Volume One: The Chaos of Yan and Yun Chapter Nineteen: Sword of Snow and Cloud
When Feng Yang was six years old, the Ten Severed Veins flared up, leaving him unconscious for three months. That year, Feng Muyun was defending the borders and could not return. The third master of the Feng family rode a thousand miles south to Jiangnan; the matriarch of the Fengs, Wei Shui, took a detour to the Eastern Sea to transplant flowers; and Feng Qi, also only six, deceived everyone—including Steward Fei—and went north to the frontier, obtaining three drops of heart’s blood from the young divine beast amidst a pack of wolves.
From then on, Feng Yang truly considered himself part of the Feng family.
As a member of the Fengs, Feng Yang was unexpectedly meticulous, especially since these were immense favors. Whether it was his mother and third uncle who returned without success, or his elder brother who saved his life—it all demanded repayment. Even a drop of kindness merits a flood of gratitude; how much more so for a life saved?
Because of his physical condition, he doubted he could ever repay these debts. The best path was to follow his brother’s plans; perhaps then he could enjoy a normal lifespan, and he didn’t intend to pursue vengeance or gratitude to the bitter end.
But since he had encountered those involved, he felt compelled to act—at least for his third uncle’s sake.
A lifetime, one must serve seven lifetimes as an ox or horse. By that count, he’d served fourteen lifetimes, yet twice died young; it was indeed a sorrowful matter.
But he had no time for sorrow.
“I’ve always said you needn’t dwell on these things. Why must you cling to them?” Feng Muyun’s tone was severe. “A man’s heart determines the breadth of the world he can contain.”
For the first time in his life, Feng Yang did not act according to Feng Muyun’s wishes.
He released the Overlord Spear and spoke, half mocking, half self-deprecating, “Indeed. If not for Father’s presence, why would I have risked my life and lost to her?”
Feng Muyun’s face darkened.
Feng Yang continued, “My heart can contain all things—heaven, earth, the cosmos and stars—but that doesn’t mean some people don’t weigh heavily within it.”
Most tales describe love with grandiose metaphors—mountains crumbling, rivers drying, thunder in winter, snow in summer… They sound magnificent, but are laughable.
Yet some people really do hold that kind of place in another’s heart.
Feng Yang was not deeply versed in matters of love, but that didn’t prevent him from seeing some people as the heart of his life’s ocean.
For example, his family.
Feng Muyun said, “You know that core techniques aren’t passed on easily.”
Feng Yang replied, “I know. That’s why she’s still alive.”
Feng Muyun said, “She was only a child then. What’s the point of blaming her?”
Feng Yang answered, “I don’t blame her. I only want Medicine Valley to witness my anger.”
Feng Muyun thought, Your anger? What weight does it carry?
The girl finally returned from the shadow of death. She glared fiercely at Feng Yang and sneered, “An ant’s rage matters nothing to a dragon.”
Feng Yang retorted, “Thirty years East of the river, thirty years West—don’t underestimate the young and poor.”
He paused, then continued, “Besides, Medicine Valley isn’t so formidable, at least not to the Fengs or the Snowcloud Sect.”
The girl was stunned. “But you’re just the second son.”
Feng Yang reminded her, “A direct heir.”
At last, she understood his meaning. Feng Qi was all but set to become the Sword Child of Wuhen Peak—in other words, the man before her might one day be King of Yanbei.
If he survived, that is.
Realizing this, her tone grew even more mocking. “Even if the Snowcloud Sword speaks, Medicine Valley has the right to refuse treatment.”
Feng Yang replied with contempt, “After all that happened, do you think I’d willingly go south to Medicine Valley?”
The spear values directness; so does life—especially for those of the Feng clan.
Better to live and die freely than to bend and scrape under another’s roof.
Feng Yang spoke seriously, “Healers should be benevolent. Judging by Medicine Valley’s conduct these years, Master Ke has long forgotten his original intent.”
The girl asked incredulously, “You’re not afraid of death?”
Feng Yang laughed freely, “Who has never died, since ancient times?”
She thought, True enough.
The Sword’s request had been honored by Medicine Valley.
But the patient’s own actions were unrelated to Medicine Valley. Ultimately, Feng Yang’s fate belonged to him alone.
She swept her sleeves and left, ignoring even the entreaty from King Yanbei, Feng Muyun.
Feng Muyun sighed, “Why must it be this way?”
Feng Yang’s tense face relaxed. He stepped forward, supporting Feng Muyun’s arm and spoke softly, “This doesn’t fit with my brother’s and my plan.”
Feng Muyun said, “Changes are inevitable—man’s plans can never surpass heaven’s.”
Feng Yang shook his head, “Until my brother speaks, I won’t stray from the plan.”
Brother this, brother that—Feng Muyun’s anger flared. “You are yourself! Why must you always obey your brother?”
He paused, then added, “Since that year when you were six, your life has never been yours alone. Don’t you realize that, Father?”
Many things had happened when Feng Yang was six; Feng Muyun had only heard of them.
Had he been there, he would never have let Yun Wanyan and Feng Xi Shanan head south.
He’d have gone straight to Wuyang himself, to see the Divine Emperor and beg for the remaining pills of the old emperor—those alone would have perfected Feng Yang’s body, sparing him the suffering.
Divine beasts are still beasts; no matter how potent their blood, it cannot so easily forge a perfect body.
That required immense determination and extraordinary luck.
If Feng Yang had met with disaster, what would he have done?
Regret?
Remorse?
None of it mattered.
What mattered was that it had happened. Since he hadn’t acted, there was no need to speak of it.
Feng Yang seemed to read Feng Muyun’s gaze. “You need not blame yourself, Father. You bear the safety of forty million Yanbei people; naturally, they must come first. I have never blamed you.”
He said, “A true man carries a three-foot blade and achieves immortal feats. I am proud to have such a father.”
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“Who has never died, since ancient times? A fine poem, and the man is not bad, but fate is fate—who can say for sure?” Hidden within a cloud in the sky was a flying sword. Upon its blade sat two figures, one old, one young, both chewing dried grass.
The old man spoke, garbed in white sword robes, his beard trailing down to the sword below. One hand propped his chin, the other stroked his knee.
“If not for the Ten Severed Veins, your second brother could have been a wandering poet,” Feng Qi said with a faint smile. “And his fate is not so bitter. After all, he has me as his elder brother.”
The old man glanced askance at Feng Qi. “If you want to save him, you’ll have to wait thirty years.”
Feng Qi was startled. “That long?”
The old man replied, “Aside from Three Woods, only someone at the Dao-Integrating Realm could save him.”
Meaning, he believed Feng Qi could reach that realm in thirty years.
Feng Qi frowned. “I think I can do it sooner.”
The old man responded, “How much sooner?”
Feng Qi opened uncertainly, “Fifteen years?”
“Why not ascend to the heavens?” the old man snapped. “You really think you’re Du Gu Feiyun?”
Du Gu Feiyun was the name of the old emperor, rarely spoken directly—except by contemporaries, friend or foe.
In other words, the old man before him had lived at least a thousand years.
Who was he?
Feng Qi sighed. “Master, didn’t you say when you chose me that I had the bearing of the old emperor?”
So the old man was the Snowcloud Sword, one of the supreme peak experts—Xue Wuji.
“I said you had Du Gu Feiyun’s bearing, not that you were him. In all these years, the Continent of Daoyuan has produced only one Du Gu Feiyun. If you want to reach his heights, unless your true father is not Feng Muyun, but Heaven itself!”
He shifted his posture. “Besides, your brother won’t survive two years, let alone fifteen.”
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