Rikuko Sō's body was sturdy, and with his inner energy already tempered to a decent level, his wounds healed quickly. After just one night's rest, he was back on his feet, lively as ever. At that moment, he was happily chatting with Roku Dayū, who had rushed over to care for him.
When Zhao An arrived, the three of them sat together from early morning, drinking cup after cup, exchanging banter as they drank.
Rikuko Sō was naturally free-spirited; having roamed the martial world, he knew countless amusing stories. Roku Dayū, though less experienced, had a knack for witty quips. Zhao An, however, viewed the world as though from a god's perspective—he knew something about nearly everything. Having lived through an era of explosive knowledge, his breadth of understanding was vast: from astronomy above to geography below, from the past five hundred years to the next five hundred.
Thus, their conversation blazed with energy, as if they were old friends reunited after too long a separation.
After gaining their goodwill, Zhao An glanced at the time and excused himself. Alone, he headed to the Liu estate—not to revel in the tragedy of Liu Seifu's downfall, but to observe, to recognize the key figures of the martial world.
Most of all, he wished to see Yaku Fukun and the elite of the Mount Song Sect.
The former, for he was destined to become the greatest villain of this world.The latter, because Zhao An already disliked them enough to want them dead.
Both were worth his careful attention.
Most sects had distinctive attire. The only exception was the Beggar Sect.
Without an invitation and unwilling to draw attention, Zhao An mingled with their ranks and slipped quietly into the Liu residence.
Within, the major figures of the Five Peaks Sword Sect were already gathered—except for those of Mount Song.
Yaku Fukun was easily recognizable: about one meter eighty in height, dressed in the garb of a Confucian scholar, refined and elegant in demeanor, even a little handsome in appearance.
The bald, middle-aged nun was Abbess Jōitsu.
The stern, imposing Daoist priest was none other than Master Tenmon of the Mount Tai Sect.
The plump, smiling man bustling about was clearly Liu Seifu himself.
Their traits were so distinct that Zhao An had no trouble identifying them.
Yu Sōkai was present as well—his complexion rosy, his movements unhindered, it was plain his injuries had fully healed.
Zhao An kept to a corner, speaking to no one, silently observing the many faces of the martial world.
Before long, the ceremony of "Washing Hands in the Golden Basin" began. It was Shi Tōda, a second-generation disciple of Mount Song, who first stepped forward to halt Liu Seifu's ritual.
Then Mount Song experts Fei Bin, Ding Men, and Roku Haku appeared one after another, publicly exposing Liu Seifu's secret friendship with Qu Yō.
But Liu Seifu was as stubborn as iron. Even then, he remained unyielding, striking out to seize Fei Bin in an attempt to drive back the Mount Song sect members—yet he dared not truly injure them.
In the end, Ding Men and the others exploited his weakness, slaughtering his disciples and family without mercy.
Watching this scene, Zhao An sighed:
"Liu Seifu, you fool… You had courage and integrity, but not enough boldness. To be wiped out along with your family without even daring a desperate counterattack—pitiful. In the end, it fell to Qu Yō to snatch back your life from death's grasp."
Still, Zhao An consoled himself: the Guangling San score was already in hand, and he had managed to save two children. As long as he could also obtain the score of The Smiling, Proud Wanderer, this trip would be a complete success.
When Zhao An caught up by the waterfall, the elegant notes of a qin were already resounding. Soon, the gentle tone of a flute joined in. The qin was steady and upright, the flute ethereal and haunting. At times the qin soared with power, while the flute echoed in deep resonance.
Their interplay was seamless—each voice distinct, yet harmonizing perfectly. Compared to modern orchestral ensembles with dozens of instruments, it was modest, but in this time and place, it was a peerless duet.
When the piece ended, its lingering resonance stirred the soul.
"Bravo, bravo! What a masterful qin-and-flute duet! Truly, this is music fit for the heavens—rarely to be heard upon this earth." Zhao An stepped forward, applauding with genuine praise.
Qu Yō smiled faintly. "Young Master Zhao, you flatter us. Allow me to introduce—this is Liu Seifu, the Third Master of the Liu family." He then turned to Liu Seifu. "Brother Liu, this is none other than Young Master Zhao."
Without rising, Liu Seifu cupped his fists. "An honor to meet you, Young Master Zhao. For the message you conveyed earlier, I owe you my gratitude."
Zhao An waved it off. "A trivial matter, not worth remembering. What concerns me now is that you two seem to be in dire straits."
Liu Seifu's voice was calm. "It matters little. Though our meridians are severed and death is near, to perform this duet of The Smiling, Proud Wanderer before the end—our lives bear no regret."
Qu Yō chuckled. "Indeed. In the past, Ji Kang, before his execution, played one last piece upon the qin and lamented that Guangling San would vanish with him. Hah, but compared to our duet today, that melody pales. And his state of mind back then—surely it matches ours now."
Liu Seifu laughed. "Brother Qu, you were so philosophical a moment ago, yet here you are clinging again. Today, you and I have poured all our spirit into this piece. The world has heard it, we have played it—what regret remains in life?"
Qu Yō clapped softly. "Well said. Young Master Zhao, I must trouble you to look after little Feifei and young Master Liu. For this kindness, I can only repay you in the next life."
Zhao An shook his head. "This is merely an exchange, nothing more. Do not speak of debts. Rest assured—what I promised, I will see done."
