Volume One: The Turmoil of Yan and Yun Chapter Twenty: Through the Passing Years (Part One)

A youth who has yet to fully grasp the intricacies of life, and yet must face matters of life and death day and night—such is a circumstance that would move any heart to sorrow. Yet Feng Qi did not feel sorrowful; he cherished his younger brother’s life more deeply than anyone else. Otherwise, he would never have risked ambushing the Silvermoon Wolf King’s cub.

It was precisely because he valued it so highly that he considered it from every angle. Even the dullest of minds, pondering one question for a decade, would inevitably draw many conclusions, let alone someone like him.

Mount Taixuan was the most reliable path he had chosen from among a hundred possible routes, and he was certain that as long as he walked this road, nothing untoward would befall him.

Since he was so sure, there was no need to entertain other options. If this sounded convoluted, then let it be put another way: Medicine Valley was good, but only just good. What he sought was never the ordinary comfort of a common lifespan. Since he could live five hundred years longer, why not seize that chance?

Suddenly, Xue Wujie gave a slight exclamation.

Feng Qi asked, “Master, is something the matter?”

Xue Wujie turned to look at him and pointed to a spot below. “You really did guess right. Taixuan Mountain did send someone, and their status is quite high.”

Feng Qi followed his master’s gesture but could see nothing beyond the pavilion, so he gave up and asked, “How does their status compare to yours in the Snowcloud Sect?”

Xue Wujie looked at Feng Qi as if he were a fool. “You think the Five Abyss Lords of Taixuan Mountain are so idle?”

Feng Qi replied with some annoyance, “If not them, then who else could you say has a high status?”

Xue Wujie said, “This person’s position in Taixuan Mountain is equivalent to that of the Sword Heir in the Snowcloud Sect. What do you think?”

The title of Sword Heir in the Snowcloud Sect ranked just below that of a Peak Lord—even the elders were inferior. Aside from the founding generation, every Peak Lord of Snowcloud throughout history had been Sword Heirs in their youth.

But this seemed incongruous; if the Dao Heir was equivalent to the Sword Heir, then in addition to exceptional talent, diligence would be indispensable—why would such a person appear here?

Feng Qi asked, “Shouldn’t the Dao Heir be in seclusion, preparing for the Daoist Conference ten years from now? Why would he come here?”

Xue Wujie replied, “He’s not the Sword Heir of my Wuhen Peak. How should I know?”

Feng Qi thought to himself that even as a Sword Heir, his master didn’t necessarily know everything.

Xue Wujie said blandly, “If not for me, do you really think Mo Ming and the others could have protected you from the Bright Palace?”

Those who entered the Yanbei Army were never weak; anyone who could become an official had their strengths, not to mention Mo Ming. But if they weren’t weak, did that mean the barbarians who had opposed the Yanbei Army for nearly two centuries were a bunch of incompetents?

Over the years, the Bright Palace had produced countless talents. If they truly decided to act, the entire Yanbei would have to be on high alert. And the opponents were only three cultivators at the Luminous Stage?

For the Bright Palace to withdraw without success, their adversary must have been at least a grandmaster of the Void Path, and not one who had only recently achieved the realm. To possess such power and still be willing to descend to the mortal world—Feng Qi could easily deduce who it was without much effort.

Thus, what he truly meant was something else. But since Xue Wujie hadn’t noticed, there was no need to elaborate. He hadn’t intended to hide it anyway; if asked later, he could explain.

“You really did win your gamble. Aren’t you afraid something might go wrong?” Xue Wujie suddenly asked.

Feng Qi knew his master must have overheard something, but it didn’t matter, so he simply replied, “The risk is small, the reward great—why not gamble?”

Xue Wujie frowned. “But this concerns your brother’s life.”

Matters of life and death are never trifling. Feng Qi should not have dared to take any risk, just as Feng Muyun would not have.

To choose a Sword Heir for Wuhen Peak, talent was important, but temperament was also essential. If it were only about talent, Wuhen Peak could have found other geniuses with abilities close to Feng Qi’s.

Cultivators require a tranquil heart, but tranquility and lack of loyalty are two different things.

“But this was Yang’s own decision,” Feng Qi said with a smile. “As an elder brother, I cannot deprive my younger brother of his right to choose.”

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Feng Yang sat cross-legged atop the martial platform. The poison left by the Twin-Life Flower in his body had mostly dissipated, but the numbness caused by its passage would take time to fade.

According to the rules, he was granted half an hour of rest after each match, but having fought two consecutive bouts, neither the officials nor the elders pressed him further.

“In terms of raw vitality, there are few in the Tempering Realm who could match you,” came a voice.

Feng Yang opened his eyes to see a young man in a blue Daoist robe, a wooden hairpin in his hair, and a sword case on his back as broad as his torso, the hilt protruding far behind his head.

Taixuan Mountain was famed not for its two supreme Dao Saints, nor for the several abyssal chasms shrouded in darkness, but for the fact that every disciple bore a sword case on their back, often larger than themselves.

