Song Mingzhen didn’t have time to worry about why his sword was ignoring him.
He’d already called attention to himself, achieving his intended purpose of drawing his enemies’ gaze away from Ning Feiyun— but now, if he was paralyzed and confused by this mishap, then there was a good chance he’d end up on the unfortunate end of a crude weapon.
So, he simply drew his sword manually instead, swiftly bringing it up to block the first incoming blow.
Ever since he’d woken from his long slumber, he’d been practicing both sparring and sword taolu quite rigorously. He’d feared that his skills may have deteriorated during his recovery, and he hadn’t been wrong— over the past few months, it had been a bit of a struggle to regain his ability to wield a sword, and at first he’d even found himself stumbling through basic forms, feeling as if he’d had to learn them all from the ground up.
It was a good thing he’d put in all that practice. Though it had been simple enough to restore his spiritual capabilities, his skill as a swordsman was undoubtedly not as high as it had been before— though now, it was still quite good. With Ning Feiyun wounded and struggling to even stand, the rogue cultivators turned their attention to Song Mingzhen, and he found himself facing all six at once. Had he not practiced so hard, he knew he would have a much more difficult time defending against this relentless assault.
He maintained his calm with some difficulty, whirling back and forth in a flurry of white fur and gold silks as he dodged the rogue cultivators’ attacks— blocking their weapons’ strikes with Chengxiao’s blade and absorbing spiritual attacks with a seal in his off-hand. Step by step, bit by bit, he allowed himself to be pushed back up the valley. Though he could likely best them quickly with spiritual attacks, he still held back— perhaps this trading of blows could answer some of his questions.
They were dressed the same and carried themselves similarly to the group that had attacked Anfeng City, so naturally Song Mingzhen had assumed they were the same individuals. However, these people were really quite skilled, whereas last time, they hadn’t even been able to hold their own against him. Whether they had concealed their true ability level back then, or whether they were different individuals entirely was unclear. Either case was worrisome in its own right— if the first, that meant that all of this was a far more detailed, intricate plot than he’d thought. If the latter, then their enemies had greater numbers. Of course, there was a third explanation that was even more grim— that they’d somehow improved their cultivation by leaps and bounds over the past few months.
Song Mingzhen hoped that wasn’t the case— for so much improvement to occur, that meant these evildoers would have gained access to some prime place for cultivation, or otherwise a powerful spiritual artifact or elixir. With something like that, they’d have already gotten a foothold, and it wouldn’t be nearly so easy for the great clans to topple them again.
He grit his teeth, his gaze sharp as he parried one of the sword-wielding rogue cultivators’ blows. Those were all questions that could be answered once they’d been defeated and apprehended. Right now, he needed to focus on both defending himself against them and holding their attention so that Ning Feiyun could recover. The leader of the group was a tall man who wielded a simple-looking spear with a jade tassel on the end. Three of the others were swordsmen, one carried a halberd, and the last commanded a length of crimson silk that wound through the skirmish, constantly threatening to tangle up Song Mingzhen’s legs or constrict his throat and chest.
It wasn’t only the skill of his opponents that made this fight somewhat difficult— it was also the variety of weapons they wielded, which made Song Mingzhen have to constantly adjust his own stances and defensive tactics, as well as their technique.
Rogue cultivators, though disadvantaged in almost every way, had one trait that could make them very difficult to deal with— their unpredictability. When fighting one trained by the orthodox clans, there was some ability to guess their next moves, if one was familiar with the specific sword-styles that they specialized in. There would be a pattern to their movements— though, of course, those like Song Mingzhen who had mastered all five of his clan’s styles would be able to mix and match techniques and throw off his opponents in that way.
It was different, however, when fighting or sparring with someone who hadn’t been properly taught. To Song Mingzhen and his peers, sword combat was as much of an art as it was a martial skill, but to a rogue cultivator, it was nothing but a means to survival. Their existences yielded constant danger, and their combat styles reflected that— instead of following a set form, their strikes, blocks, and parries were far more haphazard, less organized. Unless already familiar with an individual’s own fighting style, it was anyone’s guess what move would come next in a sequence.
As one of Ruijian Pavilion’s sword cultivators, Song Mingzhen’s strikes were precise, his movements measured, each blow making dialogue and debate with his opponents. While some of the six seemed to have some formal training, especially the leader of the group, the others were far less genteel about it— there was no interest in debate, only in destruction. Several times, he found himself staggered under a sudden volley of blows, stepping back several times in quick succession only to barely avoid being wrapped up in a cocoon by that red silk.
