Chapter Forty-One: The Sword Hanging at the Waist

A handful of green beard drifted down, floating slowly through the nearly windless air before landing on the snow-white surface of the ice.

The cold moon in the sky was bright and pale.

Jin Buhuan remained motionless, his fist still poised in mid-air. He was intimately familiar with the sword energy that had sliced off his long green beard.

That flash of sword light, even as the beard touched the ground, still flickered in Jin Buhuan's mind.

Though the sword light had long since vanished into the endless darkness, extinguished above the vast lake, its presence lingered.

Zhou Yu was stunned, the old man dazed; everyone stared wide-eyed, as if trying to recall that fleeting sword light with their own eyes.

It had been but a momentary glimmer, severing only Jin Buhuan’s beard, yet it seemed to cut through everyone’s heart in that instant—regardless of whether they’d actually seen it, whether they stood below the ice wall, atop it, or within it. All felt that sword, as real as if witnessed personally, though few truly had.

What kind of sword light was this?

What manner of man could unleash such sword energy?

Jin Buhuan slowly lowered his raised fist, his gaze drifting over the fallen beard on the ground. Lifting his head, he looked west.

Within the icy valley, Hua Quyue ceased suppressing the sacred beast, turned, and faced west, murmuring, “He’s come?”

The black-robed man, who had just brushed past death’s door, lay on the ground, laughing up at the sky: “Tsk tsk… Ha ha… So, you’ve finally made your move… Ha ha… You’ve finally intervened…”

A figure gradually emerged from the west.

Zhou Yu looked that way, suddenly struck by a sense of familiarity. “Why do I feel as if I know him?” he asked.

The old man stared blankly at the approaching figure, at the white-robed man drawing near. Suddenly he took a wine jug from his breast, bit the stopper free, and with a trembling left hand poured half the contents into his mouth, swallowing with a deep glug. He sighed—a sound layered with complexity.

The old man said, “Liu Wujian.”

Dressed in white, a sword at his waist, Liu Wujian walked slowly through the snow. He made no sound, yet each step resounded in everyone’s heart like thunder.

In that moment, the world fell utterly silent. One could almost hear the wind rolling ice shards across the ground, their friction whispering.

Zhou Yu breathed heavily, hearing his own breath, his heartbeat, the rolling of ice chips, and the crunch of that man’s footsteps in the snow.

“How dare you come here?” Jin Buhuan’s voice exploded like thunder in their ears.

Liu Wujian did not reply, continuing his measured steps forward, the sword at his waist swaying with each stride.

“And you have the nerve to show your face?” Jin Buhuan thundered again, this time breaking through the strange spell that had gripped everyone.

The corners of Liu Wujian’s mouth rose slightly, but his pace never changed. Each step covered the same distance; every breath was equally drawn out; the sword at his waist swayed with unwavering rhythm.

When the sword had swayed two hundred and thirty-seven times, Liu Wujian stopped. He now stood before Jin Buhuan.

“Liu Wujian, do you truly think there’s no one in this world who can deal with you?” Jin Buhuan demanded.

Liu Wujian glanced at him, then let his gaze drift past Jin Buhuan to Xuan Zhan standing behind. He studied him quietly, then turned to the black-robed man lying on the ground. “Release him,” he said.

The black-robed man’s expression was hidden beneath his mask. After a moment’s silence, he replied, “Tsk tsk… Just this once, I’ll listen to you.”

A black mist seeped from the black-robed man’s body. Xuan Zhan, dazed, wandered into the thick fog and vanished.

Jin Buhuan pointed at Liu Wujian and the black-robed man. “So you really have fallen in with the likes of these demonic heretics. Hmph! I always knew you were no good. Now you’ve embraced the devil’s path.”

Liu Wujian’s lips curled in a faint smile. “And what is ‘devil’?” he asked softly.

Jin Buhuan was briefly at a loss, then retorted, “A devil is a devil—that’s all you demonic heretics!”

The black-robed man laughed loudly: “Tsk tsk… Ha ha… You shout about slaying demons, but you can’t even say what a demon is.”

Liu Wujian turned, gazing at the black-robed man with utmost seriousness. In the depths of his pupils, sword intent surged.

The black-robed man’s laughter died. From behind his mask came a sullen voice: “You’re thinking of killing me again?”

Liu Wujian nodded. “I am a devil.”

“Madman!” the black-robed man snapped. “Utter nonsense.”

With that, the black-robed man drifted backward, retreating more than ten yards. “Tsk tsk… Since you told me to stop, it’s your turn to handle these people. I’ve done all the work so far—it’s only fair.”

Liu Wujian said to him, “Spare me your chatter.”

With those words, he turned to regard Hua Quyue, who had emerged from the icy valley. His expression was unreadable as he said, “We meet again.”

Hua Quyue managed a bitter smile. “I’d rather never see you again.”

Jin Buhuan glanced at Hua Quyue, tempted to curse him for meddling, but held his tongue. He knew well how formidable Liu Wujian was. Even with Hua Quyue at his side, Jin Buhuan felt no certainty of victory. That sword energy just now—had he not sensed it and forced himself still, his throat would already be cut.

“Why?” Liu Wujian asked.

As Hua Quyue rolled up his left sleeve—revealing an arm covered with scars—he replied, “Because every time we meet, I end up fighting you, and I always lose.”

Liu Wujian stared at Hua Quyue’s left arm for a moment, then sighed lightly. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Hua Quyue understood the apology. He smiled and said, “Thank you.”

Liu Wujian apologized because the meridians in Hua Quyue’s left arm had been destroyed by him, which was how all those scars had come to be.

Hua Quyue gave thanks because, by being forced to reopen those meridians, his strength had advanced further.

“Anything else to say?” Liu Wujian asked Jin Buhuan and Hua Quyue with utmost seriousness, as if offering condemned men a last statement.

Hua Quyue replied bitterly, “That deathly look again—must you always be like this?”

Jin Buhuan snorted his displeasure, instinctively reaching up to stroke his green beard—only to remember, mid-gesture, that it had been severed by Liu Wujian’s sword. His anger flared anew. “I’ll never understand what Master saw in you to take you as a disciple—must’ve been blind!”

At Jin Buhuan’s insult toward Ling Youzi, Hua Quyue shot him a glare.

The sword at Liu Wujian’s waist began to tremble, as if it were struggling to break free of its scabbard.