Chapter Fifty-Five: Leaving Mount Hua

In only a few minutes, Yang Wenhao and Feng Qingyang had already exchanged thousands of blows. This battle was not about victory or defeat, but rather about who was stronger.

At first, Feng Qingyang was able to respond steadily. However, since Yang Wenhao also knew the techniques of the Nine Swords of Dugu, many of Feng Qingyang’s moves held no power in Yang Wenhao’s eyes. As time ticked by, Feng Qingyang’s internal strength gradually became overwhelmed. Though Feng Qingyang was a master of innate power and could easily triumph over ordinary martial artists, his opponent now was Yang Wenhao—a cultivator who not only matched but perhaps even surpassed him.

Simply judging by their techniques, Feng Qingyang was already outmatched. From the very beginning, the outcome had been decided. Yang Wenhao’s profound internal energy was in a different league, and the true energy within him was far purer and more powerful than Feng Qingyang’s. At this point, the only thing supporting Feng Qingyang in battle was the pride once held by the Sword Sect in his heart.

But he was no longer able to rival Yang Wenhao. Throughout the fight, Yang Wenhao’s swordsmanship continued to improve, while Feng Qingyang, by contrast, remained stuck at a bottleneck, unable to progress any further. Eventually, with a single stroke, Yang Wenhao sent Feng Qingyang’s sword flying from his grip. For a sword cultivator, losing his sword meant there was no longer any reason to fight.

“I admit defeat,” Feng Qingyang said, though it pained him to acknowledge it. Yet, having lost to such a peerless genius, he felt no regret.

“Congratulations, host, on defeating Huashan Sword Sect’s reclusive master Feng Qingyang from Smiling Proud Wanderer. You have gained a reward: one copy of the ‘Nine Swords of Dugu.’”

“Would you like to spend 100 points to fuse with the ‘Nine Swords of Dugu’ and raise your proficiency by one level?”

“Use.”

“‘Nine Swords of Dugu’ proficiency raised to mastery.”

Afterward, Yang Wenhao turned his gaze upon Feng Qingyang. Feng Qingyang was one of the rare true masters in Smiling Proud Wanderer. Now, having depleted all his true energy in the battle, Feng Qingyang posed no threat at all to Yang Wenhao. The sword in Yang Wenhao’s hand trembled slightly—no one knew what he was thinking.

Feng Qingyang also stood there, looking at Yang Wenhao, fully aware of the terrifying strength of this man in black before him. Perhaps, in all the world, no sword cultivator could surpass him.

“Forgive me.”

A faint voice sounded. Feng Qingyang’s eyes widened, but it was already too late.

Thus passed a generation’s grandmaster of the sword, returned to dust.

It was not that Yang Wenhao was cruel—such was the way of the world. Had there been no benefit, he would not have done this, knowing the futility of pointless actions. But Feng Qingyang was one of the few innate masters in Smiling Proud Wanderer.

“Congratulations, host, on killing Feng Qingyang. You have gained a reward: 500 points.”

Five hundred points—a fitting measure of Feng Qingyang’s worth.

Sheathing his sword, Yang Wenhao cast a sidelong glance at the thatched hut, then turned and departed.

Only after Yang Wenhao had left did Linghu Chong dare to emerge, peering about nervously, fearing the black-clad man might return. Holding a dim lantern, he crept toward the motionless figure on the ground.

As he drew closer, he saw an old man with white hair and white clothes, lying as if in peaceful sleep. Linghu Chong gingerly reached out and felt under the old man’s nose—finding no breath, he was startled out of his wits.

“Dead... he’s dead.”

Linghu Chong had never stained his hands with blood, though he had seen death before. But to encounter a corpse on a dark night like this was a terrifying thing.

“No, I must tell Master.”

With that, Linghu Chong grabbed the torch and ran off in a panic.

“Ouch!”

Suddenly, his foot slipped and he lost consciousness.

The next morning, Yang Wenhao was just stepping out of his room, preparing for some morning exercise. As he entered the peach blossom grove, he saw a figure hurrying toward him.

“Ling Shan?” Yang Wenhao was surprised. Usually, Yue Lingshan was never up this early—why had she come, and in such a rush?

“Yang Wenhao, there you are!” Yue Lingshan immediately grasped his hand. “Come with me.”

“What’s wrong?” Yang Wenhao was puzzled by her urgency.

“They say there’s an unidentified corpse at the Cliff of Reflection on the back mountain.” Yue Lingshan explained, “All the disciples are heading there; my father sent me to get you.”

“A corpse at the Cliff of Reflection?”

Yang Wenhao was already quite familiar with the path, having been there twice before. By now, dozens of disciples had gathered at the cliff. Yang Wenhao saw Yue Buqun’s furrowed brows, and nearby Linghu Chong seemed to be explaining something, though it was too far to hear.

What caught Yang Wenhao’s attention, however, was the lump on Linghu Chong’s head.

“Father, I’ve brought him,” Yue Lingshan said.

Yue Buqun nodded slightly, “Good.”

“Did the Sect Leader wish to see me?” Yang Wenhao bowed respectfully.

“Have you seen this man?” Yue Buqun pointed to the ground.

Lying there as if asleep was Feng Qingyang. But his body was now stiff, clearly dead for some time.

Yang Wenhao glanced down, his expression unchanged, and shook his head. “I have never seen him.”

Yue Buqun scrutinized Yang Wenhao, hoping to glean something from his eyes, but was left disappointed. Yang Wenhao had already anticipated Yue Buqun’s suspicion; when it came to acting, he was thoroughly composed—at least enough to avoid detection.

Since Yue Buqun saw nothing amiss, he felt no need to press further, for it was only a suspicion. Yang Wenhao was the only outsider at Huashan, so naturally, the death of an unknown man would draw suspicion toward him.

Over the next few days, the entire Huashan Sect investigated the identity of the white-haired elder. In the end, they found nothing. Yue Buqun had no choice but to bury the body and ordered his disciples to keep the matter secret on pain of severe punishment.

Later, Yue Buqun personally sought out Yang Wenhao, asking him to keep the matter confidential as well. Yang Wenhao readily agreed.

“By the way, Sect Leader Yue, I have something to discuss with you today,” Yang Wenhao said, bowing.

“What is it?” Yue Buqun asked.

“I believe my time here has come to an end,” Yang Wenhao replied. “I cannot remain at Huashan indefinitely. I have come to bid you farewell.”

Yue Buqun showed little surprise. “If that is your wish, then I will not detain you, young hero. Should my disciples ever be in need, I hope you will remember the hospitality you received here at Huashan.”

(The chapter ends.)