It wasn’t only that— not only were their movements unconventional and difficult to predict, but this group was also very well-coordinated. Any time Song Mingzhen fended off one attack, there was another to take its place, and time and time again he found himself facing two or three at once— constantly having to defend himself, while his enemies passed him from one to the next, never exhausting their strength. This wasn’t too surprising, of course. For their skills to be this high, they must be remnants of the original Nameless cultivators who had somehow escaped capture and destruction— of course, since they’d spent these past five years in constant peril, they would have developed a cohesive strategy between them, but Song Mingzhen couldn’t help but feel a little impressed at how easily the six moved as one.
Of course, that was greatly overshadowed by the rising anxiety within him. Each time he was turned around, each time he stumbled, each time he barely managed to avoid a blade that passed close enough to glance over the golden shield of spiritual qi that he’d summoned over his body, he felt more wound up, more on edge. The precise strikes and parries of his swordsmanship faltered, and a cold sweat clung to his brow.
He could hear the pounding of his heart in his chest, the rush of blood in his ears, and the tightness of his breathing made him check to see if that cursed red silk had managed to wrap itself around him.
In that same moment, he saw a flash of crimson and suddenly lost all momentum in his sword-arm. The length of silk had caught him, but not in the way he’d expected— it had wound itself tightly around Chengxiao’s blade and his wrist, jerking his body sharply to one side.
A jolt of anxiety rushed through him as he narrowly avoided a blow from the sharp edge of a halberd, the sudden strain in his arm sending lightning-bolts of pain down from his wrist into his shoulder.
Then, at long last, the obstinately-quiet Chengxiao sword decided it was finally time to wake up.
A sun-bright golden glow ignited along the edges of the blade, then flashed brightly, reversing the gathering twilight and flooding the valley with golden light. The strain on Song Mingzhen’s arm was abruptly released as the red silk was torn in two, its owner hissing sharply and recalling it to wind about his arm.
A spiritual tool like that would invariably be able to repair itself, but Song Mingzhen wasn’t too worried— though he remained somewhat agitated, the restored spiritual resonance between himself and his weapon set him at ease. He swung the blade, taking advantage of his opponents’ surprise and releasing a shockwave of golden light that knocked them back a few chi.
Then, he kicked off the ground, leaping into the air and putting distance between himself and the attackers.
Where was Ning Feiyun? He should have had time to recover— were his wounds actually more serious than they’d looked?
His gaze darted back and forth, but the valley was thick with evergreen trees and the sun had vanished behind the mountains. Before he could look too closely, he quickly dropped to the ground to avoid a pair of crimson and violet sword glares that sliced through the air toward him. The rogue cultivators had already recovered their footing.
He landed lightly on the ground, and with a flash, he renewed the shield over his body. If Ning Feiyun wasn’t coming to help him, then he needed to finish this quickly and apprehend them. Though the link between himself and the Chengxiao sword had been restored, he still restrained himself, holding back both his own power and his sword’s. It would have been easier to slay these evil cultivators outright, but they needed to be captured alive.
How deeply intertwined were the events in Anfeng City and the recent assassination and theft in Yinshan? What else were they plotting?
If he accidentally killed them before they could be interrogated, then he might never find out.
He rushed forward, hoping to catch them off guard and take down at least one or two, and as he guarded himself with his sword, he prepared a spiritual blast in his off-hand. It was the same technique he’d used to knock the attackers in Anfeng City unconscious— a precise burst of spiritual power that would strike several key points along his opponent’s meridians, briefly disrupting their spiritual flow without causing any lasting harm. With the way that they coordinated with one another, just taking down one or two should make this significantly easier.
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A few things happened, then, in quick succession.
First, just before he struck out at one of the swordsmen, the corner of his eye caught a glimpse of a sharp blade bearing down on him. He jolted off-course, but the halberd-wielder’s strike was imbued with spiritual power. From the edge of the blade came a bright red light that sliced through the air, striking Song Mingzhen in the shoulder. There was a sound like the ringing of bells and the shattering of glass, and the shield he’d summoned around himself was broken— but it had not absorbed the entirety of that blow.
That blade formed of crimson light sliced into his shoulder, cutting through white cloak and golden silk and tearing a wound into his flesh. Fresh blood immediately bubbled forth, turning his clothes dark around the wound.
Song Mingzhen was already agitated. Though he’d calmed a bit after regaining command of his sword, his heart had yet to stop racing— now, the rush of blood in his ears rose to a fever-pitch as the sudden pain caught him by surprise. Before he fully understood what was happening, he was overcome by a burst of anger. His eyes flashed, reflecting the red glow of the halberd-blade, and he reacted as if on instinct. His spiritual blast, meant to knock out the swordsman in front of him, was quickly redirected as he spun about to face the one that had wounded him.
