Chapter Twenty-Two: Butterflies in the Storm

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Shen Lian watched with unwavering attention, admiring the duel between two martial artists whose skills approached the realm of the Dao. The spectacle yielded him immense insight. His spirit was even stronger than theirs, capable of leaving his body to roam the night. Through pure spiritual resonance rather than mere eyesight, he could directly sense the ebb and flow of power in their exchange.

The wind does not blow all day, nor does the rain fall all morning—such is the natural order. Yet Ling Chongxiao’s mastery was so refined that every movement, every gesture, carried the force of tigers, leopards, and wolves, akin to a waterfall surging down a mountain: vast, powerful, undiminished.

The man in the azure robe, if he did not counter swiftly, would be forced into Ling Chongxiao’s rhythm, caught like a butterfly in a spider’s web, unable to escape. Shen Lian’s gaze remained fixed on the azure-robed figure, his spiritual perception heightened to an extreme, allowing him to clearly sense the man's spirit rising higher and higher amid the battle.

This was due to the qualities forged in the desert and sandstorms, giving him the temperament of a master capable of erupting in adversity. Especially after a trial by life and death, the azure-robed man had shed all superficiality.

On his back, a pouch of energy, mouse-sized, began to form, and his organs produced a thunderous, drumming sound. Shen Lian could perceive the ceaseless surge of inner energy within him.

Originally, two iron hooks embedded in the man’s collarbones exploded forth, gleaming like twin crescent moons, simultaneously launching toward Ling Chongxiao.

These hooks spun rapidly.

Shen Lian focused intently; a white ray appeared at the center of his brows, as if an extra eye had opened. It was as though his spirit had left his body—yet not entirely. His consciousness extended outward, transforming the world into silver. The iron hooks slowed in his perception; he could see clearly the remnants of blood upon them, stained silver but still varying in shade.

The traveler’s tassel is slow, the Wu sword shines like frost;
Within ten paces, he slays a man, and goes a thousand miles without lingering.

The azure-robed man had entered a state never before attained, his spirit climbing ever higher, seemingly about to touch the lonely moon in the nine heavens.

That moon, too, was solitary, and desolate.

Awake, he often sat among the flowers; drunk, he slept beneath the moon.

The azure-robed man seemed like a drunken butterfly, stumbling and wavering, tossed as if by waves.

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This technique was his ultimate killing move, perfected after entering the desert and mastering all martial arts he encountered. No matter how formidable one’s skills, if deceived by this movement, they could not evade and would ultimately perish by his hand.

It was also known as “Butterfly in the Storm.”

For masters, victory and defeat are decided by the smallest margin; duels lasting days and nights are rarely realistic. Yet these two were different—Ling Chongxiao had broken through the “mysterious gateway,” reaching the Taoist stage of subduing the white tiger; his stamina and inner energy were bottomless, unfathomable, and mysterious beyond words.

The azure-robed man, too, had unblocked his Ren and Du meridians, his inner energy circulating in perfect harmony. With his evasive style, he could also persist for a long time.

But he knew that prolonging the battle would eventually expose a flaw, and he might not even have the chance to use the “God-Slaying Sword.”

Because he faced the disparity between himself and Ling Chongxiao head-on, he did not indulge in blind optimism.

When his inner energy unblocked the meridians, the hooks embedded in his collarbone were shaken loose, and his mind entered a wondrous, unfathomable state.

His body moved like a butterfly, concentrating all his vitality to a single point.

With subtle steps, he staggered as if about to be struck and shattered by Ling Chongxiao’s overwhelming force at any moment.

As the hooks reached Ling Chongxiao, he expelled a breath like spring thunder, a burst of white energy crashing into the hooks, breaking them cleanly in two.

Shen Lian was shaken—he had never imagined human power could reach such a level.

These two were not immortals. He thought of his own spirit, which could leave his body, condense moonlight, and manifest a phantom form: if he could make the intangible tangible, he would be able to gather and disperse at will, wielding true supernatural abilities—the real arts of the immortals.

No matter how formidable the martial techniques of the jianghu, how could they harm a spirit that has substance but no form?

Moreover, he had cultivated the “Supreme Purity Spiritual Treasure Locking Heart and Fixing Spirit True Solution” for just over two years, counting his predecessor. His spirit was already stronger than Ling Chongxiao and the azure-robed man, hinting at the extraordinary origins of this method.

He knew that if Ling Chongxiao truly possessed the ability of spirit projection, given his age and experience, he would have long mastered supernatural powers and not needed to fight the azure-robed man physically.

With this thought, the shock from their duel no longer overwhelmed him.

Yet the situation on the field did not change because of Shen Lian’s musings.

Ling Chongxiao’s palm technique was not some esoteric spiritual martial art, but rather the most common “Three Overlapping Waves of the Yangtze River.”

His martial prowess was unmatched in the jianghu; this technique, in his hands, turned the ordinary into the extraordinary. Before one wave faded, the next surged forward, each higher than the last, seemingly endless.

Though the two were never more than five steps apart, the azure-robed man had taken over ten steps without closing the distance to Ling Chongxiao.

Even the Western Paradise, no matter how far, has its thunderous moment of arrival.

How could such a short distance be insurmountable?

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The closer the azure-robed man got, the greater the pressure he felt.

Within a single step, his shoulders trembled like a butterfly’s wings, struggling against the storm, exerting the last ounce of his spirit.

He extended his right hand, forming a sword-finger—sharp and fierce.

With his martial skill, this sword-finger was no weaker than a blade of tempered steel.

The move left no trace, as elusive as a goat’s horn, impossible to evade.

Ling Chongxiao’s forward palm was about to be struck on the Lao Gong acupoint by the sword-finger.

If it landed, the azure-robed man’s fierce sword energy would penetrate, at the very least crippling the nerves in Ling Chongxiao’s arm, rendering half his body paralyzed.

Yet as Ling Chongxiao’s palm reached midpoint, his arm softened, twisting like a snake, gently dodging the sword-finger and coiling around the azure-robed man’s wrist.

The azure-robed man, having closed in with his deadly “Butterfly in the Storm” technique, was all in, with no retreat.

His eyes suddenly erupted with azure light, like a lantern abruptly ignited.

Blood streamed from his eyes, but the blue glow shone onto Ling Chongxiao.

Like a gust of cold wind, Ling Chongxiao’s lively brows suddenly stiffened.

Shen Lian could see that the azure-robed man was willing to risk severe damage to his spirit for a fleeting opportunity to halt Ling Chongxiao.

The chance for victory had appeared;