By the time Zhao An stepped out of the shop, night had already fallen. Leaving the city was no longer possible. In this age, traveling by night was far too inconvenient—and tonight, the second day of the lunar month, there was no moon at all. To set out now would be sheer folly.
He didn't bother returning to his rented courtyard. Instead, near the city gate, he casually picked an inn and went inside.
Zhao An ordered a room and some food to be sent up, then was just about to head upstairs when a loud voice with a heavy western Sichuan accent barked from behind him:
"What did you say? Ren Yū and Ren Ketsu are both dead? Who would dare kill disciples of my Qingcheng Sect?"
Zhao An's heart gave a jolt. He turned toward the sound and saw the speaker—a middle-aged man, no taller than 155 centimeters, clad in broad Daoist robes, with triangular eyes and a long, sour face.
The man was seated casually by a window, sipping tea while two Qingcheng disciples attended him.
Although Zhao An had never seen Yū Sōkai before, the instant his eyes fell on the man, he knew. This had to be Yū Sōkai.
And indeed, it was him.
A disciple leaned close, whispering a report. Though the voice was low, Zhao An caught the gist: two of Qingcheng's four celebrated young talents—Hong Jinyū and Luo Jinketsu—had been entrusted by the county lieutenant of Fuzhou to assassinate someone. But instead, they had been killed, and the murderer's identity remained unknown.
"Outrageous!" Yū Sōkai sprang to his feet, smashing the teacup in fury. "Go tell the lieutenant that my disciples cannot die in vain. He must hand over the culprit!"
He paused, then amended coldly:"If he can't, then at least find out the killer's identity and whereabouts."
Hong Jinyū and Luo Jinketsu were two of Yū Sōkai's foremost disciples, the pride of the Qingcheng Sect's second generation. To raise such talents was no easy matter—selecting a gifted youth, then pouring in wealth, time, and effort for over ten years before results showed.
Now, in a single stroke, two carefully cultivated disciples were dead. To Yū Sōkai, it was more painful than losing his own sons. His rage was only natural.
He ordered their corpses brought into the hall to examine under lamplight.
The innkeeper's boy protested, refusing to allow bodies inside. But in Yū Sōkai's wrath, who could stop him? The boy was beaten and cursed aside.
Bending over the corpses, Yū Sōkai studied their wounds. He gleaned little—only that the killer used a sword, with great skill and terrifying speed.
Zhao An, feigning calm, observed silently, his mind racing:So Yū Sōkai really is in Fuzhou… and by sheer misfortune, I had to run into him. Truly, what you fear most is what comes to you.
After some thought, Yū Sōkai ordered the bodies disposed of, then left the inn with his disciples.
One said, "They're nothing but local riffraff. We disciples can handle it—why trouble Master yourself?"
Yū Sōkai replied coldly:"If such an expert is loose in Fuzhou, I cannot rest easy. For this matter, I must oversee it personally."
From his tone, Zhao An realized Yū Sōkai intended to move against the Fuwei Escort Agency.
He hesitated, then decided to follow—careful to keep his distance so as not to be noticed. There was no fear of losing the trail; as long as he moved toward the Fuwei Escort Agency, he would not be wrong.
Sure enough, he soon saw Qingcheng disciples encircling the escort agency. Inside, the strongest martial artist was Lin Chinnan.
But Lin's skill was barely on par with Luo Jinketsu's level. Against Qingcheng, none of the agency's escorts stood a chance. Any who dared step outside—whether on duty or fleeing—would be cut down, by duel or by ambush.
Zhao An despised such vile tactics, yet dared not intervene. His training in the Bixie Sword Manual was still shallow. He could handle men like Luo Jinketsu, but against Yū Sōkai himself, he was far too weak.
Besides, he had no ties with the Fuwei Escort Agency. Why risk his life for them?
Finding the spectacle dull—like a cat toying with a trapped mouse—he returned to the inn to rest. He didn't bother switching inns while Yū Sōkai was out, simply went back to his room and slept in his clothes.
The next morning, Zhao An checked out as if nothing had happened. Passing through the hall, he noticed a familiar face—the young servant of the county lieutenant's son—whispering something to Yū Sōkai.
In Yū Sōkai's hand was a portrait. Zhao An glanced at it. The likeness bore an uncanny resemblance to himself.
Suppressing any sign of alarm, Zhao An lowered his head and quickened his pace toward the door.
Then came the Sichuan-accented bark:"Stop right there!"
It was Yū Sōkai's voice. Zhao An's heart clenched. Pretending not to hear, he walked faster, heading straight for the exit.
But behind him came a sudden rush of wind. Yū Sōkai had already closed the distance, lunging with a clawed hand for Zhao An's neck.
"I told you to stop!"
Zhao An dared not take him lightly. Outmatched, he had only one option: strike first. Without a word, he drew his sword in a flash, spinning as he thrust straight for Yū Sōkai's brow.
A sneak attack.
But Yū Sōkai was no ordinary foe. Even from behind, the instant Zhao An drew his sword, he was already on guard. He halted, drew his own blade, and angled the point toward Zhao An's wrist.
Zhao An swept his sword aside, deflecting the strike, and pressed on, thrusting once more for Yū Sōkai's brow—this time even faster.