When his palm landed in the center of the halberd-wielder’s chest, there was a brief moment of utter silence and stillness, and then there was a concussive blast. The man flew backward rapidly, a red mist filling the air as wounds were torn into his body from the inside out, blood spouting from his lips as his eyes rolled back in his head.
He landed in a snowdrift. Within the space of a breath, the snow was already soaked dark red.
The one wielding the red silk, who had lingered a distance behind the others while waiting for the spiritual weapon to recover, immediately rushed to the fallen man’s side and knelt down to feel his pulse.
“Dead!” she cried out, her voice cracking slightly. It was a young woman’s voice— though in the moment, that hardly stirred up more than a fragment of surprise.
In the moment Song Mingzhen’s blow had landed, that burst of rage and terror had reached a fever-pitch. The precision of his palm-strike was thrown off, and instead of targeting specific points and suppressing the man’s spiritual flow, that burst of powerful, white-hot spiritual qi had instead run rampant through his body, tearing him apart from the inside out—
He had died instantly.
Both sides of the fight were momentarily stunned. Up until now, even though they’d been fighting, there hadn’t been any killing intent between them— it seemed both parties had wanted to take the other alive. Now, though, it was as though storm clouds had gathered overhead, thunder rumbling and lightning crackling.
Song Mingzhen hadn’t meant to kill— but in that single moment, he’d been overcome by some strange, dark urge and instinct. He’d hated them bitterly, and the one who had just wounded him most of all— these were the same people whose actions had tormented him ever since he woke up. That first attack was surely the cause of his nightmares, his current instability, the recent lapses in his cultivation— probably even the reason that the Chengxiao sword had refused to respond to him at the beginning of this fight.
Not all of them need to be left alive.
When he set out on this mission, he’d intended to apprehend the criminals, to have them sealed away in the mountain prison, to leave the Qin clan to enact their own justice. He’d never even considered killing them himself.
Now, though, he realized— wouldn’t it make more sense that way?
In Anfeng City, after he’d knocked the attackers unconscious, they’d all disappeared before they could be apprehended. So wouldn’t it be better to kill them now, and take the last one standing back to Baidong Mountain as a prisoner? After all, there was no need to interrogate all of them.
Just the leader would do.
Besides… Ning Feiyun had been wounded, and since he hadn’t come to assist yet, he must be in bad shape. They were rogue cultivators, and they’d been involved in the assassination of a clan leader— more than likely, their fate would be execution anyway.
For Song Mingzhen to kill them now… maybe it would even be merciful.
Once this was all taken care of, he could go home. He could try to rediscover his place in this life and restore his shattered memories without the threat of the Nameless remnants hanging over his head.
His head was spinning, his breath coming quick and short, and within his eyes was a dull crimson haze. He tasted blood in his mouth, and from within his dantian he could feel his spiritual power surging and retreating in irregular intervals, straining against the boundaries of his meridians.
Right now, his cultivation wasn’t stable. Instead, it felt like an old wound had been torn open anew.
His grip on Chengxiao’s hilt faltered, and the golden light on the edge of the blade flickered with a slight deep-red hue before retreating entirely. The connection between Song Mingzhen and his sword had lapsed once more— but right now, that didn’t matter.
What mattered was putting an end to this, one way or another.
His breath formed puffs of smoke in the cold air. The battle had taken a dark turn— just as Song Mingzhen’s intent had changed, so had his opponents. They weren’t simply fighting for their freedom now, they were fighting for their lives— and for revenge on their fallen comrade.
All five of them attacked at once. This time, though Song Mingzhen wasn’t hesitating, nor was he showing mercy or caring for their lives.
He plunged his sword into the chest of one of them, heedless of the blade that glanced across his cheek as he did so. The smell of fresh blood in his nostrils grew even stronger as he pulled his blade back, the body hitting the snow with a dull thud. He spun around to clash swords with one of the others. What had been a test of skill before had now turned dire, and the air was thick with the scent of blood and the prickling, nauseating pressure of killing intent.
The red silk, now repaired, lashed out and wrapped around Song Mingzhen’s shoulders, pinning his arms to his sides. His eyes flashed again and he grit his teeth.
Deep within his lower dantian, there was a bright flash of red, like a silent furnace being kindled back to life. Icy warmth spread rapidly through Song Mingzhen’s body, and that same odd red light suddenly surrounded his being, then condensed— and then, as if on instinct, cut outward like a pair of blades that sliced through the red silk just as efficiently as Chengxiao had before, freeing him just in time to avoid the point of the spear wielded by the group’s leader.
