Volume One: The Turmoil of Yan and Yun Chapter Seventeen: The Rite of Wind and Sand (Part Four)

Before Feng Yang could make a move, the battle between Feng Qi and Yan Weixie had already begun. Now that Feng Yang’s match was over, those two still remained locked in their struggle.

There are truly two types of evenly matched battles.

One is to force a decisive outcome within a few moves, using all the skills accumulated over a lifetime—this is usually reserved for fights to the death, rarely seen in tournaments.

The other is a back-and-forth entanglement, where the situation looks perilous, but in reality neither side can claim victory in the short term—just like Feng Qi and Yan Weixie.

“My elder brother hasn’t used his sword yet,” Feng Yang remarked.

As the heir of the Feng family, Feng Qi’s mastery of the sword surpassed even his skill with the spear. Others might not know this, but how could Feng Yang be unaware?

Curiously, Feng Ling did not object; it seemed he too knew Feng Qi possessed a terrifying sword technique.

“Yan Weixie hasn’t used Yan’s Return either.”

Yan’s Return was both the name of a person and a battle technique.

It consisted of a single move, yet it made it into the Hundred Skills List.

When storytellers discussed this technique, they said that in terms of unpredictability, it was unmatched in the world.

Both sides had reserved their trump cards.

But Feng Yang was not worried.

If he himself could confidently claim invincibility among his peers, surely his elder brother could as well.

“Can you enter the arena yourself?”

“I’m a bit exhausted, but it’s not a big problem.”

“Then let’s not call the medics up?”

“What would they do? I’ll just lie down for a while. There’s half an hour of rest anyway. You should take the chance to recover your strength as well.”

Whether it was vital energy or blood energy, both could be replenished, but physical strength and mental stamina, once depleted, could not be restored so quickly.

Feng Yang said, “I don’t believe you knew everything.”

He referred to the Third Elder colluding with the barbarians to plot their deaths.

Feng Ling shot him a glare, “I said I knew nothing at all.”

Feng Yang paused, then realized.

He scratched his head and laughed, “I believe you.”

Feng Ling was silent for a moment. “I only learned about it afterwards. At the time, the family kept a close eye, so I couldn’t just run off. That’s why I asked Yun Changqing for help.”

Feng Yang thought this explained things.

Their father had assigned three powerful guardians by their side; there was no reason to send additional support from the lesser ranks.

But Yun Changqing’s appearance was a fact.

He had originally thought Luo Xing had learned of their journey beyond the border through some channel, but it turned out to be due to Feng Ling.

This confirmed the crimes of the Third Elder’s faction.

“One last question.”

“Ask.”

“Did the Third Elder really only collude with the barbarians?”

He and Feng Qi had been ambushed by three major bandit groups, and besides that, they had encountered members of the Bloodcry Pavilion.

“What do you mean?”

Feng Yang recounted the entire experience.

Feng Ling was quiet for a while. “I haven’t seen any evidence that grandfather was in contact with cultists. Whether colluding with the barbarians or the cult is a grave offense. If there were such evidence, it would have been presented together.”

Feng Yang considered this and felt it made sense, so he pressed no further.

“They’re in the same realm, but they’re already far ahead of me,” Feng Ling sighed.

Feng Yang said, “At this level of intensity, I wouldn’t last more than a few moves myself.”

Feng Ling said, “It doesn’t seem to be the Tyrant’s Spear.”

Feng Yang replied, “That upward strike earlier must have been ‘Pierce the Clouds’ from the Snowcloud Sect. The downward press that followed was likely ‘Slash the Bloody Sea’ from the God Blade school.”

Feng Ling could hardly believe it. “How does he know so many elite techniques?”

Feng Yang didn’t know how to answer, so he said, “Perhaps he reads a lot?”

Feng Ling gave him a sidelong glance, “You read plenty too. Why don’t you know them?”

Feng Yang answered naturally, “Because I don’t have vital energy.”

Feng Ling was left speechless.

Suddenly, the ground shook violently.

Feng Yang and Feng Ling stared wide-eyed, thinking it couldn’t be.

The fourth prince sprang to his feet, his finger trembling as he pointed at Feng Qi, unable to speak.

Feng Muyun’s hand shook, tearing out several strands of his beard.