Qu Yō said earnestly, "The Guangling San is precious, but it is not as precious as their lives. Your aid—Brother Liu and I will remember it deep within our hearts."
After a pause, he added, "There is one last matter, if I may be shameless enough to ask."
Zhao An asked, "Is it about your score?"
Qu Yō nodded. "Yes. This Smiling, Proud Wanderer composition is the crowning work of our lives. To let it be buried with us would be too great a loss. We beg you, Young Master, to take it into the world, to find a worthy successor."
Liu Seifu agreed. "If this music can be passed on, Brother Qu and I may die with peace in our hearts."
Taking the score, Zhao An bowed. "I will do my utmost."
Qu Yō recounted the origin of the piece. Then, together with Liu Seifu, he severed his own inner breath and died.
Zhao An did not disturb their corpses. He turned and departed.
Not far along the path, he suddenly frowned toward the trees. "You've been following me all this way. What exactly do you intend?"
A peal of harsh laughter rang out. A dark figure stepped from the woods, flashing forward to block Zhao An's path.
Zhao An recognized him at once—Fei Bin of the Mount Song Sect.
He had always disliked this man, even back when watching television dramas: ruthless, venomous, so depraved he even murdered children.
At once Zhao An sneered. "So that's who was skulking behind me like a thief. A Mount Song 'expert'—having just butchered women and children, now reduced to a lurking bandit!"
Fei Bin, famed for his cruelty and long in the martial world, had intended a few civil words. But after such scathing insults, his face darkened.
He sneered. "I had planned only to shadow you, to quietly dispose of the two fugitives you're hiding. Had you cooperated, I might even have spared your life. But you insist on courting death.
Don't blame me for cruelty. Now tell me—where are Liu Seifu's son and Qu Yō's granddaughter?"
Zhao An's face was expressionless. "Defeat the sword in my hand, and I'll tell you."
Fei Bin's lips twisted into a cruel smile. "Arrogant brat! Do you think a few scraps of swordplay make you worthy to boast before me? Today, I'll teach you the truth—there is always a higher sky, always a stronger man!"
Zhao An replied coldly, "Then I return those very words to you."
Enraged, Fei Bin drew his broad sword with a metallic ring. The blade flashed like a rainbow as he lunged.
Zhao An had no wish to kill him quickly. The Evil-Repelling Sword was swift and exquisite, a top-tier martial art—but Zhao An knew better than to believe, like Rin Heishi once had, that it made him invincible.
Against masters like Yaku Fukun or Jin Gojō, even the Evil-Repelling Sword depended on the wielder. In Rin Heishi's hands, it would fail. Yaku Fukun had triumphed only because of decades steeped in swordsmanship, mastery of countless techniques, and profound inner power.
And even then, Yaku Fukun was no match for Rikuko Sō wielding the peerless Nine Swords of Dugu—let alone against Wind Qingyō or the Unbeatable Tōhō.
For the Nine Swords, though deadly in form, drew their true strength from the insight to read and counter any style, striking where the opponent was weakest.
Swordsmanship—or any martial art—required a solid foundation. One had to master many techniques, not just forms but also the wisdom of countless duels, to climb to the highest peaks.
Thus, Zhao An valued every bout with a strong opponent.
He deliberately slowed his Evil-Repelling Sword to match Fei Bin move for move.
Only after Fei Bin had displayed all seventeen stances of the Mount Song sword did Zhao An's movements turn sudden and ghostly, his figure weaving like a phantom.
Fei Bin was shocked. "This boy's swordplay is sinister and ruthless, faster than lightning. When did the martial world gain such a figure? How have I never heard of him? I must tread carefully, or I'll stumble in this gutter and die at his hands!"
Still, he thought smugly, "Even if his swordwork is strong, his inner power cannot match mine. If I drag this out, I will surely win."
But at that very moment, Zhao An's swordwork changed, exploding in speed. His strikes were too fast to follow, impossible to counter—Fei Bin's years of combat allowed only blind, desperate parries.
Even so, he could not withstand them.
Zhao An's blade cut him again and again.
With his current level, Zhao An could have slain him in barely a dozen strokes.
But exhilaration surged through him—he wished to unleash the entire Evil-Repelling Sword. So each time his blade reached a vital point, he drew back, leaving only shallow wounds.
To Fei Bin, it was torment: each instant felt like death, yet each wound was just shy of fatal.
Seventy-two variations the Evil-Repelling Sword possessed—each endlessly complex. To display them all meant unleashing thousands of strokes.
By the tenth sequence, Fei Bin was already broken: tendons severed, chest and back carved raw, throat lined with bloody gashes. He was butchered piece by piece, a living execution by slow slicing.
And Zhao An was not yet finished.
When he unleashed the technique All Evils Repelled, his inner power roared like a balloon ready to burst. Alarmed, he forced it outward with all his strength—his blade thundered like a storm, lightning-quick, its energy surging beyond control.
The stroke cleaved Fei Bin into dozens of pieces, toppling trees in its path.
When it ended, Zhao An dropped to one knee, gasping, nearly spent.
Yet joy welled within him. He knew that this loss of control was no accident—his inner strength had broken through at last.
A great breakthrough, in fact: from the peak of third-rate to the level of second-rate. A leap in essence itself.
With this advancement, paired with the Evil-Repelling Sword, he had truly stepped into the ranks of top-tier martial masters.