Chapter Fifty-Seven: Swords in Motion

Xia Ziyi's sword was truly unique—a jet-black, serpentine blade, its tip adorned with a blood-red gem that resembled the cold, merciless pupil of a venomous snake. His footwork, too, was unusual: body coiled, his legs moved in small but incredibly rapid strides, constantly shifting direction like a snake slithering forward, sword tip lowered, never striking unless it was to kill.

Arei’s advance was thunderous, each step resounding like a clap of thunder. His footsteps were so heavy that he left half-inch impressions in the deck. Yet each stride was steady, measured, and equal in length. His hands were raised defensively before his chest; he did not attack first, but waited, revealing that his true nature was not as brash and violent as his appearance suggested. In fact, when it came to martial contests, he was a composed warrior—and such opponents were often the hardest to face.

The sorcerer’s craft originated from the celestial path, flourished in the southern wilds, and was lost after the ancient southern kingdom was destroyed by the Hu tribes. It was mysterious and unpredictable, commanding poisonous insects unseen, killing in the blink of an eye. This old sorcerer was a descendant of the southern kingdom; now, he drifted farther from Zhou Qian, his withered hands moving feverishly inside his gaudy sleeves, as if tying knots.

Chen Si, the Sea Beast, was an important adviser to the King of the Pure Sea—and his most formidable assassin. The more he fought, the wilder he became, often abandoning all caution in the heat of battle, a stark contrast to his usual calm and cunning demeanor. Among the four sea marauders, he was the bloodiest killer.

Chen Si lunged first, predatory as a leopard, his hands clawing at Zhou Qian’s chest with reckless abandon for his own life.

Zhou Qian retreated—he had no choice. Chen Si’s external martial arts had clearly reached their zenith; his body training had attained the very pinnacle. He could afford injury, being steel and sinew, but Zhou Qian could not; a single blow would be fatal.

Xia Ziyi’s sword descended, covering thirteen major acupoints on Zhou Qian’s body, six of which were lethal. Struck at a major point meant crippling, a death point meant certain death! His swordplay was venomous; the blade itself even more so, coated with corpse rot powder, soul-chasing grass, heart-severing dust, and death-bloom—all blended poisons with no antidote.

Zhou Qian retreated again; to stand his ground was to die. Blood spurted from his mouth as if his heart had been squeezed by an invisible hand. Looking up, he saw the sorcerer grinning menacingly, hands just finishing a knot.

Five steps back, Zhou Qian reached the rail—below, the churning, muddy river. There was nowhere left to retreat.

He bent forward, lowering his head to hide his eyes.

A shiver ran through Xia Ziyi, as if a blade pressed against his throat. Practitioners of swordsmanship were acutely sensitive to the elusive concept of “sword intent.” Xia Ziyi stepped back, but Chen Si did not, still seeking to exchange life for life with his deadly claws.

Something was wrong—Zhou Qian’s sword had not yet left its sheath! Xia Ziyi suddenly recalled his master’s words: “What sword is the sharpest? The sword yet unsheathed! Why? Because when the sword is drawn, essence, energy, and spirit converge, unleashing unimaginable sword techniques!”

“Sever—Ghost—God!”

Zhou Qian did not draw his sword in the usual way; he pulled it out backward. In that instant, the power of his upper arm, forearm, wrist, fingers, and the surging energy in his blood all merged as one. The blade flicked out, leaving behind a flamboyant and exaggerated arc, a stroke like a flash of lightning.

“I entrust my swordsmanship to you.” This was no empty phrase—it was the creed of a swordsman. The Sever Ghost God technique could be both stirring and heroic because its wielder was impassioned. The same technique, in different hands, could be sharper, swifter, and deadlier.

Chen Si did not yield, or rather, he could not. He could not dodge this brilliant strike, but he could still kill the swordsman wielding it—that was easier.

Arei stepped in to meet the sword—not because he could withstand it, but because he had to. If he did not, Chen Si would die; if Chen Si died, Zhou Qian might yet survive. That was not a fair trade, so he intercepted.

The sword’s flash vanished as quickly as it appeared, stopping three inches into Arei’s shoulder blade—not because his bones were so hard, but because both hands and the inch-thick steel bracers on his arms absorbed the force. This refined steel was ten times harder and denser than ordinary iron.

Arei was cunning. He never carried weapons, yet at the critical moment, he was better protected than anyone. Yet, perhaps he was not so clever after all: the truly wise would never use their flesh to block a sword, even clad in thick armor. He had underestimated the brilliance of that strike.

Thus, one and a half of his arms were severed, the wound smooth, blood gushing like a spring.

The sword was not broken, nor was the man dead—the fight continued. Zhou Qian’s sword had not fully cleared its scabbard before Chen Si’s claws reached his chest, gouging five bloody furrows.

Zhou Qian’s chest suddenly caved in as if struck, but it was deliberate—a move to save his life, sparing his organs from rupture.

His ribs creaked and cracked; Zhou Qian spat a mouthful of blood straight at Chen Si. To force one’s bones inward with a single breath—how powerful was that exhalation? None could say, not even Zhou Qian, but it sufficed to pierce flesh.

Five half-inch deep wounds now marked Zhou Qian’s chest, bone faintly visible, three ribs broken—yet this was after his body had been transformed by the miraculous Red Apricot method; otherwise, he could never have performed such a feat.

