Chapter Fourteen: Where the Sword Points (Part One)

Li Fu raised his brows slightly and said, “Grand Preceptor? I don’t know. My teacher taught me many things, including this sword technique. Why do you think so?”

“Your swordsmanship is very similar to the Grand Preceptor’s Azure Lotus Sword Manual. I haven’t seen it myself, but ‘A sword as the azure lotus, steeped in the spirit of wine’—that was the late emperor’s praise for the Grand Preceptor. Nearly everyone in the Eastern Capital knows that Azure Lotus is the Grand Preceptor’s other name. And if I’m not mistaken, the sword you’re carrying is the legendary Zhuoqing Sword, isn’t it? Only the Grand Preceptor’s sword bears the mark of an azure lotus.” Yang Zixu pointed at the faded lotus emblem on the hilt of Li Fu’s sword, its lines worn smooth by years of use. Without careful scrutiny, the mark was nearly invisible.

“The Grand Preceptor has been gone from the Eastern Capital for over a decade. In these years, even his name has become almost taboo. If you truly are his disciple, after the Lantern Festival examinations, you’ll likely find trouble seeking you out,” Yang Zixu said gravely.

Li Fu had followed his teacher since childhood, but even he was unsure of his teacher’s true identity. One thing was certain: his teacher was no ordinary man, and the sword was indeed as Yang Zixu described, belonging to his master. But if his teacher truly was the Grand Preceptor, why would such a person spend more than a decade in a secluded mountain village? And what, then, was Li Fu’s true identity?

“Taboo? Why is that? The Grand Preceptor is one of the Three Excellencies—how could his very name become forbidden?” Li Fu asked, puzzled.

“I don’t know the details,” Yang Zixu replied quietly, glancing around. “They say it involves the imperial family. But on the night before the Grand Preceptor left, he killed many people in the capital. Several powerful ministers’ mansions vanished overnight, and even the royal family’s attitude changed entirely, as if nothing had happened at all.”

Li Fu nodded thoughtfully, choosing not to press further.

“Teacher, are you really the Grand Preceptor?” Li Fu glanced at the crowd beneath the eaves, lost in thought.

Suddenly, that familiar emerald figure appeared in the corridor: long, jet-black hair cascaded quietly over her shoulders; her skin was pale and delicate; her beautiful eyes shimmered with light, and her long lashes gave her an air of lively spirit.

“It’s her—”

“What did you say?” Yang Zixu turned, having not caught Li Fu’s words. But what he saw was Li Fu’s awkward smile.

“What’s with you?” Yang Zixu was taken aback, confused.

“Ah, it’s nothing.” Li Fu glanced at Yang Zixu, but couldn’t help the slight upward curve of his lips.

Seeing this, Yang Zixu drew a sharp breath. “This is a contest—you’re daydreaming about girls? Spring hasn’t arrived yet! You’re even less reliable than I am. You’re up next, you know.”

“I’m up next? So soon?” Li Fu exclaimed, instantly collecting himself and looking toward the arena.

On the stage, it was Yang Ning of the Heavenly Strategy Hall facing his opponent. The challenger, upon learning his adversary was Yang Ning, lost all will to fight and was defeated before he could withstand a second move.

“Confident? Of the four Wang brothers, the youngest is the most skilled. Don’t embarrass yourself in front of your beloved,” Yang Zixu teased with a wicked grin, eyeing Li Fu intently.

Li Fu glanced at his sword, shook his head at Yang Zixu, and strode up to the stage.

Yang Zixu watched Li Fu’s back and called out, “If you can’t win, just withdraw. Wang Wei may have already reached the Dawn Dew realm. Losing face once in a while isn’t the end of the world.”

Li Fu paused, considered, then turned back. “I can win.”

Yang Zixu wasn’t lying. The Wang family was among the Eight Great Generals, but unlike the Yangs, the Wangs’ patriarch was a marquis. The youngest, Wang Wei, was the most gifted: he’d refined his marrow at seven, attained the Awareness realm at nine, and reached the Middle Earthly Origin realm at thirteen. Rumor had it he’d entered the Dawn Dew realm six months ago, though this remained unconfirmed.

To Yang Zixu, Li Fu was still a boy not yet fifteen—even with extraordinary talent, it was impossible for him to have reached the Celestial Origin realm. A fifteen-year-old at that level? Not even the late Taizong Emperor had advanced so swiftly.

Li Fu waved dismissively and didn’t look back. Though seldom tested against others, he possessed a deep confidence—Wang Wei would not be his match. That confidence came from the years of his teacher’s guidance.

…

The two stood on the stage, ten yards apart, silently facing each other.

On closer inspection, faint traces of blood marred the platform—marks left by earlier contestants.

“I’ve never heard of you,” Wang Wei broke the silence. “I know most who come to the capital for the Lantern Festival examinations, but you’re a complete unknown. For someone to defeat my third brother with a single move, yet be nameless, is an embarrassment to the Wang family.”

Wang Wei looked about sixteen, cold and aloof, like his brothers—though their faces were unlike, their expressions were all equally indifferent.

“So he’s strong? I thought he was mediocre,” Li Fu retorted, finding Wang Wei’s arrogance deeply off-putting. “But you needn’t worry. Soon, you’ll end up just like your brothers.”

Wang Wei’s expression grew icy. He regarded Li Fu as if looking at a dead man. “Draw your sword. Soon, you won’t have the chance to do so again.”

As soon as he finished, a clear, powerful aura surged from his body.

Li Fu watched him calmly, lifting his right hand toward the hilt of the Zhuoqing Sword at his waist—close enough to grasp in an instant.

But instead of drawing it, he held the sheathed sword in his hand, pointing it at Wang Wei.

“Very well.”

Wang Wei felt deeply insulted by the gesture. His brows rose and he took a long breath.

Pure vital energy began to spill forth, forming a gust that swirled around him, visible even through his scholar’s robes—a barrier of wind on the stage.

He carried a long spear on his back, but rather than draw it, he set it aside, clenched his fist, and struck out.

There was a thunderous boom.

A gap opened in the wind barrier, and from it burst a fist of vital energy, crackling with lightning, shooting straight across the ten-yard gap to Li Fu. Even more shocking, a barrage of fist shadows followed, one after another, raining down on Li Fu from all directions.

Dozens of blows, each forceful as a real fist, swept in from every side of the stage like a storm.

From the corridor, spectators could clearly see the contest upon the thirty-yard-wide arena.

Amid the onslaught, the fist shadows suddenly gleamed with a flash of silver.

Even from a distance, the force of it was palpable.

Yang Ning leaned forward, astonished. “The Thunderclap Fist?”