Chapter Forty-One: Hua Feihong

The sun blazed overhead, its rays beating straight down upon the martial training ground. Instinctively, everyone withdrew to a distance of thirty meters or more. Madam Feng, Feng Youcai, Qiao Gu, and the One-Eyed Dragon watched the duel that would determine the fate of Feiyan Manor with anxious eyes, yet Feng Fei himself appeared at ease, as if victory was already within his grasp.

Hua Feihong bowed slightly, her hands cupped in a respectful salute. "The three of you, please make your move!"

The Fatty and Xiao Lingling were both somewhat tense; after all, they were facing a senior disciple of Mount Shu. To be honest, if not for the composed presence of Zhang He at their side, the two might have surrendered without a fight.

"Go!" At Zhang He's command, the Fatty and Xiao Lingling charged forward. Over the past few days, the trio had developed a tacit understanding. The Fatty swung his spiked club straight down, while Xiao Lingling advanced but held back from attacking—her role was to shield the Fatty the moment Hua Feihong made her move. Thus, the Fatty could unleash his full strength without reservation.

Hua Feihong eyed them coldly, unhurried to respond. Only when the club drew near did a cold gleam flash at her waist, and the five-foot-long Mount Shu Demon-Slaying Sword slid from its scabbard. Her movement was airy and graceful, as if she floated directly toward Xiao Lingling.

The Fatty clearly hadn't expected this—he had launched a heavy assault, but his opponent deftly sidestepped it, going straight for Xiao Lingling at the rear. Xiao Lingling was taken aback, hurriedly raising her paired swords to block.

With a sharp clang, the force of the blow sent numbness shooting through Xiao Lingling's hands—her swords nearly slipped from her grasp.

Zhang He saw it all clearly: either of his companions, one-on-one, would stand no chance against Hua Feihong. As her second strike came, Zhang He swiftly hurled copper coins.

A series of crisp chimes sounded as the coins, glinting in the sunlight, ricocheted high into the air. Though Hua Feihong's sword deflected three, two struck her arm.

Damage indicators appeared:
"-11!"
"-12!"

Zhang He was startled—her defense had surpassed the hundred-point threshold. Judging by her steady grip on the sword, not even a tremor ran through her fingers. At the very least, it was clear that Hua Feihong had reached the second major level of mastery.

Hua Feihong herself was slightly surprised—the task before her had just grown more difficult. She hadn’t expected an expert in hidden weapons among her opponents. This man’s strength, in fact, surpassed that of the first two by far.

With a swirl of her robe, Hua Feihong drifted back several meters, hands clasped behind her in a posture befitting a grandmaster’s arrival.

Then, a marvelous sight unfolded: though the Demon-Slaying Sword had left her hand, it did not fall. Instead, as if gripped by invisible hands, the blade spun and whirled, blocking the alternating attacks of the Fatty’s club and Xiao Lingling’s paired swords, while Hua Feihong herself stood unmoving, watching the couple’s furious assault with a cold gaze.

This was the Mount Shu Sword School’s basic entry-level art upon reaching the first major stage—Sword Control Technique. It involved activating profound internal energy with a powerful mental method, channeling that energy to guide the sword through sheer will.

Not only was this swordplay pleasing to the eye, but its advantages were endless. In attack, it produced countless strange and unpredictable moves; as the hand need not grip the sword, combinations flowed seamlessly, and many strikes could be launched from unusual angles, catching foes unawares. Its defense was equally impenetrable, for it broke all conventions—facing it head-on, there was simply no way through.

If one’s mastery of Sword Control was high and internal energy deep, the sword’s speed, strength, and range of control grew even more formidable. Now, though Hua Feihong was only on the defensive, for the Fatty and Xiao Lingling, it was as if they had slammed into solid bronze walls. The whirling, defensive blade became an impenetrable net. Zhang He sighed inwardly; he had known this task would not be so simple—how could they expect to gain an advantage for nothing?

Suddenly, Zhang He let out a clear whistle, strode forward in a great bound, and burst toward Hua Feihong. Secretly, he activated the “First Light Realm,” as well as the “From Withered to Prosperous” technique, and employed the lightness skill “Song of the Galloping Step.” This was Zhang He’s brilliance: true mastery of martial arts lay not in relying on a single technique, but in combining principles scientifically. With this chain of activation, burst, and charge, his sword strike gained speed and impact far beyond the Fatty’s brute-force approach.

Seeing Zhang He finally join the fray, Hua Feihong did not dare be careless. Her Demon-Slaying Sword swiftly fended off the Fatty and Xiao Lingling, and instead of defending, aimed an upward thrust at Zhang He’s abdomen. This sudden shift made Feng Youcai break out in a cold sweat—if it were himself, he would have had no way to guard against such a cunning strike.

But the real marvel came next. Zhang He, evidently prepared, sprang off the blade of the Demon-Slaying Sword as it approached, vaulting over it. The sword’s trajectory, however, did not change, continuing straight for Hua Feihong.

Hua Feihong was startled—Feiyan Manor had indeed brought in a worthy hand. She hastily retreated, but in doing so, yielded the initiative to Zhang He.