The sword was too fast—like lightning, like a dragon's strike. Even Yū Sōkai, with his mastery of Songfeng Swordplay, was caught off guard. He barely twisted his head aside in time.
The blade only cut off his hat.
What a pity, Zhao An thought grimly. The strike still isn't fast enough. If it were, Yū Sōkai would already be dead.
But he didn't falter—he followed immediately with another attack.
Yū Sōkai, both startled and furious—startled by such speed in one so young, and enraged at the ruthless ferocity—was quick to form killing intent.
Yet Zhao An gave him no chance to counter. Stroke after stroke of the Bixie Sword Art rained down, lightning-fast.
Yū Sōkai's blade whirled up and down, left and right, entirely defensive. His Songfeng Swordplay was dense as falling rain, sealing every gap, holding Zhao An's blade two feet from his body.
But Zhao An's practice was shallow. Though he wounded Yū Sōkai several times, they were only surface cuts, not enough to weaken him.
That was the weakness of Zhao An's current swordsmanship: astonishing speed, but lacking inner strength and battle experience. Against a master like Yū Sōkai, he could not strike a vital point.
Still, Yū Sōkai was shaken. Within a few moves, he recognized the style.
"The Bixie Sword Art…"
He steadied himself with his greater experience. Though his own Bixie training was incomplete and flawed, he recognized enough of the patterns to adapt. The early flurry that had left him reeling gradually evened out.
After a dozen exchanges, Zhao An could no longer maintain the pressure. His early advantage of surprise was gone.
Damn… Zhao An cursed inwardly. The Bixie Sword Art thrives on cruelty and speed, but I've not mastered it yet. Against Yū Sōkai's tight defense, I can't break through—and with our gap in inner strength, forcing it would be suicide.
Every time their blades clashed, his arm went numb from the force. Yū Sōkai sensed his weakness and began pressing more strength into his sword, already slipping in counterattacks.
If not for the elusive nature of the Bixie Sword—where both blade and wielder moved ghostlike—Zhao An would have fallen already.
After seventy exchanges, the tide was clearly turning against him. Zhao An suddenly pressed hard with a flurry, then leapt back a full pace.
Yū Sōkai hesitated, wary of the uncanny sword and footwork, and did not pursue. After a pause, he demanded:"You, boy from the Lin family—why do you know the Bixie Sword Art?"
He had wanted to ask all along, but combat had left him no breath to spare.
Zhao An retorted coolly:"So anyone who knows the Bixie Sword must be of the Lin family? Your entire Qingcheng Sect practices it too. Are you all Lin's sons and grandsons, then?"
Yū Sōkai's face darkened. "Brat, name your master! If he's an acquaintance, I might yet spare your life."
Zhao An chuckled. "If you were going to spare me, you'd have done it already. Why wait until now?"
"Impudent whelp!" Yū Sōkai roared. "I held back only because you're young and talented. Do not mistake mercy for weakness!"
Zhao An shrugged. "So—are we fighting, or not? If not, I'll be leaving."
He backed toward the door.
But Yū Sōkai had come for the Bixie Manual itself. To see it wielded alive before him—how could he let it slip away? Confident in his deeper inner strength, he struck first, launching Azure Abyss Dragon Soars.
Zhao An saw the trembling point, the sword like a dragon surging from the depths, aimed at his vital chest points.
He instantly hooked a foot under a stool and kicked it toward Yū Sōkai.
Yū Sōkai's blade flicked, splitting it aside.
Zhao An snatched up a pair of chopsticks and hurled them, then tossed the chopstick basket.
He used no inner strength. Without practice in hidden weapons, such throws carried little force.
But for a sect master like Yū Sōkai, being struck by such trifles would be humiliating. His blade flashed, cutting each one neatly in half.
Then—suddenly—he struck something that burst in a cloud of blinding white.
Lime powder. A thug's trick, never seen in orthodox duels.
Yū Sōkai, caught off guard, cursed inwardly. He covered his eyes with one hand, holding his sword across his chest to ward off a sneak attack.
Zhao An had engineered the perfect opening. They stood barely a pace apart.
He darted forward. His sword flickered, battering Yū Sōkai's blade aside, then drove for the left chest.
The blade struck home. Yū Sōkai's heart froze with terror. At the last instant, he forced inner strength to his chest and leaned back, dragging the blade askew.
Instead of piercing his heart, Zhao An's sword skewered his shoulder blade.
With a cry, Yū Sōkai grabbed the blade, trapping it.
Zhao An pressed forward with both hands, leaning in to shorten the distance.
Too close for swordplay, Yū Sōkai abandoned his own weapon, driving his palm in a vicious Crushing Heart Strike.
Zhao An had to release his sword and twist aside—but too late. The blow landed square on his chest, fast and merciless.
He was hurled through the doorway, smashing the frame, and crashed into the street outside.
His chest seized, his heartbeat stopping for several dreadful seconds, until he coughed up a mouthful of blood, easing the pressure slightly.
Staggering to his feet, drained of all strength, he heard inside the inn the anguished cries of Qingcheng disciples:"Master!"
Not daring to linger, Zhao An forced his body forward, stumbling into a narrow alley.