Chapter Twenty-Six: The Visitor Among the Clouds

When Zhong Shuman unleashed her bombshell, Zhang He’s expression remained unchanged, as if he held tens of thousands of shares of original stock and you had to beg him in the freezing cold to let you trade them. Yet the shock inside him was beyond words. A grandmaster—what did that even mean? A supreme, peerless figure.

First rank: Rogue Hero; second rank: Wandering Hero; third rank: Adventurer; fourth rank: Minor Hero; fifth rank: Middle Hero; sixth rank: Great Hero... Six full ranks, and that wasn’t counting superior martial arts and advanced equipment. Frankly, if such a person deigned to say a few words to you, it was already a massive honor. You’d do well to kneel and worship immediately.

But to wield a name as bold and swaggering as “Might Conquers All,” the courage behind it was certainly not mere bluster. Zhang He replied coldly, “I don’t care about your sects or whatever, I only know the brocade box is still in my hands.”

Zhong Shuman didn’t understand the meaning, but Cloudwalker did, and he chuckled. Few in the martial world dared speak to him like this.

Cloudwalker studied Zhang He with interest. “Young man, I hear you’re a level 28 blank slate, yet you managed to survive an onslaught of experts to get here. That’s no mean feat.”

Zhang He listened quietly, saying nothing—he knew Cloudwalker had more to say. “I understand,” Cloudwalker continued. “You still have the brocade box. You must have paid a hefty price for it. State your terms—ask for what you want.”

With his secondary profession as a swordsmith, Cloudwalker had certainly lived through the early days of trading. He could easily hear the business logic in Zhang He’s words.

Cloudwalker smiled. “Let’s do this: I hear you killed a senior disciple and two ordinary disciples of Qingcheng Sect. If you want to get the better of me, you’d better show some skill. I’ll let you strike three times—I promise I won’t dodge. If you can wound me in three moves, I’ll give you a set of level 30 blank martial arts manuals for rogue heroes.”

Even Zhong Shuman’s heart raced at this. When a grandmaster like Cloudwalker gave gifts, they were never ordinary.

Zhang He clasped his fists in salute. “Please!”

Cloudwalker’s smile faded. “Please.”

Zhang He lowered his sword tip, eyes locked on his opponent. Cloudwalker stood with hands clasped behind his back, smile returning, composed and self-assured.

Suddenly, Zhang He lunged forward—his movement strange, as if he were wrestling with a wild, unbridled horse. Zhong Shuman watched, curious, knowing Zhang He was always full of unconventional tricks.

Cloudwalker’s expression shifted slightly. This man did have some skills.

Halfway forward, Zhang He flicked his wrist. At the same instant, Cloudwalker’s left hand flashed out, two fingers effortlessly catching Zhang He’s coin dart. The blue frost sword was already at his chest.

With a downward pressure, the coin clinked sharply against the sword’s blade. If Cloudwalker had used his full strength, Zhang He would have lost his weapon immediately, but even with less than a fifth of his power, the blue frost sword was knocked aside. Zhang He’s first move had failed completely.

But as the sword was deflected, Zhang He twisted it back up—a second attack. The sword spun in his hand like a magic trick. It was a clever bit of misdirection, relying on master-level “Basic Techniques” to confuse the eye. An ordinary player would be deceived, but someone of Cloudwalker’s caliber would see through it instantly.

A dull thud rang out—the sword was knocked away again, this time not by the coin, but by Cloudwalker’s open palm. He slapped the blade with such speed and precision that only someone above level 100 could pull it off.

The second move failed as well, but Zhang He wasn’t discouraged. He didn’t covet Cloudwalker’s manuals; he simply disliked the self-important airs of so-called righteous heroes—always acting as if everyone owed them something, using their reputations as leverage. If a mere favor was enough to make him hand over the brocade box, who would do him any favors in return?

Zhang He’s third strike was a thrust, but the sword’s tip vibrated strangely in the air, as if the blade had a will of its own. Cloudwalker’s expression finally changed. Halfway through, the sword’s trajectory shifted. The blade passed from Zhang He’s right hand to his left, and with a twist, the straight thrust turned into a sweeping cut.

The change wasn’t fast, and even Zhong Shuman saw it clearly, but the transition was seamless and impossible to describe—a movement as natural and tranquil as a river bending around a curve: smooth, silent, inevitable.

Just as Cloudwalker was about to respond, the sweeping cut transformed yet again. The sword’s tip, which had been off to one side, arced in a mysterious curve and struck forward like a viper, aiming straight for Cloudwalker’s eyes.

Now Cloudwalker was truly shocked. For all his experience, he couldn’t identify the sword technique, and there was no time to ponder. If he stood still, he couldn’t possibly evade the strike.