It was highly effective.

Arei’s left hand was severed at the root, his right arm hung by a shred of flesh, shoulder blade nearly split in two—a ruin. Chen Si’s belly now sported a small hole from the force of that bloody jet, sending him crashing to the deck, water spewing from his mouth, bloodshot eyes rolling.

Now Zhou Qian understood the difference between Central Plains swordsmanship and Western Sea martial arts. The latter was more direct, more brutal, more simplistic. Kill or be killed—those were not just empty words.

Had this been a duel between two Central Plains masters, they might have exchanged two hundred moves first, comparing skills, discussing superiority, sipping tea, then another three hundred moves, perhaps fighting for three days and nights before returning home to sleep.

Central Plains swordplay was complex; Western Sea swordplay was simple. Both had their merits, but Zhou Qian preferred the latter, for true swordsmen relished the thrill of risking life and death with each swing.

Swordplay—life and death in a single stroke.

Xia Ziyi could scarcely believe his eyes. In the span of ten heartbeats, Zhou Qian had wounded three foes with a single sword—was this the weak Central Plains swordsman, or a fiend fiercer than the most ruthless marauder of the Western Sea? Ruthless to himself, even more so to his enemies.

Seeing the tide turn, the sorcerer seized his own scalp, tearing it off with a wet, bloody rip, then chewed it in his mouth, spitting the blood-tinged pulp onto the knot he was weaving. The color turned a pale red.

Zhou Qian felt an ominous sensation—his body seemed to be pulled, especially his inner organs and spirit, as if they were being wrenched from his body. He had no wish to experience what would follow. He activated the “Arhat Lion’s Roar,” a martial technique from the Great Tuo Canon that merged body and mind.

This technique was not meant to roar at enemies, but at oneself. The first roar vibrated the organs, the second the soul, sending invisible ripples surging outward from within like rising tides.

Under this onslaught, seven or eight black threads appeared on Zhou Qian’s body, as dark and moist as the hair of a drowned maiden, each thread’s end held by the sorcerer.

Zhou Qian was aghast—the sorcerer’s art was so bizarre it was almost demonic, able to work its curse without even setting insects. Had it been another swordsman, he would have perished on the spot. After all, mortal flesh could not withstand arts derived from celestial sorcery. But Zhou Qian was no ordinary man.

He opened his mouth, and a white light spun around him; the black threads turned instantly to black mist. The sorcerer gasped, face pale as paper, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth, his body trembling. Zhou Qian knew at once the man had been struck by a backlash.

He quickly used a method recorded in the Great Tuo Canon for dealing with poison masters, yin-yang priests, and other evil practitioners—the “Devouring Sun Talisman.” The Ghostmaster Sword drew a line across his palm, blood dripping as he used it to trace a strange sigil, resembling a demon’s gaping maw. Instantly, all the yang energy in his body converged on that symbol, his body turning cold.

Once the sigil had gathered sufficient yang energy, it transformed into a pale golden rune. Zhou Qian flicked the talisman, pointing at the sorcerer and uttered a sharp “Begone!” The rune drifted slowly toward the sorcerer.

Though the talisman moved sluggishly, the sorcerer seemed paralyzed, unable to move as all the yang energy in his body was drawn inexorably into the sigil, his insides churning violently.

Through his studies of the Great Tuo Canon, Zhou Qian had gradually understood the talisman’s use. The human body was composed of yin and yang; those who cultivated ghosts and spirits often had an excess of yin and a deficiency of yang. The Devouring Sun Talisman would absorb their yang, disrupt their elemental balance—harmless to ordinary people (perhaps causing a cold for a day or two), but deadly to those practitioners.

As soon as the talisman adhered to the sorcerer’s abdomen, the man was seized by cold, his mind clouded, and with a stumble, he toppled into the river, his fate uncertain.

Though this tale seems long, it all happened in a flash. Turning, the Viper Sword Xia Ziyi saw the sorcerer fall headlong into the water. In but a moment, only he remained of the four sea marauders.

Xia Ziyi was not one to hesitate. With venomous resolve, he twirled his sword, launching another attack. Zhou Qian faced him with the Ghostmaster Sword, the two exchanging dozens of moves in rapid succession.

Xia Ziyi’s style embodied three points: viciousness, cruelty, and precision, always targeting vital points. Zhou Qian’s swordplay, in contrast, was elegant and flowing. For a while, it was hard to tell who had the upper hand. Xia Ziyi dared not gamble his life; Zhou Qian looked spent, but who knew if he could unleash another supernatural technique?

After a fierce struggle, Xia Ziyi sensed something was wrong. Catching sight of Zhou Qian’s faint smile, he was alarmed. If Wu Zhang and his men were going to attack him from behind, shouldn’t he have surrendered by now? Wu Zhang was no upright gentleman—so where was he?

A glance over his shoulder, and Xia Ziyi’s eyes nearly burst with rage: Wu Zhang and his men had already seized several key points on the ship and had stealthily set it in motion. Amid the thunder of cannon fire, the Shaliao Tower Ship finally broke through the blockade. As it turned out, everything had gone according to Zhou Qian’s plan. The four pirates had tried to end things quickly, while Zhou Qian’s aim had been to stall. In the end, it was the sword that spoke!

Just then, from both banks, four ironclads of the imperial navy began to drift into view...