IT HAD BEEN CENTURIES since Nangong Changying had walked the earth, but his face was sketched in countless scrolls. Many had seen Rufeng Sect's honored founder looking over its Hall of Sages as an imposing jade statue. Ye Wangxi realized at once what had happened. "A-Si! Quick, open the barrier! You can't defeat him!"
Of course he couldn't… Who could? Even the cultivation realm's most formidable zongshi Chu Wanning wasn't assured a victory.
Nangong Si was shaking, but not from fear. He was seized with grief and fury. Xu Shuanglin had the gall to make the sect founder—the sect founder!—into a Zhenlong chess piece. He was insane… Truly, he must've lost his mind. This was their ancestor, the very soul and lifeblood of Rufeng Sect. This was the deity worshipped by generations of disciples and descendants, Nangong Changying!
A vein throbbed in Nangong Si's neck, and a distorted roar tore from his throat like a tiger rampaging through the forest. "Xu Shuanglin! No… Nangong Xu! Come out! Show yourself! "
The echoes spiraled like vultures, lingering over the peak. No one answered. Xu Shuanglin didn't step out. The only response he received was from the blindfolded Nangong Changying, who tilted his face minutely toward Nangong Si, pallid fingers sliding his longsword from the scabbard that had been buried with him. He raised it, and the blade flashed in the moonlight as he took another step down the path.
Nangong Si shuffled backward. "Sect Founder…" he muttered.
Nangong Changying's gait was steady. With each step, he tapped the point of his sword against the jade, drawing a sharp whine from the stone. His eyes were covered, the ribbon secured with an irreversible spell; he relied on sound and smell to descend the steps and locate Nangong Si.
"Who are you?" A low voice cut through the air—Nangong Changying's. "Why do you trespass upon these lands?"
Hearing his ancestor speak with his own ears, even if it was through the artifice of Zhenlong Chess, left Nangong Si thunderstruck. He swallowed. "Sect Founder, I…" After a beat of silence, he loosened his grip on his sword and fell to his knees, pressing his forehead to the ground.
"This descendant is unworthy. I, Nangong Si, heir of Rufeng Sect's seventh generation, pay my respects."
"Seventh generation… Si…" Nangong Changying methodically repeated. He shook his head and lifted his sword. "Kill."
Blade met blade. In this single blow, Nangong Si felt his arm go numb. Nangong Changying's strength was astonishing. His bloodless face pressed close, every breath cold as ice. "Trespasser—kill him."
"Sect Founder!"
Their swords clashed again, neither holding back. Steel sang, sparks flying like snow.
Xue Zhengyong banged a fist against the barrier. "Are you crazy?
You can't possibly win!"
Who didn't know of Nangong Changying's heroics? Legends told of a man so strong he could pulverize a boulder with bare hands. Who could stand against him, and how? Subduing ten men like Nangong Si was child's play for his storied ancestor.
Nangong Si's mind was a vast and utter blank. Never could he have anticipated facing the forefather of Rufeng Sect here at Mount Jiao. Their opening exchange sent him flying a dozen feet backward. If it weren't for the scrape of his blade against the ground arresting his momentum, he might have found himself sprawling in the weeds.
Nangong Changying lifted his longsword and took a ponderous step closer. Voice low, he repeated his earlier command: "Kill…"
Downslope, Xue Zhengyong was furiously pummeling the translucent barrier. Jiang Xi frowned wordlessly, lips pressed into a thin line. Master Ma had opted to cover his eyes, letting slip feeble wails of distress from time to time. Huang Xiaoyue, on the other hand, watched in apprehension, secretly grateful for his good luck. Thank goodness he hadn't captured Nangong Si earlier, he thought. If he'd tied him up and come to Mount Jiao himself, he would be the one facing the founder of Rufeng Sect now.
Only Chu Wanning fixated on Nangong Changying's movements.
Something about this was very wrong. Who was Nangong Changying, after all? This man had subdued two evil beasts, creatures of legend—one demonic dragon, the other a monstrous fish. His astonishing spiritual strength spoke for itself. Nangong Changying's souls had long left his body; all that remained on the earth was an empty shell. Though there were many techniques he would no longer be able to use, his raw combat abilities should have been undiminished.
But Nangong Changying's combat abilities were also near mythic.
