Chapter Twenty-Nine: Of Course, a Sword Is Meant to Cut Down the Despicable

Zhou Yu was dripping with sweat, soaked as if he had just been fished out of water. He clutched a steamed bun in his right hand, a bundle of buns strapped to his back, and his mouth was stuffed full as well. In this state, he walked up to Jin Buhuan.

“Do you want to eat one?” Zhou Yu managed to swallow a huge mouthful of bun before addressing Jin Buhuan, who was glaring at him with furious eyes.

“Then here, have one.” Zhou Yu unfastened the bundle from his back, set it on the ground, opened it, and took out a bun to hand to Jin Buhuan.

Jin Buhuan turned his head away, ignoring Zhou Yu with a cold snort.

“Come, Abuli, have a bun,” Zhou Yu called out to Abuli.

Abuli grinned, revealing a row of white teeth. He walked over, saying, “Chinese Zhou, I am indeed hungry.”

And so, Zhou Yu and Abuli, in full view of everyone in the Martial Hall and right beside Jin Buhuan, began to eat their buns.

Jin Buhuan’s lips twitched, the chill in his eyes apparent as he spoke. “Are you two done fooling around?”

“Fooling around?” Zhou Yu looked at him in genuine surprise.

“This is the Martial Hall, not a dining hall! This is the Spirit Realm’s competition, not a picnic!” Jin Buhuan waved his hand, sending out a flash of golden light that shattered all the buns Zhou Yu had brought into crumbs.

Zhou Yu stood up and said, “Who set the rule that you can’t eat in the Martial Hall? Who said you can’t eat during a match?”

Jin Buhuan was momentarily lost for words, and the rest nearly fainted from shock.

“All these years in the Spirit Realm, no one has ever eaten in the Martial Hall, let alone during a competition…”

“And indeed, there’s no rule against it…”

“Never heard of such a rule…”

Jin Buhuan’s face was livid as he listened to the murmurs of the second-generation disciples around him. He clasped his hands behind his back and declared, “Now it is a rule—because I say so!”

A playful smile appeared on Zhou Yu’s face. He replied with utmost sincerity, “So, by that logic, what Elder Jin just said—that anyone who dares face Morrison may compete—must also be a rule?”

“Well—” Jin Buhuan started.

Zhou Yu quickly cut him off. “A gentleman’s word cannot be taken back, much less the decree of the Grand Elder of the Spirit Realm.”

A trace of embarrassment flickered across Jin Buhuan’s face, but it vanished as quickly as it came. “Of course!” he said.

Who was Jin Buhuan? He was a supreme master, revered as the Grand Elder of the Spirit Realm. But his lofty status was no match for the cunning and wit honed by Zhou Yu in the trenches of society’s lowest rungs.

Zhou Yu dusted the bun crumbs off his hands and said, “Then I’ll face him.” He pointed at Morrison.

Jin Buhuan was well aware of the power Zhou Yu had unleashed in his berserk state that day—but since then, Zhou Yu had become a cripple. Though Hua Queyue had treated him, a man whose meridians were destroyed was still a cripple. By rights, Zhou Yu’s current strength was no more than an infant’s compared to Morrison.

Could it be…? Jin Buhuan immediately dismissed his own suspicion. He knew Hua Queyue had spent forty-nine months just to restore a single meridian in Zhou Yu’s left arm. There was no way Zhou Yu could have recovered all his meridians in so short a time.

“Since the numbers are just right, we’ll reorganize the groups,” Jin Buhuan said coldly.

In the end, Zhou Yu was matched against the Japanese warrior, Abuli against Jack, and the Russian strongman against Morrison.

After the groups were set, Jin Buhuan returned to the viewing platform. He still exercised caution, even though he believed Morrison could sweep away the others with ease. To be safe, he arranged for Zhou Yu to face the Japanese warrior first, curious to see what gave Zhou Yu such confidence.

