Chapter Seventy-Five: Till Death or Victory

Zhaomian was convinced victory was within his grasp. The smile at the corner of his lips grew less sinister, replaced with a more vicious and excited gleam. He thrilled at the thought that he was about to kill Nanluo, that he would soon become a true Grand Shaman, able to train in the martial arts of the Ancestral Shaman Hall. He would no longer be overshadowed by those he had grown up with, nor would he have to beg for anything ever again.

Within the demon moon mirror, concealed among the branches and leaves, Zhaomian’s figure slowly emerged from the edge—first a single foot, then his entire form. His smile widened with every step. The moment he sensed someone watching him, Zhaomian immediately discovered Nanluo’s hiding place. Though he could not see Nanluo, he could guess his condition. Secretly, he released his most prized Devourer Spirit Worm, pretending all the while that he had noticed nothing amiss.

It was not especially difficult to attach one’s spiritual sense to a sword and send it flying to kill. Once the spirit and sword had merged to a certain degree, controlling its flight became natural. But to use the sword as a medium to commune with the world’s elemental forces was not something that could be achieved overnight.

Fortunately, Nanluo no longer felt the awkwardness of years past when attaching his spirit to the Qingyan Sword. Especially after resisting the third arrow from Houyi today—a strike imbued with the majesty of heaven and earth—he experienced a fleeting sense of unity between man and sword. Though brief, it made the connection between him and the Qingyan Sword far more seamless and harmonious.

The Qingyan Sword was embedded in the earth behind a great tree, some dozens of meters from Zhaomian. The blade quivered slightly, a faint mist wrapping around it, growing denser with each tremor.

Nanluo sought to use the sword as a foundation to draw upon the earth element among the five elements, increasing its power. Yet, only now did he realize how difficult this task truly was.

He had no energy left for other concerns; his entire being focused on merging with the Qingyan Sword and communing with the five elements. All outward dangers seemed forgotten, including the Devourer Spirit Worm that had slipped into the soil, its every movement captured by the demon moon mirror.

In this moment, Nanluo was gambling his life against time. He did not know the origin of that worm, but for Zhaomian to unleash it now, it could hardly be anything benign.

Suddenly, Nanluo’s spiritual sense seemed to break through some unseen restraint. The Qingyan Sword, once light and powerless, now brimmed with energy. It was as if it had been submerged in water and, in an instant, had entered the void.

At that instant, he felt a coldness at his dantian, as though something had silently settled there. The sensation instantly brought the gray worm to mind, and Nanluo was struck with terror. He had not expected the Celestial Veil Robe to fail to block it, not even for a moment—the worm had already slipped inside without a sound.

Zhaomian stood silently beneath the demon moon mirror. A faint gray mist flickered in his pupils. He happened to look up and was startled to see the mirror among the branches facing him. Before he could make sense of it, a surge of murderous intent erupted behind him. Wheeling around, he saw a blinding white light shoot into the sky, yellow mist swirling around its edges. He tried to dodge, but his body suddenly became uncontrollable and he was plunged into deep darkness.

Houyi had not left; he stood there watching the whole time. Although Nanluo’s abilities had surpassed his expectations, Houyi still did not believe Nanluo was capable of posing any real threat to Zhaomian at this moment, while stealth and pursuit were Zhaomian’s forte. He knew full well that, by Zhaomian’s nature, he would certainly attempt a sneak attack.

The green mountains loomed high, ancient trees soared, and the undulating ridges rolled like emerald waves. Miasma and clouds drifted and ebbed among the hills.

A sword light soared into the sky from amidst the green peaks, only to fall silent in the next instant.

Houyi’s handsome features grew colder as he fixed his gaze on the spot where the sword had risen.

He slowly raised his left hand, the snowy sleeve wiping away the blood at his lips. A gust of wind rose, and the white-robed figure atop the peak vanished.

Nanluo had already returned to earth. He sheathed his sword and slipped the mirror into his robe.

