court. He had even emulated cultured elites, using a feather fan and silk scarf to grandly discuss state affairs. However, due to various circumstances, he had cast aside his brush and books to enter the martial world, never looking back since. When the demon Huang Sanjia directed national fortune into the martial world, Wang Xianzhi originally held the lead, akin to a powerful court official commanding dukes in the emperor's name. No one could compete with him; he could have easily monopolized most of it, becoming like Gao Shulu four centuries ago, or Liu Songtao a century ago. Yet, Wang Xianzhi did not do so. Neither Song Nianqing, who was then a fearless young upstart, nor Cao Changqing, who had just entered the Celestial Phenomenon realm—these martial world pillars imbued with destiny—perished in Wudi City. This time, leaving the East Sea, he faced Xuanyuan Qingfeng, who was essentially throwing an egg against a rock; he could have killed her or not. But Wang Xiaoping was different. The latter had the backing of Mount Wudang. In the future, those from the mountain would directly confront the fishing immortal, ultimately creating an unprecedented new order, a separation between mortals and celestials. In the martial world of the future, let alone the grand spectacle of seven or eight Land Immortals appearing together, perhaps not even one would remain. Even the Celestial Phenomenon realm would be a luxury, and the very concept of ascension would naturally become a thing of the past. Such a situation, for Wang Xianzhi, who had single-handedly carved out his own domain, was naturally deeply detestable.

Wang Xianzhi not only had to block Wang Xiaoping's impending drawn sword, but also, in one fell swoop, sever the Sword Idiot's connection with Wudang!

Wang Xianzhi was seen clenching both fists and casting them forward.

The fan-shaped formation surged forward, overwhelming everything, stirring up a powerful, soaring wind.

Wang Xiaoping still kept his eyes tightly shut. His left hand, with two fingers pressed together, pushed forward along the peach wood scabbard, and the scabbard gently slid out.

There was no immense aura powerful enough to pierce the Big Dipper, no phenomenon of rising winds and gathering clouds. Even as the purple lightning-infused fragments rolled towards him, followed by a colossal wall of water crashing down, the sword's unsheathing speed remained unhurried and steady.

The next scene was shocking. The Wudang daoist was swept over by the overwhelming deluge of stone fragments and lightning, and then slammed by a massive wave. After this round of attacks, countless fragments did not fall to the ground as expected. Instead, they hovered individually by the shore, slowly rotating. Dark clouds gathered in the sky, then a long, crystal-clear white line emerged, faintly visible, as if descending from the Ninth Heaven. It was slightly angled, pointing towards Wang Xiaoping, whose peach wood sword was still not fully unsheathed. The end of the white line hung three feet above the daoist's head.

The common saying, "There are deities three feet above your head," refers to heaven remembering the good and evil deeds of humans.

Wang Xianzhi sneered, extended a finger, and lightly pinched, snapping that white line.

The middle-aged daoist murmured to himself, "Ultimately, Li Chungang could lose to Wang Xianzhi back then, and you, Wang Xianzhi, can also lose to a rising star. But the martial world absolutely cannot lose its vitality this way. Why is it that the disruption of laws by scholars goes unchallenged, while martial acts that defy prohibitions are increasingly condemned and pushed aside?"

The daoist sighed with emotion. "Xu Fengnian, that young man from Beiliang, wants to guard the northwest pass and bring peace to the people of the Central Plains. His original intention isn't bad. But he's too deeply entangled with Wudang. Once he consolidates his power, he will inevitably join forces with Li Yufu. Thus, there are two choices: not killing Xu Fengnian means decades less turmoil in the world; killing Xu Fengnian means the martial world remains the martial world, largely separate from the imperial court, no matter how strong its military might become. Now, someone might want to fill in this well that is the martial world. It's perfectly reasonable that you, Wang Xianzhi, as the well-keeper who views the sky from the bottom of a well, would not agree."

He then saw the taut white line above Wang Xiaoping's head suddenly snap, the remaining portion violently whipping into an arc in the air before slowly dissipating into the clouds.

Wang Xiaoping still did not draw his sword.

His fingers had almost slid to the sword's tip, meaning the scabbard was on the verge of completely separating from the blade.

The daoist wasn't sure if it was the sorrow of a fellow cultivator, akin to a fox grieving a rabbit's death, or merely a common human feeling of pity that made him unable to watch. He turned his gaze towards the river. In truth, had Wang Xiaoping drawn his sword earlier, merely to break Wang Xianzhi's confinement, there would have been more life than death. Given Wang Xianzhi's rarely angered nature, he might not have necessarily sought Wang Xiaoping's demise. But since this sword fanatic was so stubbornly misguided, Wang Xianzhi was likely truly intent on killing him.

The daoist practiced reclusive solitude. While he understood Wang Xiaoping's obsession, he found it difficult to agree with.

Even if it were a sword strike from a Land Immortal, what then?

Even stepping back ten thousand paces, if it could genuinely wound Wang Xianzhi, it would only expose what might be considered a negligible flaw to that young prince, and it wouldn't stop Wang Xianzhi from going to Liang to kill.

Was it worth sacrificing a life to gain a slightly better chance for someone else?

The daoist suddenly widened his eyes. Even an old monster like him, whom Xu Fengnian had cursed as a thousand-year-old turtle, was somewhat astonished.

Wang Xiaoping opened his eyes. Just as the scabbard was on the verge of falling, instead of seizing the opportunity to draw his sword, he pushed the blade back into its scabbard and softly said, "Go."

The peach wood sword, still sheathed, vanished in a flash.

Passengers on the many ferries traversing the gorge all screamed simultaneously. It turned out that the boats, large and small, beneath their feet had begun to move uncontrollably. Those heading upstream, no matter how hard they struggled, started to retreat rapidly, while those facing downstream moved like arrows shot forward, as if divinely aided.

All this stemmed from the sudden withdrawal of the Guangling River's waters, using Wang Xiaoping and the end of the gorge as two boundary lines.

This river water, now detached from its channel, was as thick as a mountain peak. It surged into the sky like a gigantic green sword, unprecedented and unparalleled!

It curved around Wang Xiaoping, then instantly straightened in the air, its tip pointing directly at Wang Xianzhi, who stood suspended above the now dry riverbed.

Wang Xiaoping let out a soft cry and stepped forward.

A single sword stroke was finally delivered.

A section of the river itself became a long sword!