In that critical instant, Cloudwalker unleashed his internal force, striking out with a palm. A fierce wave of energy surged forth, not only knocking the blue frost sword from Zhang He’s grasp but also sending Zhang He flying.

Critical hit: “—339!”

Zhong Shuman was stunned. She knew Zhang He’s stats; how could someone with his constitution withstand such a powerful blow?

“Brother Might, Brother Might!” Zhong Shuman knelt, shaking Zhang He’s corpse, but in ghost mode, he could only sigh. He’d studied all of Jun Ruojian’s strategy guides, but against overwhelming power, no amount of skill mattered.

Zhong Shuman turned, a trace of anger in her eyes. “He’s only level 28, hasn’t even had a class change yet.”

Cloudwalker’s face was apologetic. “I’m truly sorry. I lost control of my energy. My fault, alas…”

Though apologizing, he stepped forward and gently picked up the brocade box.

Zhang He took a deep breath. He wasn’t angry or indignant—he knew he didn’t have the right to be, not yet. But at that moment, he made a resolution: not only would he keep playing “Dynasty,” he would master it. One day, these high-and-mighty protectors would have to treat him with the respect he deserved.

Zhong Shuman, who had been polite until now, suddenly grew cold. “Since I’ve made the introductions and you’ve gone and killed him, there’s nothing left here for me. I don’t have the face to see my friends again.”

At her feet, a radiant, spinning Taiji-and-eight-trigrams formation appeared—the thirty-second countdown for a return scroll. In half a minute, she’d be back in her city.

“Shuman, wait—” Cloudwalker called, but her image dissolved into a streak of rainbow light.

He couldn’t stop Zhong Shuman, and at that moment, people swarmed in from all sides, encircling the Mountain God Temple.

In ghost mode, Zhang He sucked in a cold breath. He could see clearly: thirty or forty Qingcheng Sect members, all led by deacons; a similar number from Starfire Sect, with Ghost Rain Maple among them.

Another group arrived, uniformly dressed in travel gear, waist pouches bristling, silver bracelets on their wrists, all wearing black fingerless gloves—obviously Tangmen disciples, led by two hall masters.

“Leave the brocade box and get lost, or we’ll kill you without mercy.” The one who dared speak so brazenly was, of course, a Qingcheng deacon.

Cloudwalker didn’t move, his face impassive. “Why don’t the Four Elites of Qingcheng dirty their hands with this sort of business? Send someone qualified to speak with me.”

The deacon was dumbfounded. “Who the hell do you think you are? Big talk, huh? Son of a—”

Even Zhang He frowned. That Qingcheng deacon was blind as a bat. Cloudwalker might not be a saint, but with the sword case on his back, how could anyone fail to recognize his stature? How did such a fool become a deacon?

Ghost Rain Maple, at least, had the discernment. Seeing Cloudwalker’s bearing and sword case, he sensed a formidable master and stepped forward. “Friend, may I ask your esteemed name? I am Ghost Rain Maple, protector of Starfire Sect.”

Cloudwalker didn’t even glance at him. “You’re not qualified to know my name.”

“You—!” Ghost Rain Maple’s anger surged, veins bulging on the back of his hand, his form blurring as he secretly channeled his inner strength to strike.

“Go!” At his command, a dozen Starfire Sect members rushed forward, weapons glinting murderously in the starlight.

Cloudwalker knew he had to show his skill to cow these nobodies. Zhang He, too, witnessed the display of a true master. The hilt in Cloudwalker’s sword case sprang up; with a wave, a seven-foot lozenge-shaped sword flashed from its sheath, its blade gleaming like autumn water—cold, sharp, and awe-inspiring.

With another wave, the sword slashed through the air. A white blade-light, fine as thread, fanned out before him, splitting the night, scattering grass, as if a rainbow had torn the sky or storm waves crashed against the shore. Any player of “Dynasty” would recognize it as a superior martial art.

Zhang He couldn’t even see how the sword-light repelled the attackers. He only heard a cacophony of clanging, followed by a flurry of damage numbers like grass being mown. In an instant, more than a dozen Starfire Sect members—including Ghost Rain Maple—were disarmed and sprawled on the ground, gasping, groaning, and crying out in pain.

What terrifying power. The might of superior martial arts was beyond compare—lesser skills didn’t even deserve mention.

And Cloudwalker hadn’t even used his full strength; this was merely a warning. Had he been serious, those men would have been sliced in half on the spot. Now, all was silent around the Mountain God Temple. Over a hundred people, and not one dared make a sound, each awed into submission by a single strike.

Work was hectic this afternoon, and I may be home late tonight, so I’m updating early. Brothers, please bookmark and vote—votes are few, and I sincerely ask for your support!