Chapter Fifty-Two: Far Too Weak

On the plaza before the Patriarch’s Hall, the winds shifted and clouds churned, the air thick with sudden change. Many were left reeling, unable to recover from the successive shocks. Daoist Master Dao Xuan turned his gaze toward Lu Wenyu in the distance.

The Academy was responsible for maintaining the balance between cultivators and mortals, and served as the arbiter of this matter. Whether Shen Yu would be allowed to participate in this trial—Lu Wenyu’s opinion mattered greatly. Moreover, the ultimate victor would be sent to the Central State Academy; if the Academy refused to recognize Shen Yu, his participation would be rendered meaningless.

Lu Wenyu frowned slightly, hesitating. Making a decision on behalf of the Central State Academy was no easy task. After a moment’s silence, his eyes fell upon someone in the crowd, uncertainty in his gaze.

It was Su Mo.

The latter gave him a gentle smile.

Lu Wenyu contemplated for a moment longer, then said, “He may participate.”

...

The affairs of the world are always rife with surprises and uncertainties, winding on in their crooked course. The path to enlightenment is fraught with peril; where there is life, there must also be death.

All the disciples of the Clear Law Hall’s Enforcement Pavilion withdrew, leaving only two figures standing upon the high platform.

“You are, indeed, a fine storyteller,” Zhang Jian remarked, hands clasped behind his back, his tone indifferent. “I wonder if it’s arrogance or confidence. The little trick you used last time is useless now.”

He referred to the technique of condensing spiritual power and unleashing a force beyond one’s current realm—a feat Zhang Jian had heard of during the last Four Halls Tournament.

Shen Yu did not spare him a glance. His gaze drifted instead to a statue standing resolute on the northern side. It had been many years since he’d been compelled to speak at such length, recalling memories that were anything but pleasant. His mood was foul.

He had told Ding Yi before that he lacked the patience to reason with others. Were they elsewhere, he would never have explained so much, nor uttered so many pointless truths.

No one had the right to judge him. Shen Yu had always acted as he pleased—why should he explain himself?

But here, things were different.

He was willing to devote what little patience and reason he’d accumulated over more than three millennia to the Daoist Sect.

The reason, naturally, was the silent statue before him. After all, that boy had once been his only disciple.

Thus, he did not resist, willingly entering the Cliff of Reflection, even choosing to reason calmly with those of the Daoist Sect.

But now, he was done explaining.

His patience was spent.

Shen Yu asked coolly, “Mingjian’s injuries?”

Zhang Jian nodded, sneering, “I inflicted them.”

Shen Yu made a noncommittal sound.

A blood-red wooden sword appeared in his right hand.

Zhang Jian’s playful demeanor vanished, his expression growing grave; despite himself, a sliver of apprehension lingered within. It was because his master’s Free Sword, the Clear Law Hall’s Fang Hen, and Chen Jianzhi had all been defeated by this refined young man.

...

The gap between the Golden Core stage and mid-Spirit Wandering stage was such that, under normal circumstances, the outcome would be beyond doubt.

But this was Shen Yu. Here, cultivation realms seemed to lose their significance.

Others at the same level, such as Yu Wenwen and Fang Hen, watched the pair with unwavering focus.

Zhang Jian sneered inwardly. Did this man truly believe that the tricks of the past would still avail him? His master had spent years unraveling Shen Yu’s history, thinking the Yunyang Temple incident would cripple him. Yet, he had appeared in the tournament after all.

Shang Yingluo watched the match with sparkling eyes, occasionally waving at Shen Yu.

For Yang Liu, this was her first time witnessing Shen Yu in battle; during the previous Four Halls Tournament, she had been recovering on Sitting-Forget Peak. Now, worry clouded her face.

“Eldest Brother, Brother Shen Yu is still only at the Golden Core stage. Can he really defeat that man?” she asked nervously.

Su Mo thought for a moment, then replied gravely, “It’s something else that concerns me.”