On an island not far from Flying Flower Isle in the East Sea, there was a lake Rufeng Sect had left as a show of might. It was not particularly large, and devoid of interesting scenery. One could stroll around the pool in less than an hour. But everyone knew this lake had originally not been a body of water, but a small hill. When Nangong Changying had battled the gun, the colossal fish had taken refuge behind it. Nangong Changying had rained several dozen punches upon the hill in quick succession. Though it had risen a hundred yards above its surrounds, his last blow fractured it, and it collapsed in on itself. What remained was a crater that gradually filled with rainwater, creating the present-day lake.
Chu Wanning didn't doubt Nangong Si's abilities. But if the stories were true, as soon as Nangong Changying and Nangong Si crossed blades, Nangong Si should've been sent flying a hundred feet away, with no chance of getting back on his feet.
This corpse was too suspicious.
Like a snow-bright dagger, Chu Wanning's piercing gaze scraped over every inch of Nangong Changying's physique. After a moment, his eyes locked on Nangong Changying's sword arm. Realization bloomed like a firework going off in his mind. He knew what was wrong.
On the other side of the barrier, Nangong Si braced himself on his sword's hilt and struggled to his feet. He was just like the faewolves he raised—he might admit defeat, but he'd never turn tail and flee. He swiped blood from his lips with his sleeve. As he readied himself to charge again, he heard a familiar voice: "Strike right. The meridians in his left arm have been severed."
"Chu-zongshi?"
"Don't get distracted." From the other side of the barrier, Chu Wanning's brown eyes never strayed from their figures as they swept toward each other. "Even if Nangong Changying's left arm were completely broken, you shouldn't let down your guard."
At this, several of the nearby sect leaders followed Chu Wanning's gaze. Nangong Changying's left arm was indeed limp and feeble. Xue Zhengyong cried, "Changying-zhangmen's meridians were severed after his death?! Who did this?"
No one answered. But Ye Wangxi, familiar with the facts of Nangong Changying's life, was quick to put together what must have happened.
Who did this? Who in the world would wish to sever the sect founder's meridians? And who would possibly be able to accomplish it?
As they fought, Nangong Si stared into Nangong Changying's face. His features were identical to those of the jade statue in the Hall of Sages, as though Nangong Changying still walked upon this earth, as though he'd never known death. And if Nangong Changying were indeed still alive, if he weren't dead, if these past few centuries had been rendered inconsequential—then this was a chance for Nangong Si to test his mettle against the legendary sect founder. Was he about to put his descendant through a trial, to teach him a lesson?
"Naobaijin! Come!" Nangong Si cried, narrowing his focus once more. He vaulted onto the faewolf's back. Eyes trained on Nangong Changying's left arm, he hurtled toward him at top speed.
A childhood memory flashed before his eyes. He was standing in front of the jade statue in the Hall of Sages. Head cocked, he gazed up at the carven features of the sect founder.
Children always saw things with fresh eyes. He whipped around and pointed out to Rong Yan, "Mom, they didn't make this statue right."
"What do you mean?" Exquisite robes trailing behind her, Rong Yan coughed quietly into a handkerchief. She came to Nangong Si's side and looked up at the statue's face. "It's wonderful. Very stirring and naturalistic."
"…I don't get it."
Rong Yan sighed. She was impatient by nature and wished for nothing more than to cram two decades' worth of knowledge into her son's brain in two years. "It means the statue looks just like a real person. Every detail is vivid. Haven't I taught you those words?"
Nangong Si pulled a face. "But it's still wrong." "How so?"
"Mom, look." He pointed to the founder's left arm, then his right.
"His left arm is twice as thick as his right. I've been staring at it for ages— one's thick and one's thin; it's not right at all! It's a mistake!" He raised his own arms and earnestly explained, "Both my arms are the same, and so are Mom and Dad's… So there's gotta be something wrong with this statue!
The sculptor should come here and fix it."
"So that's what you meant, Si-er." Rong Yan shook her head. "The sculptor didn't make a mistake—the sect founder's two arms were indeed of different sizes."
"Why? Was he born like that?"
"Of course not," Rong Yan answered. "The sect founder was left- handed. His left arm was much stronger than his right. In time, his left arm became more muscular and thicker. Far from getting it wrong, the sculptor was very faithful and attentive to detail."
Swords met with a metallic clang. Nangong Si and Nangong Changying's faces pressed close. Across a shower of sparks, they gritted their teeth and bore down upon each other. On one side was the sect founder who had lost the use of his dominant left arm; on the other was Nangong Si, bruised and battered but determined to fight to the bitter end. It was a brutal contest.