He looked at Zhaomian’s corpse, now cleaved in two, and felt a strange pang within. He had never hesitated to kill those who wished him dead, yet he could not help but remember the half-drop of blood, rightfully Zhaomian’s, that he had received—this was the root of Zhaomian’s resentment. Unbidden, his thoughts turned to the Zhu Rong he had never met: because he had been Kong Xuan’s apprentice, he had received half a drop of her precious blood for nothing, a great favor indeed—yet now he had slain her clansman.

He exhaled a long breath, as if to vent all the vexation and gloom of these past days.

A white figure appeared from the void without the slightest warning, as if a fish slowly surfacing or a leaf drifting down on the wind. It was none other than Houyi, passing like the wind.

Nanluo turned sharply. One look, and he instantly knew this was the man who had fired at him earlier—the man and the arrow shared the same aura: silent and desolate.

Yet in his eyes Nanluo saw a sorrow at odds with his outward composure.

Houyi’s gaze, somber and mournful, fixed on Nanluo. Deep in those eyes flickered a sorrowful killing intent.

To Nanluo, if someone had wiped out the Yangping clan, killed Luoshui and his own sister, such a contradiction would be impossible to resolve. That was the kind of implacable, irreconcilable, reasonless killing intent he saw in this white-robed man’s eyes.

Still, Nanluo spoke: “My name is Nanluo. I once received the great favor of the Ancestor Zhu Rong. I killed him only because I had no other choice.”

Houyi remained chillingly silent, the sorrow in his eyes undiminished. Nanluo’s sword flashed from its sheath, a white light streaking toward Houyi’s throat, faster even than before his injury.

Nanluo was fighting for his life—he had no other option. He dared not risk facing this man’s arrows from afar, so his only hope was to strike at close quarters. Besides, he knew his own condition could not withstand a drawn-out battle; desperation was his only recourse.

Clang—

Houyi moved like the wind, the tip of a black arrow tapping the Qingyan Sword with a metallic ring.

Their bodies froze in midair, then tangled together once more.

Nanluo, clad in blue, had already pulled the arrow from his shoulder, but the blood had pooled into a black stain. Though he looked battered, his sword danced like drifting willow catkins.

Houyi, in flowing white, wielded a black arrow that struck with every blow as swiftly and ruthlessly as an arrow released from the string, no slower than Nanluo’s sword.

Neither man used any spells; it was a contest of pure martial skill.

The sword flashed, sometimes like threads of white silk entwined in the air, sometimes like snowflakes swirling around Houyi. Nanluo moved like smoke, sometimes lunging straight for the throat, sometimes spinning behind, then suddenly descending from above in a death-defying strike, or launching a surprise attack from underground.

Houyi shifted only within a small area, his movements fluid as wind and cloud, parrying every thrust with ease. Not a flicker of emotion crossed his handsome face.

From the moment Nanluo spoke to the instant he struck, Houyi’s expression never changed, but the emotion in his eyes did not escape Nanluo’s notice, hence his determined attack.

Nanluo was never a cruel man, but he was never softhearted either. When his life was at stake, he was relentless.

Suddenly, Nanluo’s form, darting before and behind Houyi, paused for an instant. Houyi, as though he had eyes in the back of his head, instantly stabbed with his arrow at Nanluo’s chest.

Nanluo’s brows knitted; with a slight movement, he was already dozens of yards away, seemingly ready to escape.

He appeared calm outwardly, but blood and energy churned within. Already wounded and forced to kill Zhaomian, his injuries had only worsened, and after such a fierce fight, he could contain them no longer.

He had not expected his wounds to flare up so violently; his energy surged uncontrollably, the spiritual power in his dantian roiling as if boiling, beyond his control, and his mind grew hazy from the damage to his spirit.

Nanluo drew a deep breath, moved once more, and was about to vanish into the void—when he suddenly stopped.

He stood motionless, not daring to move a finger.

Dozens of yards away, Houyi now held a great black bow, lines as graceful and quiet as the man himself. The bow was drawn full, the arrowhead gleaming coldly, aimed straight at Nanluo’s back with a killing intent so sharp it seemed all magic would be as nothing before its flight.

Yet Nanluo’s mind was already in chaos. If only he could sit quietly and meditate, he might recover in a few days—but with Houyi’s deadly arrow nocked and ready, murderous intent thick in the air, how could he possibly withstand it?