Chapter Four: Sword Duel in the Ghostly Tomb

"Who dares lay a hand on my disciple!" A roar as fierce as a tiger’s shook the night, splitting the darkness as though the very sky had cracked. The surrounding poplars and willows trembled violently, their catkins swirling down. A hand, with the lightest of movements, gently struck the sinister ghostly claw, and though it bore not the faintest trace of mortal force, the spectral talon recoiled as if struck by a boulder, quivering violently before retreating like lightning.

"Floating Cloud Hand! Zhou Xun, the Sword Immortal of a Hundred Arms! You—here?!" Tong Rang’s voice was thick with disbelief.

"Yin Elder Tong Rang, Yang Elder Zhang Ying—so you two old ghosts still cling to life?" The newcomer was indeed Zhou Xun. Clad in a blue fitted robe, his hair tied casually behind him, his features were handsome and striking, his bearing extraordinary. He appeared to be about forty-five, a long case slung across his back, his whole person radiant with energy, as if he were a sword newly drawn from its scabbard.

Zhou Xun caught the flicker of surprise in their eyes and then sneered coldly. "These years, hiding from place to place—life’s not been easy for you, has it?"

"You’re courting death!" Tong Rang snarled, clearly stung to the quick.

"Heh, heh, thanks to that hero Linghu’s mercy, we managed to survive till now. But Linghu the hero—such a grand figure—what a pity he’s become a wandering ghost! No one lights incense for him, no one honors his memory during the festivals. Truly pitiful!" Zhang Ying’s voice was thick with mockery.

"My brother languishes alone beneath the earth—I’ll send the two of you to keep him company!" Zhou Xun’s killing intent flared. With a savage expression, he drew from the case behind him a precious sword, three feet and three inches long, its blade ancient and black as the abyss, its hilt carved with a spiral pattern. Where blade met hilt, an archaic character for "Break" was engraved. As drifting catkins landed upon the blade, they silently split in two, leaving the edge gleaming with a cold, steely light.

"Linghu Xiong’s Severed Courage Sword! So he entrusted it to you!" Zhang Ying exclaimed in astonishment.

"Since this sword left its case, it cannot return unsated by blood."

Their words collided, and in an instant, the three were poised for a mortal struggle—an old grudge rekindled. Thirty years before, when the Hu nomads had ruled the Central Plains for over a century, the people starved, roads were silent, and resentment boiled over. The Hu’s power waned, and all vied for supremacy. The present Emperor, favored by heaven, had risen from humble beginnings along the Yangtze and Huai, rallying followers and warring with the feudal lords. After a decade, he unified the south, proclaiming himself King of Han, standing opposed across the river from the Hu royal court. At last, he led seven campaigns northward, each ending in victory, restoring the realm and reviving the glory of Han and Tang. The hardships and drama of those times would boggle the minds of posterity.

The Han King was virtuous, ambitious, and benevolent, earning a sterling reputation. Heroes and recluses with patriotic hearts flocked to his banner. Yet the Hu were the recognized authority, and drew many skilled warriors to their side with power and wealth. Moreover, the Hu were aided by masters of Esoteric Buddhism—Lamas and Tantric adepts—and the enigmatic Darabcuo Palace, deep in the steppe, their place of origin. Their contests rivaled battles between armies in scale and far exceeded them in peril.

Linghu Xiong was then a towering figure in the martial world, his sword unmatched save by a scant few. He was hailed as the leader of the righteous path, matched only by the master of Darabcuo Palace. This man was Zhou Xun’s sworn elder brother. When the master of Darabcuo saw the Hu’s fate waning, he challenged Linghu Xiong to a duel atop the river on the night of the full moon, seeking to quash the southern spirit and prolong the Hu’s destiny. Secretly, he invited four or five top fighters, hoping to defeat the righteous sword hero by numbers.

On the night of the full moon, above the great river, Linghu Xiong faced the five mightiest warriors of the Hu court alone, his battle cry echoing through the night. The fight raged three days and nights. When Zhou Xun and the southern martial heroes arrived, the master of Darabcuo’s corpse floated in the river, dismembered limbs strewn about, and Linghu Xiong himself was drenched in blood. The dyke was breached, and the river flooded thirty miles. The Yin and Yang Elders, too, had participated that night, but Linghu Xiong never spoke of the details, and Zhou Xun believed the two had perished, their bodies lost in the river. Who could have foreseen that, a dozen years later, he would see them again?