"His left-arm meridians. Could…" Xue Zhengyong's breath hitched in his throat as the thought occurred to him. "Could he have severed them himself?!"
Xue Zhengyong wasn't alone; many of those watching had begun to wonder the same thing. Rufeng Sect's foremost disciples were all buried with that silk ribbon over their eyes, magically sealing their sight. Was it really in the name of turning their eyes to the heavens and letting cranes carry them into the afterlife? Had Nangong Changying anticipated the world might be unrecognizably changed after hundreds of years? Perhaps, when he established Rufeng Sect, he had already anticipated the day of its downfall. He had mandated each disciple's eyes be covered so no one could harness their power to bring harm to the mortal realm. None of the holy weapons Nangong Changying wielded in life rested in his coffin; he was buried with only this single longsword. And before his own death, he had severed all the meridians in his dominant arm. This way, even if some villain one day bent his body toward nefarious ends, they would never be able to access his full martial strength.
Perhaps it was so. Those watching could never know for sure.
They exchanged several dozen more furious blows. Nangong Si glimpsed a frown flitting across the sect founder's face. "Nangong…Si…" he muttered. "Seventh generation…"
Outside the barrier, Mo Ran studied all of Nangong Changying's movements with rapt attention. He was the former Emperor Taxian-jun; his observations were different from those of the cultivators who'd kept ever to the straight and narrow. He immediately noted signs only a skilled practitioner of Zhenlong Chess would grasp.
To Mo Ran, Nangong Changying's corpse was distinct from every other on the mountain. It was obvious the sect founder had mounted a desperate struggle, trying to recover his awareness. This had been one of Mo Ran's biggest worries back then. Though the Zhenlong Chess Formation was one of the three great forbidden techniques, no spell was perfect. If someone made into a pawn had an extremely strong will, the spellcaster would need to suppress it with a continuous flow of spiritual energy. And if the caster's spiritual energy was insufficient, they would lose control of the pawn—often violently. It wasn't unheard of for the backlash to consume the spellcaster himself. Many practitioners of Zhenlong Chess throughout history had thus either wasted away from terrible illnesses or perished abruptly, their meridians blown apart.
Face grave, Mo Ran watched Nangong Changying meet Nangong Si's blows. He was almost certain Xu Shuanglin wasn't capable of fully controlling this corpse.
There was a muffled boom as their swords met again. Mo Ran's hand curled into a fist against the barrier, veins throbbing. They weren't evenly matched at all—this was plain to everyone. Even if Nangong Changying had ruined his own dominant arm, he was a zongshi. This empty shell could hold its own against youngsters like Mei Hanxue and Xue Meng even without his most devastating asset. Only sect leaders or elders stood a chance of subduing him fully.
But not a single sect leader or elder could get past the barrier. Anyone who encroached upon the territory of the Nangong clan would incite Mount Jiao's fury; they'd be more hindrance than help. This was a war waged within Rufeng Sect. No one else could intervene.
Had Nangong Si been uninjured, he might have dispatched this corpse on his own. But he had suffered through too much. As Nangong Changying thrust his sword out again, Nangong Si grabbed for Naobaijin's collar to swing up onto his back. It should have been an easy move, but the wounds on his hand were bleeding profusely. The collar slipped from his grasp.
Naobaijin howled mournfully as Nangong Si's sword flew out of his hand, landing beside the barrier with a clatter. Mo Ran stared down at the blade streaked with blood from Nangong Si's palm…
"A-Si! Stop! Come to safety! We'll find another way!" Ye Wangxi cried, pleading with him without cease. Ye Wangxi was only human. She would never beg for mercy on her own behalf, but Nangong Si was her vulnerable spot.
Tears ran endlessly down her face. Mo Ran had never seen her cry like this, even in the past life. Her tears bled through the cold, unfeeling mask Nangong Liu and Nangong Xu had selfishly welded to her face, and a shade of girlishness showed through. Ye Wangxi had thought she'd wear that mask for the rest of her life. But the moment she caught sight of that bloodied sword, it crumbled to dust. "A-Si…"
Nangong Changying's last blow had been too heavy. Drenched in sweat, Nangong Si gritted his teeth and struggled silently to climb back onto his feet.
There was a flash of cold light, and the reflection of a snow-bright sword fell over his cheek. Panting, Nangong Si lifted his face—the face that bore some small resemblance to Nangong Changying's. He glared up at his ancestor, the coruscating light of the blade between them.
Nangong Changying's sword was pointing right at his chest. Outside the barrier, the crowd fell silent.