Those deadly shards of spiritual light weren’t satisfied with simply cutting through the red silk, but continued their flight— one after the other, they pierced through the chest and abdomen of the red silk’s wielder, bursting out from her back before plunging, painlessly, to be absorbed back into Song Mingzhen’s dantian.
The spear-wielding leader of the rogue cultivators was taken aback, all color drained from the little part of his face that was visible above his mask. “You… how did you—”
Song Mingzhen didn’t give him a chance to respond before pressing the attack.
Truth be told, he also didn’t know what had happened, or how— this power was one he didn’t even remember possessing. It almost seemed like those crimson shards were some form of vital weapon, but only once the jindan had been formed would a cultivator be able to summon such a weapon, and Song Mingzhen had only reached Zhuji-stage, so it was not possible.
More importantly, the remaining three rogue cultivators seemed thoroughly startled by that strange attack, and Song Mingzhen wasn’t about to let that advantage go.
Within moments, five of the rogue cultivators were on the ground, either dead or severely wounded, and only one remained— the spear-wielding leader, whose skills were noticeably higher than the others. He had tried his best to defend the two remaining swordsmen, but Song Mingzhen had already decided that it was unnecessary to keep them alive. One had gone down with a spiritual blast, and the throat of the other had become acquainted with Chengxiao’s blade— the sword’s golden light was still absent, having gone dormant once more and remaining that way. Song Mingzhen, however, hardly cared. The sword was just as useful in his hands as an ordinary blade as it was as a spiritual weapon.
It was no easy matter to fight spear with sword. Song Mingzhen’s opponent had a much larger reach, and though Song Mingzhen’s spiritual power was greater, it was also unstable right now— and more so the longer this fight stretched on. Meanwhile, the leader of the rogue cultivators had good skills, and the way he wielded his spear was just as precise and powerful as Ruijian Pavilion’s swordsmanship. In fact, there was something very familiar about it— but Song Mingzhen couldn’t quite place where he’d seen it. His spiritual ability was also not low, and he was able to absorb one of Song Mingzhen’s spiritual blasts and remain standing.
The pair continued to circle the valley, fighting fiercely with both their weapons and their spiritual powers. They traded blows as they whirled and spun through the trees and back and forth across the frozen river. Each of them had suffered no small number of minor wounds, and they were both becoming exhausted. After unleashing those crimson shards from his own body, Song Mingzhen’s power felt even more unstable and uncertain than before, and there was something off about every spiritual blast he unleashed, every time he tried to summon a shield over his body. Meanwhile, the leader of the rogue cultivators had already seen his comrades fall, their blood staining the snow-covered landscape, so of course he was also quite disturbed— even if the fire of vengeance drove him to continue fighting, the pallor of his face was growing, and the hoarseness of his breath was increasing.
Eventually, though, his fall was inevitable— Song Mingzhen’s boundary was higher than his, and though the young man’s power was unstable, there were only so many times that the rogue cultivator could withstand his spiritual attacks.
Song Mingzhen unleashed one final, dull blow that flung his opponent backward, the spear flying from his hand as he crashed into the trunk of a sturdy tree, shaking loose a great pile of snow from the branches above that fell down onto his head and shoulders. The man collapsed, and no effort to push himself up again could succeed. Song Mingzhen, though, was half in a daze, his head spinning and his heart pounding, the energy within him chaotic and his emotions an indiscernible whirlwind— his own killing intent had yet to dissipate, and he swung Chengxiao forward, as if to deal a fatal blow despite his former resolve to keep this person alive—
There was a sharp “clang!” of metal that resounded through the valley, echoing off the stones and shaking snow from the branches of the pines.
“Song-ge, stop!”
The voice was Ning Feiyun’s. It was sharp and breathless, with a wavering of weakness rather unusual for that person— but it was enough to momentarily pierce through the haze that had descended over Song Mingzhen’s senses, drawing him out of his frenzied state.
He blinked, his eyes bloodshot, his own breath shaky, and he realized that the taste of blood in his mouth had grown even stronger than before. Ning Feiyun had blocked his final blow, his own spear trembling a bit— the other young man was doubled over, and his face was pale, and there was a faint trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. Indeed, he seemed to be having a difficult time standing— that surprise attack at the beginning must have hit some vital point in his body.
Once he saw that Song Mingzhen’s attack had halted and he’d been pulled from the haze of battle, Ning Feiyun lowered his spear. He half-straightened up and, with some effort, limped over to the fallen rogue cultivator, who was slumped against the tree in a daze. With his hands shaking a bit, Ning Feiyun reached out and pulled the mask down to reveal their attacker’s features.
He sucked in a breath, and stumbled backwards a step. Then, slowly, he turned to face Song Mingzhen once more. The dark circles under his eyes seemed to have grown deeper.
“This man… I know him.”