Chapter Forty-One: Moonlight Like a Blade

The blade flashed and vanished in an instant; the outcome had already been decided.

Naturally, Shen Lian would not lose to Sword Fourteen. Sword Fourteen’s blade had been shattered into two pieces, along with his yet-to-be-formed sword intent. A sword intent that fails to defeat its opponent loses its reason to exist. Destruction, after all, is the prelude to rebirth. Whether Sword Fourteen could ever nurture a stronger sword intent, no one knew.

He knelt in the snow, where some of it had already melted, yet more remained, forming a crust of ice. The ice buried in the earth rendered the ground harder than refined iron. Sword Fourteen had never trained in techniques such as Iron Claw; with his bare hands, he dug at the cold, unyielding soil, soon scraping out a bloody pit—his blood mixing with the earth, his nails torn open, flesh mingling with mud.

At last, he buried his broken sword in the ground, then helped Sword Thirteen to his feet and retreated to a distant spot.

Shen Lian’s robe was torn at the chest—a small gash, barely an inch long, not caused by the sword’s edge, but by the incomplete sword aura. “Your blade has already been drawn, yet you’ve not seen my sword. Do you still wish to oppose me?” Had it been another martial artist, like King of the Golden Blade, or even the man in the green robe from before, after witnessing Shen Lian’s swordplay, they would instinctively admit defeat, their confidence shaken.

But Ye Liuyun showed not an ounce of fear. It wasn’t merely that understanding the opponent’s prowess diminished its threat by half; the true terror lay in the unknown, and Ye Liuyun’s sword was precisely that—unknown.

No living soul had ever seen his sword, and today would be no exception.

Shen Lian gazed calmly at Ye Liuyun. His composure was not mere bravado but came from deep within. “How do you know I possess only one blade?” Shen Lian chuckled softly.

This time, he threw his blade completely, aiming at Ye Liuyun, who caught it between two fingers. The force behind this throw was neither heavy nor subtle; Ye Liuyun had no trouble intercepting it.

Ye Liuyun set the blade down, his gaze never leaving Shen Lian—for he would never grant Shen Lian an opening, so he allowed himself no lapses.

Because his eyes remained fixed on Shen Lian, he saw that, indeed, Shen Lian was not limited to a single blade—or rather, this was his true weapon: a uniquely shaped flying dagger.

The sun’s last rays faded, the moon replaced it, casting its cold light impartially.

Ye Liuyun and Shen Lian stared at each other for a full quarter hour; the tension was such that none around dared to breathe deeply.

Ye Liuyun watched Shen Lian’s hand, the one gripping the flying dagger.

Shen Lian’s attention, however, was on Ye Liuyun’s left sleeve.

The evening breeze swept past, and the left sleeve always lagged behind the right by a fraction.

“I know where your sword lies, don’t I?” Shen Lian’s words brimmed with confidence—a confidence that ought to belong to Ye Liuyun.

“Indeed.” Ye Liuyun had to acknowledge Shen Lian’s keen insight and acute perception.

His sword technique was the Sword Within the Sleeve. Hidden weapons were mere tools; swordplay was his true passion, and the legacy of the Famous Sword Manor. He even used sword technique principles to launch golden needles as hidden weapons. He disdained using his sword against Bai Yufei; otherwise, Bai Yufei would not be alive.

“You can’t predict when my blade will be unleashed, can you?” Shen Lian smiled serenely.

“Of course,” Ye Liuyun replied calmly.

“Then have you lost?” Shen Lian’s eyes shone brighter than the stars.

“No,” Ye Liuyun said slowly.

He couldn’t anticipate Shen Lian’s blade, just as Shen Lian couldn’t anticipate his sword.

Sword Fourteen’s gaze fell upon the pair, unable to hide his fervor. No one present understood the subtle interplay between the two better than he.

Shen Lian’s hesitation to attack stemmed from his spirit never reaching a critical threshold—the optimal moment to strike. The opportunity might present itself at any time, or perhaps never at all.

Whether or not he acted depended entirely on Shen Lian’s will, but once he struck, the outcome would no longer be his to control. Thus, Shen Lian sought the perfect moment.

Because the flying dagger was not merely a hidden weapon—it embodied his essence, spirit, and will. If he missed with the first strike, there would be no second chance.

“Do you realize you are bound to lose, for I have grasped your flaw?” Shen Lian spoke with detachment.

To Sword Fourteen, these words rang like thunder. He suddenly realized what Ye Liuyun’s flaw was.

Ye Liuyun’s flaw was his overconfidence—confidence that he could evade Shen Lian’s flying dagger, confidence that the Sword Within the Sleeve could resolve Shen Lian’s attack.

Yet he had never considered that perhaps Shen Lian’s only reliance was not the flying dagger.

Shen Lian soared upward; in front of the inn, a flagpole held a lantern.

Shen Lian landed atop the lantern, close to the moon.

One Shen Lian in the sky, another on the ground.

Shen Lian’s soul departed his body, ascending to the heavens—and to the brink of death.

But as the art of war says, “Take the high ground”—Shen Lian had already seized the advantageous position.

Even Ye Liuyun could not have foreseen that Shen Lian had cultivated to the point of soul projection, despite not having opened his central meridians.

Soul projection was ten times more difficult than opening the meridians.

Given Shen Lian’s age, to have cultivated his internal energy to such a degree was already extraordinary, let alone anything beyond.

******

To the south of the capital stood a dilapidated temple.

Ling Chongxiao resided there; at this moment, he and Shen Lian shared the same moon.

He still sported a shaved head, a true Taoist masquerading as a monk.

Before him stood a short-haired man, this one a genuine monk.

“Ku Hui, are you so idle as to challenge me?” Ling Chongxiao yawned, pretending to be exhausted.

“This humble monk has just devised a powerful palm technique, and in my delight, sought out Master Ling to test it,” Ku Hui replied cheerfully.

Ling Chongxiao cast a sidelong glance at Ku Hui, lazily saying, “Don’t think that just because you’ve mastered the Vajra Body Protection, I can’t kill you.”

“If Master Ling could kill me, that would be wonderful. Perhaps in the next cycle of reincarnation, I might finally catch a stroke of immortal fortune and not have to be a monk anymore,” Ku Hui laughed.

“The Buddhist sect’s gate of convenience is open to all; anyone can cultivate, far superior to the immortal sects. What’s there to envy?” Ling Chongxiao spoke sourly.

“Then why don’t I see you entering the Buddhist sect?”

“I do as I please—none of your business,” Ling Chongxiao grumbled. Though he professed disdain for the immortal sects, his greatest lifelong wish was to join one, but even when he found them, he lacked the fate, and they ignored him.

Although the Buddhist sect claims anyone can become a Buddha, how many truly attain Buddhahood? Let alone instant enlightenment—even the status of Arhat is rare.

By contrast, though the immortal sects are few in number, the proportion of those who achieve success is much higher than in the Buddhist sect.

In the end, although Buddhism shuns written doctrine and emphasizes enlightenment from the heart, their requirements for innate talent are even higher than those of the immortal sects.

Without a spiritual root, mere physical aptitude is not enough to attain Buddhahood.

ps: Truly unwell, have vomited bile. Will catch up with updates tomorrow when feeling better.