Yang Liu was taken aback, then noticed the serious expression on Daoist Master Daofan’s face beside her, making her even more uneasy. “What is it?” she pressed.

Su Mo sighed. “Our junior brother is in a foul mood. I fear that, in a moment’s carelessness, he might actually kill Zhang Jian. What then?”

Daoist Master Daofan nodded. “Indeed, that’s my concern as well.”

Hearing this exchange, Yang Liu was left speechless.

...

Daoist Master Dao Xuan declared, “Begin.”

In an instant, Zhang Jian pressed forward, his spiritual whip lashing out like a serpent, though the move itself was unremarkable.

Shen Yu stepped left, the whip’s shadow slicing through where he’d stood moments before, gouging a deep groove in the ground.

Zhang Jian’s expression remained unchanged. With a few nimble steps, he sent up a curtain of black whip-shadows, enveloping Shen Yu.

As the whip-shadow closed in, Zhang Jian concentrated his spiritual power to a single point; countless whip images merged into one, transforming into a black dragon that thrust forward.

This was the lifelong spiritual power of a mid-Spirit Wandering cultivator, unleashed in a single blow. The black whip even emitted a piercing screech.

Shen Yu remained unperturbed, raising his hand lightly.

A moment later, the air between them reverberated with the dull thud of flesh meeting flesh.

In the blink of an eye, Zhang Jian and Shen Yu exchanged hundreds of blows—fist shadows whirled, the whip and the blood-red wooden sword clashed, their movements growing ever swifter, the arena floor erupting with shards of stone.

Zhang Jian employed his inheritance from Sitting-Forget Peak—the “Dragon Severing Technique.” He had defeated Mingjian with this very secret art, whose power was unparalleled; only he was worthy of its legacy on the entire peak.

Yet, to his astonishment, Shen Yu’s wooden sword always seemed to deflect his whip in the most unexpected ways, and did so with almost casual ease.

The duel quickly reached a stalemate, the hard blue stone of the arena cracked in countless places.

Zhang Jian’s whip moved like a dragon; Shen Yu, with one hand behind his back, wielded sword intent like the wind.

As time passed, some noticed there was no discernible pattern to Shen Yu’s swordplay—each move was plain, a continuous series of circles drawn in the air.

One circle followed another.

Daoist Master Daofan looked on in amazement. He had often seen Shen Yu practicing his forms in the bamboo groves of Flying Peak, drawing circles just like this. He never expected that even his sword technique would follow the same pattern—deceptively harmless, yet unfathomably profound.

If even a great cultivator at the Integration stage was so astonished, what of the young disciples just starting their path? Each was utterly entranced.

Luo Lian, Hall Master of the True Transmission Hall, her face veiled in white, spoke with admiration, “I didn’t expect the boy’s swordplay to be so fluid and natural. Though our sect focuses on the path of law, to produce swordsmanship of this caliber—perhaps even the disciples of Sword Immortal City could do no better.”

Bang!

A heavy blow sent Zhang Jian staggering back, breathing hard, confusion in his eyes.

He had poured all his spiritual strength into his secret art, and Shen Yu had spent even more to neutralize his attacks, yet there was no sign of Shen Yu’s power waning.

How could someone at the Golden Core stage possess such boundless spiritual energy?

Shen Yu asked calmly, “Shall we continue?”

Zhang Jian sneered, then took a deep breath, his body slowly rising into the air.

The seven-foot whip followed, soaring upward. Suddenly, a fiery red glow erupted along its length—like a dragon’s flame.

Murmuring an incantation, Zhang Jian poured all of his spiritual energy into the treasure.

The whip thickened and grew, swelling until it transformed into a black flood dragon, its head raised, roaring defiantly.

Wind whirled, dragon’s roar echoed.

The spectacle drew cries of astonishment from the crowd.

“What’s this? Did Sitting-Forget Peak truly forge a spiritual treasure from the body of a flood dragon?”

