The Rising Tide against the Thundering Bolt

Ten strikes, twenty strikes... In the blink of an eye, the dissolute man had unleashed twenty-seven. Although Zhang Ling’s rank was not high, his agility was extraordinary. Coupled with the interference of the clumsy bystanders, the master found it surprisingly difficult to subdue a mere third-rank martial artist. As a few stray strikes carved through a corridor and severed several support pillars, Zhang Ling seized the moment to kick the final pillar. As it crumbled, he vaulted out of the corridor. The entire roof collapsed behind him, burying the pursuing man. Just as Zhang Ling caught his breath, the man’s internal energy erupted, blasting the wooden debris into splinters. He leapt up and lunged at Zhang Ling with another strike. This time, Zhang Ling barely reacted, instinctively employing his signature Shadow-Step, turning what the man thought was a guaranteed hit into empty air.

The dissolute man, growing increasingly suspicious, recalled his encounter with the Medical Saint and paused. "The Shadow-Step of the Medicine King Valley. So, you are from the Medicine King Valley. But I am curious—how does a martial arts sect like yours find itself involved in this?"

Zhang Ling had the urge to slap his own forehead, but reason prevailed. He grabbed a nearby guest, pinning him with a deft move, and laughed, "Look at this fellow, plump and oily—he clearly spends his days doing nothing but lining his pockets. Kill him; it would still be a service to the Prime Minister."

The hovering flying sword rose three feet, its aura intensifying, clearly prepared to strike. The dissolute man smirked, "Very well. I shall deal with you along with him."

The captured guest trembled, stuttering in terror. When Zhang Ling caught the faint scent of urine, he looked down, pushed the man away in disgust, and spat, "Scared yourself wet? You’re a grown man, have some backbone!"

No sooner had Zhang Ling cast the man aside than the blood-thirsty sword lunged, its energy crackling like thunder in the air. Having survived the chase, Zhang Ling had long since deduced that this blade was "Thunderclap," ranked ninth on the Sword List. It emerged like a rumble, flew like lightning, and struck like a thunderbolt. Seeing the "relatives" he had hoped would shield him fleeing, Zhang Ling felt a chill, but he had no choice but to face the sword himself. He planted his feet, his body as immovable as an ancient tree. In a flash, he shifted his blade, "Flood Tide," six inches. The collision produced a sound like a grand fireworks display. Zhang Ling was blasted backward, ears ringing, momentarily disoriented. Fortunately, it lasted only a moment; he immediately employed the first form of the Wind-Soughing Three Styles—Stillness Without Wind—to parry, managing to survive the master's strike without injury. This success instantly inflated his confidence.

"Satisfying!" Zhang Ling laughed triumphantly. "Come again!"

Even the dissolute man was surprised by that brilliant parry, but he unleashed another strike. Unable to contend with the relentless flying sword, Zhang Ling lost his nerve, turned, and bolted. A life lived is better than a life lost, and he had no interest in becoming a ghost.

The two raced through the Prime Minister’s estate. Whether by luck or misfortune, Zhang Ling did not encounter the two people searching for him. His internal energy was inferior to a master’s, and he began to tire. He skidded to a halt, gasping for air, and surrendered, "Senior, is it too late for me to give up?"

The dissolute man pondered for a moment. "Tell me your background, honestly. Then I will see if you are worth sparing."

Zhang Ling’s face lit up. "Sure! Just wait, Senior. I’ll come over and tell you. I guarantee you won’t want to kill me."

Zhang Ling retracted "Flood Tide," and the man sheathed his sword. As Zhang Ling approached with a fawning smile, he surged forward from ten feet away, drawing his blade in a diagonal slash toward the man’s neck. The man gave a disdainful smile and tilted his body, dodging easily. Zhang Ling followed with a horizontal sweep, but the man seemed to have anticipated it, blocking with his scabbard. Seeing the situation turn sour, Zhang Ling retreated, but strangely, the master made no move to pursue.

The dissolute man beckoned with his finger, chuckling, "Again. If I strike, you won't have another chance."

Zhang Ling felt helpless. He initiated the "Startled Bird" technique, learned from a manual in the library—a complex style meant for a sword, now adapted for his blade. He discarded the scabbard and incorporated a fist technique derived from the "Cloud-Shattering Fist." The combination was not only harmonious but doubled his power, earning a nod of appreciation from the man. If he could not make this young man reveal his origins, he would simply deconstruct them from his techniques.

The two styles were exhausted within eight breaths, but even with the man only defending, Zhang Ling felt the crushing pressure. He stepped back to regulate his breathing. The man said, "If you have no other tricks, I am going to strike."

"Wait, Senior!" Zhang Ling cried. "There’s more! Don’t be impatient, I’ll show you one by one."

This "wait" lasted for a quarter of an hour. The man was astonished by the variety of Zhang Ling’s repertoire, which seemed endless and disjointed. The sheer complexity of his training left the man bewildered, unable to identify his school or lineage.

Before Zhang Ling could exhaust his knowledge, the dissolute man called a halt, dissatisfied. "Do not try to fool me with these common techniques. Use your most powerful martial art."

Living in the imperial court, one must bow even when facing the blade.

Zhang Ling was frustrated, but he had no choice. He backed away thirty feet, his energy surging through his body, gambling everything on this one strike. As his momentum peaked, he charged at his previous speed, but when he was within ten feet, he suddenly accelerated, coming to a dead halt three feet away while "Flood Tide" continued its path. This technique combined the raw ferocity of Song Qingtian’s blade style with the explosive stillness of his own Wind-Soughing Three Styles. The integration of these two top-tier arts posed a genuine threat, forcing the master to channel his full internal energy. The man struck the blade with his palm, and under the force of their collision, the already strained "Flood Tide" cracked, while Zhang Ling was sent flying by the massive shockwave.

Zhang Ling skidded across the ground. Fortunately, the man had held back, sparing him fatal injury. He rose shakily, staring at "Flood Tide" with heartbreak—the blade he had owned for less than a month was ruined. He muttered to himself, "Damn Emperor, if I survive today, you had better pay for a better blade."