Zhang Ying, the Yang Elder, laughed coldly. "My brother and I endured humiliation for twenty years. Our skills, inside and out, are perfected. Even if Linghu Xiong lived, we would not fear him—let alone you, Zhou Xun!"

"Fear or not, we’ll see!" Zhou Xun gave his sword a flourish and laughed heartily.

Zhang Ying shot a glance at Tong Rang, who understood at once. From his sleeve slid a short battle-axe. Springing forward, he crossed four or five yards in the blink of an eye, the axe stabbing straight for Zhou Xun’s heart—a deadly strike. This footwork was famed in the martial world as the Spirit Cat Catches the Mouse; to master it marked one as a figure of renown.

Zhou Xun showed not a hint of fear. With a flick of his wrist, the sword tip scattered into hundreds of icy stars, encircling Tong Rang’s short, wiry form. Sparks flew, the clangor of metal on metal rang out hundreds of times. Tong Rang’s left hand had swelled to twice its size, a bruised purple, nails a full inch long, resembling a ghostly claw from the underworld. The Severed Courage Sword could slice through iron like mud, yet it left that hand unscathed.

"You’ve mastered the Dark Howl Claw!" Zhou Xun exclaimed in horror. This baleful technique required a sinister ritual: one must take the purple pearl from a pregnant woman’s placenta, then absorb the essence of flesh and blood into the palm. Tong Rang’s left hand was both grotesque and, eerily, as smooth and tender as a newborn’s. Zhou Xun’s gaze grew icy. "How many pregnant women have you murdered?"

"Heh, too many to count—at least a hundred!" Tong Rang replied carelessly.

"Wicked beast! You court death!" Zhou Xun’s sword spun, slashing for Tong Rang’s wrists. Tong Rang parried with the axe, but sensed trouble at once. The sword felt soft, lacking force. In the next instant, its light turned, blossoming into hundreds of layers, as if a pear blossom had opened and closed a hundred times in a breath. Tong Rang, unable to recover, hastily raised his ghost claw to block the oncoming onslaught.

Just then, a long-handled axe twisted into the heart of the pear blossom, breaking the formation. Tong Rang, seizing the opening, raised his short axe and unleashed the Ghost Sect’s secret technique—the Severed Skull Axe, forty-nine strikes in a flurry, each move vicious and unpredictable. The clangor of weapons was unending, sparks flying as three blades collided in midair, as though forty-nine firecrackers had burst in the night. Zhang Ying had joined the fray. In the span of a cup of tea, the three exchanged over a hundred blows.

The three onlookers gaped in awe. To them, it was as if immortals were casting spells. Every move Zhou Xun made contained dozens of variations; all they could see were countless sword lights flickering about him, making him seem a sword immortal of legend.

While the trio was still reveling in their narrow escape, Li Sanshan suddenly seized Zhou Qian by the neck, shaking him furiously. "So! Even at death’s door, you’re still trying to steal my thunder! Admit it! You’ve been eyeing the position of second brother for years—planning to usurp me even before death! You’re a bold one!"

Zhou Qian’s face turned red as he gasped, "Se—cond—bro—ther—can’t—breathe—!"

Li Sanshan, struck by another idea, released him at once and began to fawn, smoothing Zhou Qian’s breath. "Brother Gou! No, Brother Zhou—Brother Qian! Tell me, aren’t we brothers? The kind who share hardship and fortune, closer than blood?"

"So what if we are?" Zhou Qian eyed him warily. Li Sanshan wore the same expression he’d had when he tricked half a steamed bun from Zhou Qian years ago. Whenever he saw it, Zhou Qian instinctively clutched his pocket.

"Then your father is my father, your mother my mother! Though, of course, we have neither."

"Second brother, what do you want?" Zhou Qian cut to the chase, unable to guess his intent.

"Brother Gou! My dear brother!" Li Sanshan clung to Zhou Qian’s leg, wailing, "When Zhou the elder defeats those two old radishes, you must ask him to take me as his second disciple! Don’t forget your brothers once you have a master!"

"Second brother, mind your words!" Wang Hu admonished him. "A senior like that wouldn’t let just anyone inherit his legacy. Don’t put our third brother in a difficult spot."

