Zhao Rui chuckled, the corners of his lips curling upward. "Even Huayang Zhenjun could only withstand five of your strikes? Then I suppose I didn't fare too poorly."
"Not just poorly—you were exceptional," Li Lingfeng replied, his sword aura dissipating like morning mist under sunlight. The legendary Sword Sage of Shushan straightened his pristine white robes, flecks of dust shaken loose by their duel still drifting around him. His gaze, sharp as the blade he wielded, lingered on Zhao Rui with rare approval.
Xuanling Master, observing the exchange with twinkling eyes, stepped forward. His aged voice carried both amusement and wisdom. "In all my years, Lingfeng, I've never seen you praise anyone so generously."
Li Lingfeng's stern expression softened, though only slightly. "That's because I've never encountered a cultivator like him."
Dun Che, Zhao Rui's hulking companion, puffed out his chest, his broad face splitting into a grin. "Of course! My brother Zhao Rui isn't like the rest!" His booming laughter echoed across the mountaintop, shaking pine needles from nearby trees.
The Sword Sage and Xuanling Master exchanged glances, their chuckles blending into the crisp mountain air. With the duel concluded, the oppressive sword energy that had forced Shushan's disciples to retreat now vanished. Like startled sparrows, hundreds of sword-bearing cultivators descended upon the Golden Lotus Hall, their faces a mix of awe and confusion.
Li Jingyan, Li Lingfeng's eldest disciple, landed first. His sharp brows furrowed as he bowed. "Master, what transpired here? Your sword intent—"
"Merely a friendly spar," Li Lingfeng interrupted, raising a hand to silence the murmuring crowd. His eyes swept over the sea of disciples. "This is Zhao Rui, the one who defeated Huayang Zhenjun."
A collective gasp rippled through the assembly. Disciples exchanged incredulous glances—how could this unassuming youth, barely older than many of them, have toppled the fifth-ranked expert in the cultivation world? Yet none dared question their patriarch's words. Li Jingyan's fingers tightened imperceptibly around his sword hilt, knuckles whitening. His gaze burned into Zhao Rui, envy simmering beneath carefully schooled deference.
Li Lingfeng turned to his disciple, voice lowering. "Jingyan, you remain because your arrogance today shamed our sect. These guests"—he gestured to Xuanling Master and Zhao Rui—"are beyond your petty provocations. Reflect on this."
Li Jingyan knelt abruptly, forehead pressing against cold stone. "This unworthy disciple begs forgiveness!" His voice trembled with forced humility.
Xuanling Master sighed, hoisting the young man up. "Rise, child. Even jade must be polished."
As dusk painted the peaks in amber, the trio followed Li Jingyan to guest quarters nestled in a floating isle northwest of the main hall. Ancient cedars whispered secrets around bamboo courtyards, their rustling a stark contrast to the day's earlier clamor. Two child attendants scurried forward, their wide eyes reflecting both fear and fascination.
Once alone in their courtyard, Dun Che flopped onto a carved stone bench. "That Li Jingyan's eyes screamed 'I'll gut you in your sleep.' Why spare him?"
Xuanling Master sipped jasmine tea, steam curling around his wizened face. "Because pride unmasked becomes poison. Lingfeng knows this—yet hope springs eternal for one's favored disciple."
Zhao Rui remained silent, fingers tracing the phantom weight of his Blade of the Heavens. The duel's echoes still vibrated in his marrow—Li Lingfeng's strikes had been like facing a collapsing star. Yet amidst the exhilaration, a quieter thought persisted: Xiaolan.
"Master Xuanling," he began abruptly, "if someone... lacks innate talent but burns with determination—could they still walk the path?"
The old monk set down his cup. "The heavens rarely grant easy paths. Yet legends speak of Soul Rebirth Pills and the Nine Petals Nirvana Manual—artifacts lost since the Tang Dynasty."
Dun Che snorted. "Sounds like fairy tales."
"All cultivation begins as fairy tales," Xuanling countered, eyes gleaming. "The Violet Thunder Sect's forbidden archives might hold clues... if one dares seek them."
Outside, a night heron's cry pierced the silence. Zhao Rui's fingers stilled. Somewhere far to the east, beneath neon-lit skyscrapers, a woman with warm eyes and a librarian's gentle smile awaited answers.
The moon climbed higher, silvering the peaks as plans took root—not of battles or glory, but of a different kind of revolution.