Zhao An rented a more secluded inn. Reaching into his chest, he pulled out an iron plate—at its center, a palm-shaped dent stood out starkly.
His chest throbbed with a dull pain, cold sweat soaking his back. So this is the power of Yu Canghai's Heart-Crushing Palm… If not for the iron plate taking the blow, his heart might very well have been shattered into pieces.
The night before, after killing Luo Renjie and Hong Renxiong, Zhao An had already begun preparing against Yu Canghai. He bought two iron plates from a blacksmith, padded them with cotton, then strapped them tightly across his chest. That was his only safeguard against the Heart-Crushing Palm.
He hadn't known for certain if Yu Canghai would appear. It was simply caution—something a grown man had to rely on. Better to be overly careful than careless.
He had even wanted to buy lime powder, but in his rush he couldn't find any. Instead, he substituted flour mixed with pepper powder. Not as effective, but still enough to throw Yu Canghai off balance and open up a flaw.
That one sword thrust had been fierce, but it hadn't struck a vital organ—only pierced Yu Canghai's shoulder. A wound like that might kill half an ordinary man's life. But for a martial master of Yu Canghai's caliber? A mere half-month's rest would see him back on his feet.
Fortunately, Zhao An had laced his blade. His longsword had been soaked in a "golden solution." With medical knowledge in this world being so primitive, even a non-fatal wound could fester and kill from infection.
But there was one variable in this world—internal energy.
This force could suppress injuries, purge poisons, and accelerate recovery. Because of that, Zhao An could not be certain whether Yu Canghai would truly die from the wound.
He checked his own body thoroughly. No other injuries, save for the chest, which felt as though struck by a sledgehammer. Every breath was labored; each inhalation seared his lungs like fire.
Channeling his inner energy, he circulated it through the acupoints around his heart. After several cycles, the pain eased somewhat.
He rested for an entire day. The next morning, he returned to the inn where he had fought Yu Canghai to gather news.
There, he found Qingcheng Sect disciples stationed like an iron wall, inside and out. Their faces bore worry, but no grief. From that alone, Zhao An knew—Yu Canghai had not died.
He sighed. His mastery of the Bixie Sword Manual was still shallow. Head-on, he could not defeat Yu Canghai. And his tricks seemed to achieve little against him.
Since Yu Canghai lived and Qingcheng's guard was so tight, Zhao An had no choice but to withdraw from Fuzhou for now. Best to avoid the edge of the blade.
Leaving the city, he set his course for Hunan.
The massacre of the Lin family had already begun. Liu Zhengfeng's "Golden Basin Hand-Washing" could not be far away.
Now that Yu Canghai was injured, perhaps the Fuwei Escort Agency still had a slim chance of survival. But Zhao An had no way to intervene.
From the perspective of a modern man, it was a pity if Fuwei perished. After all, they were just delivery people—a business that actually benefited society, far more than the existence of the Qingcheng Sect.
But Liu Zhengfeng's ceremony—that was a scene worth witnessing.
He traveled for a month before reaching Hengyang. Travel in this age was painfully slow—crossing provinces took weeks. Still, Zhao An had no pressing matters. He took his time, practicing swordplay along the road, admiring the scenery, and enjoying a leisurely pace.
The customs of the people were nothing worth seeing—ignorance, poverty, and superstition filled the land. But the natural beauty was breathtaking, making the journey less dull.
After a month's practice, his Bixie Sword Manual had reached a higher level. His swordplay grew increasingly refined.
His original inner energy had been fully converted into Bixie qi, and with his month of cultivation, his strength had already reached the peak of third-rate.
Even more astonishing, the inner energy from the manual now flowed in him as naturally as breathing—whether walking, sitting, or lying down, it circulated on its own.
He was confident: if he faced Yu Canghai again, he could kill him outright.
Along the way, Zhao An reflected on his temperament. His heart was cold; only the sword held his interest. Joy, anger, sorrow, and delight barely stirred him anymore.
This state certainly accelerated his martial growth, but Zhao An knew it was unhealthy. He practiced smiling in the mirror, training his expression to appear natural, so he would not seem a stone-faced cripple.