“Bakayaro! I will kill you!” Zhou Yu’s opponent—the mustachioed Japanese—shouted at him.

Zhou Yu glanced at him, then turned and walked toward the edge of the arena.

The crowd erupted in uproar.

Zuo Hou sneered, “So it was all just an act!”

Jin Buhuan snorted coldly. “Are you playing games with me?”

“Master, pass me the sword,” Zhou Yu called, not leaving the field but walking to the edge and addressing the old man sitting nearby.

The old man took a swig of wine; a flush of color appeared on his pale face. With a single-handed shake, the massive iron sword lying beside him seemed to come to life, flying straight into Zhou Yu’s hand.

Zhou Yu caught it with one hand, bowed to the old man, then turned and dragged the huge blade back toward the center.

The tip of the sword bit into the flagstones, cutting a deep groove as Zhou Yu dragged it along, the screech of metal against stone ringing out in the Martial Hall.

Weapons were not forbidden in the Spirit Realm’s competition, but most of the transmigrators had little proficiency with arms, so weapon duels were rare.

The Japanese warrior drew his katana, his bloodthirsty, narrow eyes narrowing even further. Gripping the sword tightly in both hands, he addressed Zhou Yu, who had returned, “My name is Oizumi—”

Zhou Yu raised an eyebrow, interrupting him. “I’ve no interest in wasting time on your self-introduction. Enough talk.”

“Waaaa!” Oizumi shouted in fury. He suddenly darted forward, his wooden clogs striking the ground three times in quick succession. In a blink, he crossed the distance between them. With his final step, he leaped high, raising his katana overhead, then brought it down with deadly intent, the blade transforming into a rainstorm of gleaming arcs pouring toward Zhou Yu.

“Brother, I will avenge you! Die, you Chinese pig!” Oizumi’s voice echoed through the hall.

Zhou Yu closed his eyes, as if attuning himself to the energies flowing through heaven and earth. His left ear twitched, and he opened his eyes just as the torrent of blade light was about to engulf him. He swung his giant sword. His right hand, steady as a rock, delivered a slow strike that intercepted the storm of blades before it could touch him.

With the sweep of his sword, the storm of blades began to weaken—torrential rain faded into heavy rain, heavy rain became a steady shower, then a drizzle, and finally, just a single drop.

Though the slow sword was indeed slow, it struck precisely at the weak point of Oizumi’s Three-Step Rainstorm Slash, forcing away all feints until only one true blade remained.

At this, Jin Buhuan closed his eyes and said nothing.

Zuo Hou stared wide-eyed in disbelief at the duel unfolding in the Martial Hall.

The fight had only just begun, yet it was already as good as over.

Zhou Yu, after enduring the destruction of all his meridians and total paralysis, had clawed his way back through sheer willpower. That day’s enlightenment on the grasslands, the reopening of the meridians in both arms—all these experiences had transformed his state of mind.

This elevated state gave him new insight into the slow sword. The recently restored meridians in his arms were like heavenly rivers, and now, a surge of power coursed through them, sending up towering waves.

“Die!” Zhou Yu first used the slow sword to break through all of Oizumi’s feints, then suddenly unleashed the power stored in his arms. The sword, which had been moving so slowly, quivered and vanished with a resonant hum.

The blade reappeared—Oizumi’s wrists, still gripping the katana, were severed and flew through the air. Before he could even register the pain, Zhou Yu’s sword flashed again—his head parted from his shoulders.

It tumbled far across the floor before coming to rest, his eyes wide with shock and terror, his body slumping within his own line of sight.

Zhou Yu slowly planted the giant sword into the flagstones, leaning his body gently against it. As the sun set, his shadow stretched long and slender, the tip falling precisely across Oizumi’s corpse.

The headless body twitched, and from the stumps of its wrists, countless fresh buds of flesh began to sprout. Accompanied by viscous fluid, a pair of new, snow-white hands grew out, just like wild grass in spring.

But Zhou Yu’s gaze was already fixed elsewhere.