Chapter Fifty-Six: The Day of the Sword Duel, Atop the Peak of Tianshan

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The next morning, at dawn.

At the summit of the Tianshan Mountains, by the side of Heavenly Lake.

The area had long since been cleared by the Kunlun Sect, with cordons set up all around. Only those from the various invited sects were allowed within.

Heavenly Lake shimmered like a colossal sapphire set amidst the snowy peaks. On a flat expanse beside the lake, a simple and ancient stage for the sword contest had been erected.

The Kunlun Saint, clad in white, already stood atop the platform with his hands clasped behind his back. His expression was haughty, eyes closed as if nothing in this world was worthy of his attention. The Tang Sect, the Myriad Beasts Manor, and other factions that allied themselves with Kunlun were arrayed on either side below the stage, cheering him on with overwhelming momentum.

On the other side, the Shushan delegation looked sparse and solemn, their presence tinged with a sense of tragic resolve.

All eyes were fixed on Ling Qingzhu, who had yet to appear.

“At a time like this, why hasn’t Ling Qingzhu arrived? Could it be she’s afraid?” The young master of the Tang Sect, Tang Feng, remarked with a careless laugh.

The head of Shushan wore a grim expression, unable to retort. For Ling Qingzhu was indeed not present.

At this very moment, she was in my room.

There was no imparting of secret techniques, no infusion of inner energy—only a single burner of fragrant incense and a pot of hot tea.

She and I sat facing each other, from sunrise until now. I said nothing, merely had her close her eyes and feel the sword intent I released, to forsake sight and perceive with her heart.

Her mind, at first restless and uneasy, gradually settled, becoming tranquil in rhythm with the natural cadence of heaven and earth, until all was still.

“What do you see?” I finally asked.

“I see clouds, I see snow, I see light,” Ling Qingzhu replied softly.

“Clouds have form, yet are formless. Snow melts in sunlight, hardens in cold. Light is everywhere, yet leaves no trace,” I said quietly. “All things in heaven and earth are in flux. To follow the flow is to walk the great path. Why must your sword remain unchanging?”

As I finished, my sword intent transformed—becoming ethereal, elusive, like clouds drifting in the sky, like light that cannot be seen.

Ling Qingzhu’s body shuddered, a brilliant light flaring in her eyes.

Yes, her sword had always pursued the ultimate purity and sharpness, but in so doing, she had become trapped by the notion of “pressing ever forward.” She had forgotten that the sword could also be as gentle as water, as ever-changing as the clouds.

“I understand now.” She rose and bowed deeply to me.

In that instant, her entire aura shifted. The keen, unmatched sword intent did not vanish, but was now perfectly restrained—at her command, neither excessive nor lacking. She resembled a peerless blade sheathed in plain scabbard: outwardly simple, yet containing fearsome power.

Her inner knot had unraveled.

“Go,” I waved my hand, “show the world what the true sword of Shushan is.”

“Yes, Teacher!”

When Ling Qingzhu’s figure appeared by Heavenly Lake, all present sensed something different.

She was still herself, yet somehow, something had changed.

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Step by steady step, she mounted the stage, coming to stand opposite the Kunlun Saint.

“So you finally arrive,” the Kunlun Saint opened his eyes, a flicker of impatience passing through them. “I thought you’d lost your nerve.”

Ling Qingzhu ignored his taunt, replying calmly, “Ling Qingzhu of Shushan—please instruct me.”

With those words, she slowly drew the sword from her back.

By Heavenly Lake, watched by the multitudes.

The moment Ling Qingzhu unsheathed her sword, a pure and chilling sword intent soared to the heavens, as if it could cleave the drifting clouds above. Every martial artist below felt their hearts tighten, a tingling cold pricking their skin.

“What a powerful sword intent! Even stronger than the rumors!”

“It seems that in these ten years, Fairy Ling has never slackened!”

A disdainful smile played at the Kunlun Saint’s lips. “Impressive sword intent, but before absolute power, it’s no more than a firefly’s glow.”

Even before his figure moved, a vast and overwhelming pressure crashed down like a sea. If Ling Qingzhu’s sword intent was a razor-sharp dagger, then his aura was a mountain crushing from above.

The weaker martial artists below instantly felt their breath seized, faces turning pale.

Such was the might of a Spirit Sea master.