The grand elder’s eyes opened fully, deep and intense.

The stands erupted in cheers.

The ten-zhang battle platform had been shattered into pieces, the cracks converging at the tip of the Tyrant’s Spear.

The Sixteenth Form of the Tyrant’s Spear—Annihilate All Directions.

This was not a move appropriate for a tournament. In the past ten years, aside from the Feng family’s venerated instructor giving a demonstration on the training grounds, no one in Yanbei had used it. Yet that demonstration left a deep impression on the people of Yanbei.

If Feng Muyun had known Feng Qi would use this move, he might have had the platform built from refined steel.

Perhaps even that would not have sufficed.

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“Good thing I stepped back two paces,” Yan Weixie said, looking at the collapsed platform and the gleaming spear tip, still shaken.

“I didn’t realize you’d become so difficult to deal with,” Feng Qi said, dragging the Tyrant’s Spear to his side. “Looks like your ranking will rise in the next Windflow List.”

Yan Weixie was ranked fifth.

“Rising a bit” meant entering the top three.

“Du Gu Zhe shouldn’t be my match,” Yan Weixie said. “Wuyang is far too quiet.”

“That makes sense. So you could jump straight to second.”

Second, not first—Feng Qi did not believe Yan Weixie could defeat him.

“Maybe not,” Feng Qi added.

Yan Weixie raised an eyebrow, “Looks like you’re about to break through.”

Feng Qi shook his head, considering another possibility.

Yan Weixie said, “I don’t think I have a chance to defeat you.”

Feng Qi replied, “I never said I thought you could.”

Yan Weixie was momentarily stunned, then understood.

“Are you mad?” he exclaimed.

Feng Qi shrugged. “Hard to say.”

Suddenly, a powerful aura rose in the arena.

Feng Qi’s shirt exploded, revealing his muscular torso.

Dominance enveloped him.

He finally unleashed his do-or-die technique.

Yan Weixie asked, “What about Xing’er?”

The dominance flowed slowly across Feng Qi’s body, making his skin gleam like gold.

Invincible, selfless.

“No matter what, it’s none of my concern.” Feng Qi stepped back half a pace with his right leg, his body slightly lowered, spear pointed straight at Yan Weixie’s brow. “Right now, there’s only one thing I need to care about.”

Yan Weixie understood Feng Qi’s fighting intent and said no more.

He closed his eyes.

Suddenly, a wind swept the arena, silent and untraceable.

His robe billowed, a deep sadness welling up.

Yan’s Return.

Wild Goose’s Return.

He was Yan—and also the wild goose.

Yan’s lightness.

The wild goose’s weight.

At that moment, Feng Qi moved.

A phantom of a fierce tiger appeared and charged at Yan Weixie.

Yan Weixie seemed to become a spring swallow, lightly touching the ground to evade the tiger’s bite.

He appeared behind Feng Qi, the agile swallow transforming into the heavy wild goose returning home.

He chopped down with his blade.

A crescent moon blocked the strike.

Flat Sand Severance.

The crescent instantly turned into a cold gleam.

The cold gleam swept past Yan Weixie’s ear, a few strands of hair drifting down.

Yan Weixie and Feng Qi brushed past each other.

Feng Qi stood on the ground; Yan Weixie was midair.

Then, Yan Weixie’s body suddenly retreated rapidly. The gale blade, which had been blocked by the Tyrant’s Spear, had somehow shifted direction, its edge aimed at Feng Qi’s back.

Yan’s Return—there is no return without departure.

A sharp, metallic clang rang out.

The gale blade pierced half an inch into the golden body.

The Tyrant’s Spear was already at Yan Weixie’s throat.

Though it was not a thrust, with such force, survival would be unlikely.

What pulled Yan Weixie back from the brink of death was a rough hand.

Its owner was a dark-faced man—not tall, but solidly built.

Commander of the Left Cavalry Formation of the Hanhai Camp—Yan Fan.

He gripped the Tyrant’s Spear and said in a deep voice, “It ends here.”

Yan Weixie was unwilling.

Yan Fan barked softly, “Defeat is defeat! A man should not fear failure—stand up again! But if you don’t even dare admit defeat, how will you ever stand again?”

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