His sword forms flowed one after another, every bit as strange as before. Gripping the handle of the Azure Frost Sword with the hilt forward and the tip angled back toward his own shoulder, the blade hugged his arm as he swung, as if performing a drunken dance. This left Hua Feihong unwilling to risk a direct block; she had no choice but to retreat repeatedly.

Feng Youcai watched in amazement. “Such exquisite swordplay—who would have thought Brother Wu’s skills run so deep?”

Feng Fei nodded. “This is a sword style that advances by seeming to retreat; what appears to be offense is actually defense. Should Miss Hua attack, that defense will turn into a killing move.”

Though Hua Feihong was no stranger to martial arts, she could not place the school of Zhang He’s swordplay. Yet its simplicity and practicality were undeniable—it was only that the forms were unusual, and for now, she could find no way to counter them.

Zhang He, however, had a weakness—his constitution was not strong enough for a drawn-out battle. He knew well that the internal strength of Mount Shu disciples ran deep; if the fight dragged on, he would be in trouble when his opponent counterattacked. After seven or eight exchanges, with Hua Feihong forced to the edge of the training ground, Zhang He gritted his teeth. His internal energy and the prolonged effect of “From Withered to Prosperous” were running out. He forced himself to activate “First Light Realm” again for his assault, though it was already depleting his reserves.

Of course, he could not continue attacking in this manner. As Hua Feihong retreated once more, Zhang He suddenly raised his hand, sending the Azure Frost Sword flying in a streak of cold light.

With a sharp sound, the sword embedded itself in a flagpole at the edge of the training ground. No one expected he would dare risk throwing his weapon like that.

Only then did Hua Feihong’s anger flare, for the sword had left a bleeding gash across her exquisitely beautiful cheek. She was furious—so many male players had flattered and fawned over her, so many men could not bear to strike her. Yet the man before her was unmoved by beauty, ruthless and decisive, daring to mar her face. His assault was fierce and merciless.

Yet amid her outrage, she also felt a strange satisfaction. This, too, proved he was truly focused and devoted to the martial path.

But as she realized this, Zhang He, weaponless and driven by desperation, suddenly struck with his palm. Now Hua Feihong was truly surprised. His strength might not match her expectations, but he had already shown mastery of hidden weapons, agility, and swordplay, and was now demonstrating palm techniques as well. She had never believed in players who could master every art, yet at this moment she was half-convinced.

“He must not succeed!” Hua Feihong’s mind raced. She too activated Mount Shu’s “First Light Realm” internal energy, curving her hand into a claw to seize Zhang He’s strike.

His palm was from the “Feiyan Palm” technique, but he had only reached “advanced” level in the brief days available—hardly enough to defeat a high-level disciple of Mount Shu’s Yaoguang Palace with a basic art. Zhang He, of course, understood the gap.

Then, something even more astonishing happened. Just as her elegant claw was about to seize his palm, Zhang He’s hand flipped, his fingers curling into a claw as well. The “Feiyan Palm” transformed into the “Five Elements Hand,” and at master level, fueled by the “First Light Realm,” it became truly formidable.

His real killing move had been waiting for this moment—the most cunning and brilliant strike of all.

Hua Feihong had no time to change tactics. With two crisp slaps, Zhang He’s claws first locked onto her pulse point, then slid up to grasp her wrist, and finally seized her shoulder.

No one was watching the damage numbers anymore—the outcome was clear. By every standard, Hua Feihong had lost.

The annual competitions between Mount Shu and Feiyan Manor were never to the death; they were measured by points, with the system assigning comprehensive scores for everyone’s performance. But now, there was no need for a system tally—anyone could see that after being struck by hidden weapons, cut by a sword, and locked by a claw, driven back to the edge of the arena, Hua Feihong was utterly defeated.

No one could say how strong Zhang He truly was, but one thing was certain: had he been strong enough, that final claw would have forced Hua Feihong to her knees in utter submission.

At that moment, Madam Feng, Feng Youcai, and the thirty-odd servants and retainers could barely restrain their joy.

But Hua Feihong, proud and high-spirited, a disciple of the illustrious Yaoguang Palace beneath the Immortal Lady Lingyin, could not bear such humiliation from a mere man of the wilds.

Furious, she let out a sharp cry, instantly activating the “Nourishing Realm” internal energy. All her power gathered in her left shoulder, which she thrust outward. Zhang He felt a surge of force, as if a mountain’s might rebounded up his arm.

But Zhang He was no longer the novice who had once faced Gui Yufeng. With the “Song of the Galloping Step,” he retreated, floating back more than ten steps before barely regaining his footing. Inside, he felt as if his organs were churning—a serious internal injury.

It was more than ten seconds before he could speak. “The internal arts of Mount Shu are truly worthy of their reputation. Thank you, Miss Hua, for your restraint.”

But Hua Feihong stood with eyes closed, palms pressed together before her chest, index fingers pointing skyward—clearly reciting an inner formula, gathering energy for a devastating move.

Only then did Feng Fei’s face change dramatically. He cried out, “You mustn’t! Miss Hua, please show mercy!”