Chapter 65: Three Moves Once Again

Zhang He smashed through the window without a moment’s pause. Though he had no idea what sort of formidable figure the White Horse Young Master was, he knew he’d caused a grave disaster tonight, and fleeing at once was the wisest course. When he’d boarded the pleasure barge, he’d taken careful note of the terrain—these boats were layered one atop another, their roofs interlocking like eaves, perfect for swift movement—so his escape was neither slow nor clumsy.

The night sky above was radiant, strewn with countless stars. Zhang He darted to the southern eaves only for his heart to sink. His prized Ferghana horse still stood at the bridge, but two or three dozen torches lit the dock as bright as day. Below, many men armed with strong bows and crossbows had sealed off the road back to the city with iron discipline.

At that moment, the sound of fluttering garments behind him betrayed someone approaching, obviously using lightness skills to reach the barge’s roof. Zhang He glanced back. The two attendants of the White Horse Young Master had arrived, one barehanded, the other wielding a longsword, fanning out to flank him on either side.

“You’ve got some nerve—murdering someone atop the Peony Pavilion!” the swordsman roared, his face thunderous with rage. “Not even the Four Great Constables of the capital would dare act with such impunity here!”

Zhang He had no patience for their posturing—every second spent talking was a second wasted, and wasted time meant a step closer to death’s door. His blade flashed—a streak of flowing cloud steel arced straight for the swordsman.

The Flowing Cloud Blade was short, thin-edged, its body curved and spine thick. Any experienced swordsman would know it was best suited for hacking, slicing, and flicking—swift changes in direction under wind made for devastating attacks. The worst mistake was to chop, stab, or swing it crudely; such moves were not only clumsy but slow.

A true master of the blade cared for every detail—even a long fingernail would be trimmed away for efficiency. Zhang He had a natural gift for such things. In his duel with the White Horse Young Master, he’d already noticed the issue. Coupled with his solid foundation in martial arts, his slash now was faster and sharper than ever before—a man running for his life always finds hidden reserves of strength.

His judgment was sound—the Young Master’s own skills were formidable, but his attendants could not surpass him. Still, the two were no slouches. The swordsman raised his blade in defense, while the other’s fist shot for Zhang He’s left shoulder—one attacking, one defending, their teamwork obvious.

But to their shock, the roaring fist landed with no resistance, dealing Zhang He a visible “-31” in damage, yet he barely swayed, the momentum of his blade undiminished. Now they were truly startled—this man would endure a blow just to land his own. The swordsman instinctively brought his sword up to guard his chest, only to see the blade slash toward him regardless.

A metallic ring—a spark crackled in the dark.

With a clang, the sword was knocked from his grasp.

The cold, blue gleam of the blade pressed up against his brow.

In that instant, the swordsman’s heart froze—the chilling aura of the metal seeped into his eyes like needles. He shut his eyes, pain flaring—then gone.

He collapsed backward, blood spraying.

The other attendant saw the Flowing Cloud Blade effortlessly sever his companion’s throat—the man hadn’t even defended or dodged. Clearly, the attacker’s strength and inner power were perfectly fused in that strike.

But there was no time to think—the blade flicked back, slashing at him in a reverse arc.

Anyone who dared hone their fist arts would naturally have the skill to seize a bare blade. His fists curled into claws, he lunged for Zhang He’s wrist.

But this time, Zhang He’s technique was nothing like the brute force from before. Midway through, the blade flickered with cold light—multiple feints, swift as lightning.

Again, the man felt a chill on his face, then nothing—the pain was gone. He, too, collapsed.

This time, a critical hit: “-455!” appeared.

Such terrifying force! Zhang He’s strike output was just about 500; even a decently advanced fourth-tier player couldn’t survive two such blows. Presently, Zhang He’s greatest advantage was his tremendously high attack from all his martial attributes. The flaw: poor endurance. These few slashes had nearly exhausted him, and his burgeoning strength and inner energy were already flagging.

As the two attendants tumbled from the pleasure boat, chaos erupted below. People shouted in panic:

“That villain—he’s already killed three in the Peony Pavilion!”

“He just slew men of the Wudang Sect!”

“Four-Eyes, hurry and alert the constables and chivalrous folk of Fuling County—quickly!”

“Alright, I’ll fetch the horse!”

“Are you stupid? Haven’t you heard of carrier pigeons?”

“I don’t have a name token!”

“You idiot…”

The commotion below sent a cold sweat down Zhang He’s back. Could it be the White Horse Young Master was a disciple of Wudang?

But that didn’t seem right. No disciple of Wudang would be so inept. The sect was famed for swordsmanship and orthodox inner arts—while the Young Master’s swordplay was decent, his inner power was unimpressive.