"But didn’t third brother win the elder over with a single bowl of noodles? Clearly, the elder is testing our character! Are our hearts less worthy than his? Can’t we serve tea, care for the old man in his twilight years?" Li Sanshan chattered on unrestrained.

"Brother Li, enough," Wang Hu’s tone softened, betraying his own interest. "Let’s speak of this later. We’ll wait until third brother has secured his place as a disciple." Seeing their longing, Zhou Qian resolved to keep this matter in mind. Just then, a thunderous crash drew their attention.

The sword duel had reached its fever pitch. After five hundred exchanges, Zhou Xun unleashed the Soaring Eagle Dives the Stream, stabbing downward at Yang Elder’s eyes. The elder spun his long-handled axe, drawing a flower of steel a yard wide, and with his left hand, heedless of danger, struck for Zhou Xun’s heart—a mutual destruction. Zhou Xun’s sword tip struck the axe’s edge, sending sparks flying. He somersaulted thrice in midair to evade the ghostly claw.

Yin Elder seized the moment to launch Tiger Demon’s Wheel Slash—a flash of axe-light, deadly as legend, with which he’d once severed three men, weapons and waists together. Yet Zhou Xun, true to his reputation, pressed off his right foot with his left, floating through the air with ladder-like agility. The move had not ended; he pressed his left foot off his right, unleashing the famed Mount Hua’s Ninefold Heavens from the Three Talents Swordplay. Each wave of sword force rose higher than the last. By the fifth leap, he’d driven the Yin and Yang Elders back nearly thirty feet. At the ninth, the sword’s force was like mercury pouring down, a river in flood, an unstoppable tide. Zhou Qian saw only a flash of silver light, a yard wide, sweep through the air—the elders’ axes, both long and short, sheared cleanly in two. At the same moment, the poplar and willow behind them, each as thick as a man’s waist, were sliced through, crashing to the ground with a thunderous roar.

Spent, Zhou Xun landed, his breath harsh, sword hand faintly trembling.

The elders were in even worse straits. Their clothes hung in tatters, their bodies covered with sword marks. They stared in disbelief at the remnants of their beloved weapons—crafted of black iron by a martial prodigy a century before, prized above life itself, now rent in a single blow.

"Splendid! You’ve mastered both Swallow’s Triple Water Skim and Mount Hua’s Ninefold Heavens to this degree. The sword immortals of old were no greater. You rival even Linghu Xiong’s Four Sword-Breaking Styles. No wonder he predicted you would not fall short of his legacy," Yang Elder croaked.

"You two haven’t been idle all these years either. Your muscles, organs, and vital energies are yours to command—otherwise you couldn’t have withstood that last strike." Zhou Xun shook his head in awe. The elders’ clothes hung in strips, their broad, powerful frames covered with sword cuts, but not a drop of blood seeped from the wounds. This was the mark of ultimate mastery—blood and essence gathered at the dantian, released in attack, withdrawn in defense, sealing the meridians when struck. Thus the sword’s power was largely nullified. This was the real secret behind wall-walking and invisible killing in the martial world—not arcane magic, but the art of manipulating energy.

"Leave your hands, and I’ll spare your lives," Zhou Xun murmured, eyes half-closed, his grip slackening on the sword. Yet his body steamed with white vapor, as if he were a celestial being. This was the pinnacle of internal strength—sweat, water, and blood sealed within during battle, now released through every pore. Not an ounce of force was wasted. In the martial world, this was called the Golden Elixir Body—half-immortal in life and destiny. To reach this was the utmost limit of the mortal form. Beyond it, only the legendary sword immortals who traversed a thousand miles in flight remained.

The Yin and Yang Elders exchanged glances, then roared like tigers, sending ripples through the air. The onlookers felt their blood surge chaotically, blood trickling from every orifice before they fainted dead away. The elders, their bodies once withered, had been driven to robust size in battle, their blood now rushing with a sound like crackling beans. Their forms swelled, muscles knotting, arms thick as tree trunks, claws ghostly and broad as fans, their entire beings suffused with a strange blood-red hue, resembling the wardens of hell.

"To force the muscles, strengthen the bones, and reverse the flow of blood," Zhou Xun sighed gently. "You’re truly desperate now." His voice drifted, fainter than ever.