“A flood dragon! True dragons have long since vanished—only at the farthest edge of the Eastern Sea might one still find a flood dragon.”

“To craft a treasure from a flood dragon, a creature that could rival an Ascendant cultivator!”

Even Daoist Master Dao Xuan was surprised, murmuring, “The Dragon-Slaying Whip…”

A faint smile touched Zhang Zhi’s lips.

This was, indeed, an innate spiritual treasure.

It was also why Zhang Jian had secluded himself for so long. Years ago, Zhang Zhi had found this treasure while traveling in the Spirit Wastes, and after refining it, discovered its true nature. He’d kept its existence a secret, giving it to his chief disciple, instructing him to fuse it as his life-bound treasure in preparation for the tournament.

Zhang Zhi felt a twinge of regret. He had intended to unveil this treasure only when facing Yu Wenwen or Fang Hen, not so soon. But with the seal undone, Shen Yu had no chance of victory.

Zhang Jian traced intricate seals with his hands, like a god descended, then shouted, “Go!”

The black flood dragon coiled overhead, roaring thunderously, then split into several phantasmal images.

The black dragon lunged forward.

Shen Yu remained serene. As the dragon neared, he stepped forward.

A thunderous boom erupted—spiritual energy tore through the air, shattered stone flying.

Dust engulfed the entire platform.

...

Man and artifact as one.

The disciples could only stare in awe, faces flushed with excitement.

If merely fusing with an innate spiritual treasure granted such power, what if it were an immortal artifact? What if the wielder were an Ascendant?

What a sight that would be.

A collective sigh swept through the crowd. What could Shen Yu possibly do to withstand such a world-shaking blow?

Yu Wenwen watched with grave concern, her gaze ceaselessly searching the arena for any sign.

Yang Liu quietly produced a greenish-blue pill—one Shen Yu had given her earlier for healing. If he should be gravely injured, this would see him right.

Zhang Zhi smiled. The boy had lost.

The arena’s once-bright stone was now pocked with craters, the air clearing as the dust settled.

Zhang Jian was spent, unable to hide the fatigue etched upon his face, yet a sense of satisfaction filled him. Today’s match would soon be the talk of the Spirit Wastes, and his name would spread across the land.

But his smile froze.

As the dust dispersed, a figure in green stepped forth.

“Rise, sword.”

By then, Zhang Jian could barely hear the soft words—for a blood-red wooden sword had already pierced his body.

Then his left shoulder, right shoulder, chest, and both legs—countless wounds erupted, blood gushing into the air.

In an instant, Zhang Jian was drenched in blood.

...

It had happened too quickly, too strangely for anyone to react.

A few disciples from the Law Derivation Hall cried out in shock.

They saw that Zhang Jian’s wounds were identical to Mingjian’s.

The only difference: one bore sword wounds, the other whip marks.

Zhang Jian stood dazed, yet the pain rendered his mind unnaturally clear.

He saw the figure of Shen Yu—aside from a few dusty patches on his robe, he was entirely unharmed.

“How is this possible?”

Zhang Jian could not comprehend it. After years in seclusion, after fusing with an innate spiritual treasure, after wielding a higher cultivation realm by two full stages—he could not harm Shen Yu in the slightest.

“A mere treasure forged from a flood dragon’s spine,” Shen Yu said, approaching. “I’ve killed more flood dragons than I can count.”

Bang!

Shen Yu raised his right foot, and with a casual strike sent Zhang Jian flying. He tumbled across the ground, leaving a trail of blood—coming to rest at the very feet of the Sitting-Forget Peak’s chief.

Zhang Zhi glared, fury burning in his eyes.

Shen Yu looked at him, then spoke clearly.

He did not lower his voice, but let it ring out, crisp and bright, so that all within the Patriarch’s Hall plaza heard every word.

And all were shaken, staring at Shen Yu.

For he said:

You are far too weak.