Still, if he truly belonged to Wudang, Zhang He was in serious trouble. Shaolin and Wudang—these were the twin pillars of martial arts across the Central Plains. This was nothing like offending Qingcheng or the Tang Clan. Wudang was filled with formidable experts; kill one of their own, and there would be no peace anywhere on the continent.

“Damn it!” Zhang He cursed inwardly.

But he didn't regret his choices. He never did—right or wrong, he never looked back, for to regret was only to punish oneself. Life is short; why be your own enemy? One should cherish and treat oneself well. Like now—the best course was to slip away.

Just then, someone else vaulted onto the boat’s roof. Zhang He turned. A tall, thin man appeared beneath the multicolored banners. He wore a tattered blue robe, his face sallow and gaunt, almost malnourished in appearance. Yet at his belt was a bamboo whip, its mottled segments polished and worn—a weapon well-used.

In this world, weapon proficiency ranged from zero to a hundred percent. The higher the mastery, the greater the speed, variety, and power of one’s attacks. At full mastery, the weapon itself would even undergo a transformation. The color of this bamboo whip alone betrayed the man’s expertise. Zhang He knew him by reputation as well—the insignia on his chest made everything clear. Earlier, during the Peony Festival, the Music Fairy had even greeted him, and Young Master Qi had explained:

“From Fuling County, Ezhou—‘Cleaver of a Whole Street,’ a chivalrous hero.”

That meant he was at least fourth-tier. From a class advancement perspective, Zhang He was now playing the role of a sacrificial pawn.

Despite his grandiose name, “Cleaver of a Whole Street,” this man was calm and composed. He glanced at the bloodstains, then stared at Zhang He’s left shoulder. “You’re injured again?”

Zhang He said nothing, but he was on high alert—this man was not only strong, but discerning.

Cleaver of a Whole Street spoke again. “The White Horse Young Master isn’t a true disciple of Wudang, but someone in the Sword Dance Hall took him as a student. That’s why you managed to best him.”

The explanation seemed random, but Zhang He understood at once. The Wudang promotion path was:

“Disciple, Sword Guard, Sword Dance Hall, True Martial Hall, Taiji Hall, New Seven Heroes…”

Sword Dance Hall meant at least three advancements. A third-tier Wudang disciple was out of reach for most. But a mere student was another matter—so Zhang He had been able to kill that so-called Young Master.

Zhang He suddenly chuckled, which piqued the other man’s curiosity. How could he laugh at such a moment?

“Soul-Stew Divine Blade—truly worthy of its name. To vanquish two at once, your skill is unmatched. I’m impressed!” This was exactly what Young Master Qi had said to taunt the White Horse Young Master. Zhang He now repeated it verbatim—a clear jab at the so-called “righteous” who were nothing more than backstabbers and tricksters.

Cleaver of a Whole Street’s face darkened as he continued, “The White Horse Young Master flaunted Wudang’s name and bullied others, and that was indeed detestable. But you shouldn’t have run amok in the Peony Pavilion. Everyone should show the Music Fairy and Wudang due respect, not draw blades against them.”

Zhang He couldn’t help a smile. He rarely bothered to explain himself, but this time he made an exception, since his opponent was an honorable hero. “I killed him, and I’ve offended Wudang. But if he’d killed me instead, would anyone say Wudang struck first with a sneak attack? More likely, they’d praise Wudang’s martial skill and marvel at their talent. What do you think, Cleaver? Would you give them face too?”

Cleaver of a Whole Street’s expression turned grim. “If I’m not mistaken, your inner strength is depleted. To kill three of the White Horse Young Master’s men in one stroke, anyone below the Transformation Realm would have to use true energy. You’re already wounded—I’d rather not fight. But your tone is too arrogant, so…”

Zhang He fixed him with a stare. “So what?”

Word by word, the man replied, “I’ll let you have three strikes. If you can injure me in three moves, you can leave.”

Three moves—again! The very same phrase as the one spoken by Cloud Guest before.

Zhang He’s grip on his blade tightened, veins bulging on his arm. But he knew this was no time for anger. Did flying into a rage ever boost your luck, unleash a perfect attack, and instantly fell your foe? That was childish fantasy.

If a man truly sought to win respect, he could not rely on words, but on his blade—and on calm judgment.

He’d faced many formidable opponents before, but always with outside help—especially that chaotic five-on-one with Dreaming on Water. But this was different: one-on-one, facing a fourth-tier hero alone—an unprecedented challenge. He had no confidence at all.

Now, Cleaver of a Whole Street stood there, relaxed and casual, hands nowhere near his whip, leaving himself apparently wide open. Yet Zhang He found himself at a loss for how to attack.

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