He also worked on his voice. Though naturally high and thin, with training, one could adjust tone and resonance. Bit by bit, he forged his voice into something hoarse and deep. It sounded strange, but far better than before.
In the jianghu, both smile and voice were weapons—he could not afford to neglect them.
After some time, his smile grew convincingly natural, and his voice, though rough, carried weight.
Hengyang City bustled with life. Outsiders thronged the streets, and swordsmen of every stripe filled the taverns.
Arriving several days early, Zhao An knew Liu Zhengfeng's ceremony was still nearly a week away. Rather than squeeze into crowded inns, he rented a small courtyard on a quiet street—perfect for morning and evening practice.
Each day, he went to the Huiyan Tower. He would order a few simple dishes, a pot of wine, and sit for hours. He was waiting for a spectacle: Linghu Chong's clever battle against Tian Boguang.
But instead of Linghu Chong, he first saw Mu Gaofeng.
The man was hunched and short, ugly and twisted—a "Hunchback Mu" impossible to mistake.
His temper was cruel, and he loved to stir up trouble.
At Liu Zhengfeng's ceremony, where heroes from across the land would gather, Mu Gaofeng was also lurking about. When the Five Mountains Sword Sects clashed, he would be skulking in the shadows, ready to take advantage.
Like a sewer rat, he thrived in filth, waiting for the chance to crawl out and disgust others.
His martial arts, however, were formidable—even stronger than Yu Canghai's.
Recently, Zhao An's own skill had grown greatly. He wanted to test himself. Mu Gaofeng was a perfect target.
Without haste, he followed the hunchback out of the city. He did not even bother hiding, but walked openly behind him.
Soon Mu Gaofeng stopped, turned, and said with a cold sneer:"Boy, why are you tailing this hunchback?"
Zhao An smiled faintly."I've heard the Northern Hunchback, Mu Gaofeng, wields mighty skill. I've only just achieved some progress with my sword. I came to learn from your esteemed hand."
Mu Gaofeng laughed darkly."Heh… Ignorant brat. You're trying to use me to make a name for yourself, aren't you? Martial skill takes years to temper, fame must be earned bit by bit. Want to kill me to rise in one stroke? This year alone, I've already slain nine ambitious young men like you. Well then, let you be the tenth—make it a round number."
Mu Gaofeng's nature was petty and vindictive, far more so than Yu Canghai.
Though Zhao An's words sounded polite, they were prideful in the extreme.
And Mu Gaofeng—he always hungered for chances to provoke, to clash with disciples of major sects, flaunt his skill, and force his presence upon the world. Now, with Zhao An challenging him outright, he had already resolved to kill.
Without hesitation, he struck first.
Mu Gaofeng's appearance was repulsive, but his martial skill was not. His swordsmanship was cunning and vicious, unlike the orthodox schools of the Central Plains.
But the Bixie Sword's tyrannical advantage lay in speed. No matter how exquisite your technique, no matter how unpredictable your move—if my sword is faster, if my body is faster, your brilliance means nothing.
I strike—you must block, or be pierced. You strike—I will block if I can, evade if I cannot.
This is the essence: All under heaven, martial arts bow to speed.
The first time facing Bixie Swordplay, few escape unscathed.
Mu Gaofeng was no different. Zhao An's blade flashed—a streak of white lightning—its edge already at his chest.
Yet Mu Gaofeng was a seasoned killer. He had walked the path of blood, lived through countless brushes with death. In that instant, instinct took over—sidestep, retreat, counter-thrust—all in one seamless motion.
His robe tore, the blade grazing past his chest, but his skin remained uncut.
A narrow escape.
Most men, faced with such danger, would falter—momentum lost, courage broken.
But Mu Gaofeng was ruthless. Not only did he not retreat, he fought back with greater ferocity.
Unleashing his full strength, he poured inner energy into his Hunchback Swordplay, forming an airtight web of steel before him.
Zhao An's sword was swift, but his inner energy still fell short. He dared not clash directly and was forced, for the moment, to circle and probe.
