To break the barrier of unspoken words

Go with the flow—when making decisions, people often follow the prevailing trend. Whether wielding a sword in combat or contending in the court, it is about forging ahead, riding the blue waves, and daring to swim against the current; those who do may be dashed to pieces, or else leap through the Dragon Gate in triumph.

Zhang Ling, soaring through the air with a sword, moved instinctively, seizing the momentum. His elbow powered the strike without reservation, leaving not a hint of restraint. In a flash, his short sword nearly grazed Yang Xiao's temple, the blade gleaming as it passed. Yet, it was Zhang Ling—who acted with the flow—who was struck away.

After retreating dozens of yards, Zhang Ling stumbled, withdrew his short sword, and barely managed to steady himself. He quickly replayed the moment in his mind, muttering under his breath, “I didn’t see it clearly!”

Yang Xiao, sword resting on his arm, glanced back with solemn reproach, “The sword is the gentleman among all weapons—how could you resort to a sneak attack? It’s truly disgraceful.”

Zhang Ling nudged his short sword forward an inch, ready to strike, and replied without mercy, “Elder, let’s not pretend. We both know what kind of men we are. If we’re to talk of gentlemen, we’re counterfeit ones at best.”

Yang Xiao was not angered by Zhang Ling’s blunt words; instead, he laughed, “You, boy, truly are my confidant.”

Zhang Ling smiled in return, gathering momentum with his sword, and sent another blade slicing through the air, arriving before Yang Xiao in the blink of an eye.

“Return!” Yang Xiao’s shout was thunderous, brimming with forceful intimidation. Leaves swayed, and Zhang Ling was forced back. He gripped his sword tightly, unafraid in spirit, but his arm trembled despite himself. He understood well: as one’s martial cultivation ascends, so too does mental fortitude, which is why a master can subdue others with a mere glance. The pressure coursed from his eyes through his body, and only then did his arm cease its trembling.

Zhang Ling raised his sword to the wind, stepping back with force, digging his feet deep into the earth, careful not to make the slightest rash move. From Yang Xiao’s gaze, he could tell this time was taken most seriously. Zhang Ling bowed respectfully, “Please, elder.”

Yang Xiao wasted no words and leapt forward. There was no stir in the air—though right before Zhang Ling’s eyes, he arrived behind him unnoticed. Zhang Ling sensed something amiss, so he pressed forward, spun, and swung his sword, only to be struck away by Yang Xiao’s effortless blade once more.

Dark power surged; Zhang Ling stopped evading and raised his sword to meet the challenge. Though Yang Xiao still held back, he no longer appeared so leisurely—he lifted his blade, swept, and stabbed. Zhang Ling fought with all his strength, daring not to conceal his skill, for a single misstep could mean injury.

Neither dared intervene in their duel, nor could the contenders afford careless moves—lest they be swept away like a tornado through a breach.

After several exchanges, Zhang Ling grew exhausted. Sweat beaded on his back, and his grip on the sword loosened. By contrast, Yang Xiao remained relaxed, showing no fatigue. Facing Zhang Ling’s non-lethal swordplay, he shifted only slightly, fending off every strike with ease.

Seeing Zhang Ling sweat like rain, Yang Xiao grew impatient. He swept his sword across, meeting the very tip of Zhang Ling’s short blade.

Zhang Ling inwardly chuckled—here it was again. But as Yang Xiao thought he could easily knock aside Zhang Ling’s sword, he found only a shadow.

Phantom Step—its first manifestation, a lingering remnant!

Most often, it emerges when a martial artist’s strength is spent.

Seizing Yang Xiao’s momentary surprise, Zhang Ling summoned the last of his energy for a punch aimed at Yang Xiao’s broad chest. Victory and defeat hang by a thread; the heavy fist landed on a sturdy hand.

Zhang Ling intended to repeat the move, but this time Yang Xiao was prepared, circulating his internal power to protect every inch of his body. Zhang Ling’s punch struck the palm, as if caught in a resilient spider’s web—unable to advance, and impossible to withdraw.

He had no choice but to risk it. Zhang Ling swung his sword-wielding hand, launching a second punch, but again, Yang Xiao intercepted it, dissipating his strength.

Suddenly, Yang Xiao flung Zhang Ling aside, sending him flying violently and crashing to the ground. Zhang Ling struggled to stand, laughing as he asked, “Elder Yang, how was it? What rank?”

Yang Xiao was still pondering that shadow—first the punch beyond his limits, now the strange agility. Only the Golden Body technique of his own Gold and Silver Sect could compare, and even that had been left by a grand master of old. Yet he refrained from questioning further; one thing was certain—the youth before him was anything but ordinary. Otherwise, he would not be so highly regarded by Qin Yi, who had kept silent for ten days.

Returning to himself, Yang Xiao gave a serious assessment, “Your base strength is firmly fourth rank. That punch, barely third.”

At this, Yang Xiao could not help but deflate Zhang Ling, adding, “Right now, you’re merely keeping pace with a few others. Compared to true geniuses, you’re far behind. Others not only reach higher realms but can even kill across boundaries.”

Zhang Ling pressed urgently, “Why?” In his heart, Zhang Ling believed that realm was not strength; no matter how skilled the master, a blade across the throat would draw blood. But truly, how many in the world can kill across boundaries? And Zhang Ling, a newcomer to the martial world, was hardly one of them.

Yang Xiao explained, “First, though your cultivation rises quickly, your experience is lacking. Second…” He paused, then said, “Never mind. I hear you’re heading to Liufeng City. Perhaps there, you’ll see what diligence really means.”

Seeing Yang Xiao’s half-hearted explanation, Zhang Ling wanted to take a swing at him. But thinking it over, he realized he could barely lift his sword, let alone match Yang Xiao, whose strength was worlds apart. So he could only stew in silent frustration.

A gust of sand blew by, accompanied by faint footsteps. Zhang Ling knew another fight was about to break out, and wisely stepped aside.

The two seemed to understand each other perfectly—perhaps out of habit, they drew swords as soon as they met. Zhang Ling observed closely, knowing that such a duel between masters might not be seen again. Yet, he chuckled to himself—what use was watching countless matches where neither side gave their all? Seeing them exchange blows, swords clashing endlessly, did he, an outsider, really have the right to judge? But if he did not speak today, he might miss the chance for a truly exhilarating contest.

Zhang Ling reconsidered. Though he’d intended to stay out of it, witnessing a rare duel between grandmasters was no loss. At the moment their swords paused, Zhang Ling shouted, “Yang Xiao, are you up to it? Or are you holding back?”

Lin Rui, hearing Zhang Ling’s remark, looked at him, “What did you say?”

She paused, then asked Yang Xiao seriously, “Are you really holding back?”