In the years when relations between the Snowcloud Sect and Taixuan Mountain were at their worst, Snowcloud disciples would mockingly call the Taixuan sword cases “coffin boards.”

Most of those present recognized the young man’s origins, though none could guess his purpose. Taixuan Mountain was not considered far from Yanbei by cultivators, but for ordinary people, it was a journey of several months. In past years, no one from Taixuan had attended the Wind and Sand Festival—so why now?

“First meeting, I am Ming Yuan, Dao Heir of the Abyss of Demon Suppression.” The youth spoke directly, “By chance, Taixuan Mountain is somewhat versed in this path. Would the Second Young Master be willing to join me on the mountain for a conversation?”

One had to admit, Ming Yuan was not skilled in such affairs. His words were plain, his tone direct, lacking all subtlety.

But Feng Yang liked this manner of speech—straightforwardness, though easy in words, is hard in deeds. For in a sense, to be direct is to be sincere.

Before he could respond, another figure appeared on the martial platform.

The third elder of the Feng family.

“The Divine Dynasty has decreed that cultivator sects may not recruit children of noble houses. Does Taixuan Mountain intend to break the rules?” He glared at Ming Yuan, his gaze fierce.

Ming Yuan raised an eyebrow, a hint of surprise.

Feng Yang said, “Daoist Ming Yuan only invited me to visit Taixuan Mountain.”

The third elder admonished, “Even a visit is not permitted. As the second young master of Yanbei, ties with a sect would not bode well for the Feng family.”

Feng Yang glanced at Feng Muyun.

Feng Muyun’s face was dark, but he did not rebuke the third elder.

Rules were rules, but what of reason and sentiment?

Ming Yuan suddenly said, “It seems you are mistaken about something.”

The third elder asked, “And what is that?”

Ming Yuan replied earnestly, “I’m not seeking your opinion.”

The third elder froze.

Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain at his neck, staggered, and fell to the ground, eyes wide with terror. Ambitious as he was, his strength far surpassed the initial Luminous Stage he usually displayed. In the Feng family, only Feng Muyun could rival him. For this young man to fell him silently with a single gesture—how powerful must he be?

Shouts of alarm rang out from the stands.

In an instant, four figures surrounded the youth.

A long spear stood behind, a grandmaster’s chair and the Sword of Longevity flanking left and right.

Feng Muyun stood before him, asking in a deep voice, “Does Taixuan Mountain intend to declare war on Yanbei?”

Taixuan Mountain’s power was such that it could raze all the great forces of Yanbei, including the Divine Might Fortress, time and again. But Yanbei was not merely Yanbei—it was also the empire’s most vital northern bulwark.

Even with two peerless grandmasters, Taixuan Mountain would not dare confront the Divine Dynasty head-on.

Ming Yuan saluted Feng Muyun, then turned to Feng Yang. “Would you come with me?”

Feng Yang considered. “Is it urgent?”

Ming Yuan replied, “Not especially. But given that it’s you, it would be best for us to make haste.”

“Tomorrow, then?” Feng Yang proposed.

Ming Yuan shook his head. “Having seen the heir, the youth surnamed Yan, and now you, the purpose of coming to the Wind and Sand Festival has been fulfilled. There’s no need to linger.”

Feng Yang thought for a moment, then nodded. “Very well, I will go with you.”

He turned to Feng Muyun. “Father, then I shall take my leave.”

Feng Muyun nodded.

Feng Yang glanced at the Fourth Prince. “Leaving with someone from Taixuan Mountain in broad daylight—how does Father intend to explain this to the Fourth Prince?”

Feng Muyun raised an eyebrow. “Are you truly concerned about such things?”

Feng Yang laughed lightly. “Not really. It’s just that, since I’ll be gone for years, I wish to speak with Father a little longer before I leave.”

A trace of warmth flickered in Feng Muyun’s heart, though he feigned indifference and chided, “A man should have ambitions beyond home. Your health has kept you from the battlefield all these years. This journey to Taixuan Mountain—do your utmost to recover, then return and aid me.”

Feng Yang replied, “I fear I won’t be able to help in the coming years. Please be exceedingly careful, Father.”

Feng Muyun cast a glance at the third elder lying on the ground, chuckled softly, and said nothing more.

Feng Yang looked around, unable to find Feng Qi, and felt a twinge of disappointment.

“Shall we go?” he asked softly.

Ming Yuan raised two fingers as a sword, lifting them slightly.

The sword case detached, summoning a wild gust of wind. Feng Yang shielded his eyes with his hand.

When the wind subsided, a broad sword hovered seven inches above the ground.

Feng Yang stood upon the sword; Ming Yuan stood before him.

“Hold on tight,” Ming Yuan reminded.

Instinctively, Feng Yang reached out and grabbed Ming Yuan’s robe.

“Not enough,” Ming Yuan said.

Feng Yang added his other hand.

A sword’s cry split the air.

A scream of agony.

The flying sword soared into the sky.

From that moment, Feng Yang was gone from the mortal world.

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