Yet Ling Qingzhu, at the center of this oppression, stood unmoved as a pine rooted in stone. Her gaze was calm and unruffled, recalling the lesson Mr. Jiang had given her the day before.

“Clouds have form, yet are formless. Snow melts in sunlight, hardens in cold… To follow the flow is to walk the great path.”

Faced with the Kunlun Saint’s mountainous force, she did not resist head-on. Her sword sang softly, the tip tracing a mysterious arc; her pure sword intent became supple, forming a vortex that deftly diverted his pressure aside.

“Oh?” For the first time, a look of surprise crossed the Kunlun Saint’s face.

He had not expected her to dissolve his oppressive force with such ease.

“Interesting,” he said, dropping his contempt. With a flicker, he attacked—not with a sword, but with fingers extended as a blade, slashing through the air!

A white blade of energy, visible to the naked eye and shrieking as it tore through the air, came crashing down on Ling Qingzhu. Though this strike seemed casual, it contained the surging inner power of the Spirit Sea realm, enough to shatter stone.

Ling Qingzhu’s eyes sharpened; she advanced rather than retreating.

She refused to meet force with force. Her steps traced seven stars, her body swaying like willow in the wind, dodging the energy blade at an impossible angle. At the same time, her sword flashed upward from below, like a viper striking, straight for the Kunlun Saint’s wrist!

Her sword was no longer blindly direct, but had gained in agility and change.

The Kunlun Saint snorted, flipping his wrist, his fingertip striking the flat of her sword with pinpoint precision.

Clang!

A crisp ring. Ling Qingzhu felt a surge of brute force; her hand went numb, and her sword nearly flew from her grasp. Using the momentum, she flipped backward through the air, landing steadily on her feet.

After just one exchange, the gap in raw strength was clear. In sheer power, she was far inferior.

“So this is your reliance? Dodging and weaving—do you dare call this the swordsmanship of Shushan?” the Kunlun Saint declared arrogantly, hands clasped behind his back.

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Ling Qingzhu did not reply, only steadied her breath. She knew that to contend in brute strength would only end in defeat. Her sole chance lay in the word “change.”

She closed her eyes. In her mind, there was no victory or defeat, no sect, only the natural world as Mr. Jiang had described.

The path of the wind, the drift of clouds, the flow of water…

The next moment, she reopened her eyes, and her entire bearing transformed once again.

If before she was a sword sheathed, now she was wind, was cloud, was all that existed beneath the heavens.

“Sword and self as one? No… this is the nascent form of unity with heaven!” The Shushan head beneath the stage trembled with excitement.

Ling Qingzhu moved. Her form grew ethereal, sword light spreading like silk, like rain, like a net enveloping the Kunlun Saint from all sides. Each stroke did not seek to wound, but only to disrupt his rhythm, searching for that fleeting and vanishing opening.

The Kunlun Saint's brow furrowed. He felt as if mired in a swamp. Her swordplay, at times fierce as a storm, at times gentle as a spring breeze, left his surging inner power with nowhere to expend itself, a stifling frustration.

“Tricks and petty skills! Break for me!”

At last losing patience, he roared, unleashing his Spirit Sea energy without reservation. A wave of terrifying force exploded outward from him in all directions.

He would crush all technique with absolute power.

At the instant his energy erupted, a sharp light flashed in Ling Qingzhu’s eyes.

This was what she had been waiting for.

As he poured everything into his assault, reaching the peak of his momentum, there lay a fleeting moment where his old strength was spent and new strength not yet born—a single instant of vulnerability.

Ling Qingzhu’s figure, amid the raging tempest, was like a lone boat pushing against the current. She channeled every ounce of her essence, spirit, and energy into her sword.

That stroke was neither earth-shattering nor blindingly brilliant.

It was simple, unadorned—yet it contained all the truth and insight Ling Qingzhu had grasped in that moment.

It pierced through the storm, ignored the oppressive force, and arrived precisely at the Kunlun Saint’s throat.

Time itself seemed to halt.

The Kunlun Saint stood rigid, cold sweat beading on his brow. He could sense that if her sword advanced another inch, his life would end then and there.

He… had lost.

A Spirit Sea master, defeated by Ling Qingzhu, still in the Spirit Platform realm.

The entire crowd fell into utter silence.