He unleashed the seventy-two forms of the Bixie Sword, each with dozens of variations, evolving endlessly.
The display was dazzling—enough to leave any observer dizzy, let alone to counter it.
Mu Gaofeng did not care. He burned through his energy recklessly, forcing his speed to the limit.
In mere moments, they had exchanged over a hundred blows. Sweat poured from his brow.
By two hundred moves, his breathing grew ragged.
By three hundred, his strength faltered, sword slowing.
Zhao An seized the moment. Like a storm breaking upon a rotten wall, his blade surged forward in relentless waves.
Desperation twisted Mu Gaofeng's face. He cast aside defense, lunging with suicidal ferocity.
But against Bixie Swordplay, such recklessness was useless. Zhao An's body blurred like a phantom, slipping between attacks with inhuman speed. Mu Gaofeng couldn't even touch his shadow.
And once his guard was abandoned, his fate was sealed.
Within five strokes, Zhao An pierced his wrist, disarming him. His longsword flashed thrice more—between the brows, across the throat, and through the chest.
Mu Gaofeng fell, blood spraying.
It was not that Zhao An sought to mutilate. Rather, he had executed to perfection one of Bixie's killing techniques—All Evils Repelled.
At its height, the move could strike a dozen vital points in what seemed the same instant.
Originally meant as an area-cleaving skill, Zhao An now poured its full fury onto a single foe.
Thus perished Mu Gaofeng—the Northern Hunchback, scourge of the demonic path—slain in obscurity, his corpse abandoned on a wild roadside.
The sword is a murderous tool; martial arts, the craft of killing. Insight gained through solitary practice is one thing—but to kill a man, to cross blades for life and death, that brings another kind of revelation.
From Mu Gaofeng's death, Zhao An grasped new truths.
Swordsmanship demands talent.
The nimble of mind, who quickly perceive the essence within each technique.The flexible of thought, who can draw one truth from another, extend one principle across many arts.The meticulous, with keen memory, who can retain intricate forms and execute them flawlessly.
These are the qualities of a true swordsman.
Yet talent alone is not enough—temperament matters most.
One must be bold, yet not reckless. Fierce, yet tempered. To wield the sword is to struggle—against others, against oneself, even against the heavens. Only with such ambition can one press forward, unstoppable, unyielding.
These were Zhao An's reflections, hard-won from days of practice and this life-and-death duel.
As for talent, he believed he possessed it.
As for temperament—well, time would tell.
After slaying Mu Gaofeng, Zhao An returned quietly to Hengyang.
Looting corpses was frowned upon in the orthodox world. Zhao An had no such scruples. Yet Mu Gaofeng had lived and died a villain—his body yielded only a few silver taels and a poison pouch.
No manuals. Of course not. Only fools like Lao Denuo would carry martial secrets openly.
That idiot had once carried the Zixia Manual with him instead of memorizing it, and was caught as the thief. Truly, the height of stupidity. To die and have your greatest treasure fall into an enemy's hands—utterly worthless.
Back at Huiyan Tower, Zhao An was climbing to the second floor when a burst of laughter rang out above.
"Hahaha! Well said indeed!" boomed a middle-aged voice.
Another, younger voice followed:"Brother Tian, I have no interest in talking with nuns. We are men! Drinking is drinking—let this little nun get lost! Mark my words: the moment you lay a hand on her, your fortune will crumble. You'll meet disaster everywhere you go in the jianghu—unless you shave your head and become a monk. These are the 'Three Great Poisons of the World.' Tell me, why not avoid them at all costs?"
The older man's voice asked curiously, "And what are these 'Three Poisons of the World'?"
The younger replied, laughing:"Brother Tian, you've traveled the martial world so long, yet you don't know? It's a common saying: 'Nuns, arsenic, and golden thread snakes—whether you have courage or not, don't touch them!'
The nun is one poison. Arsenic is the second. Golden thread snake is the third. Of the three, the nun is worst of all. Among us Five Mountains disciples, we speak of it often."