Chapter Seventy-Six: Duan Qingkuang
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The Dust Group’s thirty-two-to-sixteen tournament was held over two days. In just those short days, the situation was beginning to clarify; Yang Xiaoman and Linghu Jinjiu could already faintly deduce whom they would face if they advanced to the quarterfinals.
Yang Xiaoman remained cheerful as ever, while Linghu Jinjiu’s eyes took on a heavier seriousness—even his drinking had lost its carefree gusto.
You have an inner-sect elder as your master, but so do others—and theirs is awake.
You have your methods, but so do others.
If what you conceal isn’t a counter to the techniques others have already revealed, or isn’t much stronger, how will you win?
...
By afternoon, the day’s matches concluded and the three returned to the Immovable Peak.
The mountain was serene and tranquil.
Upon reaching the summit, Linghu Jinjiu went straight to his own room, while Fang Junmei and Yang Xiaoman went first to see Fan Lanzhou.
Fan Lanzhou’s complexion was much improved since yesterday, his white robe neatly worn, though he could not possibly have fully recovered in such a brief time.
“Where’s Linghu?” Fan Lanzhou asked casually.
Yang Xiaoman replied, “Third Senior Brother returned to his room—he’s likely cultivating.”
Fan Lanzhou’s gaze flickered at her words; he shook his head slightly, “He must be feeling the pressure now. Who’s his next opponent?”
“The fourth disciple under Ning Jiuyi—Hui Eleven.”
Yang Xiaoman answered crisply, “But I don’t think Hui Eleven poses much threat to Third Senior Brother. What worries him is the person he’ll face after crossing that threshold.”
“Who?”
Fan Lanzhou asked without bothering to ponder.
Yang Xiaoman said, “The fourth disciple of White Cloud Peak—Master Uncle’s bloodline descendant, Duan Qingkuang!”
Fan Lanzhou’s gaze paused.
Fang Junmei, who’d been silent, immediately thought of this Duan Qingkuang. His cultivation was only at the Dust mid-stage, yet today he swept his opponent aside with the force of a raging storm, becoming the day’s most eye-catching figure.
“Second Senior Brother, you haven’t forgotten him, have you?” Yang Xiaoman chuckled, “When he joined the sect, he was as much a troublemaker as our youngest, gifted in the Dao and untouchable thanks to his lineage. In the end, it was Gu Xijin who stepped in and gave him a harsh lesson. Since then, he’s spent most of his time in seclusion, nearly forgotten by all. This time, his emergence for the tournament was entirely unexpected. It’s the first time I’ve seen him fight since then.”
“How are his skills?” asked Fan Lanzhou.
Yang Xiaoman furrowed her elegant brows, showing a troubled expression. She bit her lip in thought, then sighed quietly, “Duan Qingkuang must have been personally trained by Gu Xijin. His sword style is strikingly similar.”
“Perfect?” Fan Lanzhou pressed.
Yang Xiaoman nodded, “Perfect indeed. Though certainly not as accomplished as Gu Xijin was at the Dust mid-stage, his swordplay is so flawless as to be unassailable—a style almost identical.”
Fan Lanzhou nodded slightly.
After a moment’s thought, he suddenly smiled, casting a sidelong glance at Fang Junmei, but then turned to Yang Xiaoman, “Xiaoman, what do you make of Duan Qingkuang?”
Yang Xiaoman grinned mischievously, “Senior Brother once told us never to imitate his swordplay—otherwise, we’d never surpass him and would only lose ourselves. Whether Gu Xijin himself can reach ultimate perfection is uncertain; as for Duan Qingkuang, who deliberately emulates him, it’s even more doubtful.”
Fan Lanzhou nodded approvingly.
Fang Junmei listened, his heart stirred, once again sensing Long Jinyi’s wisdom—especially in guiding his juniors, Long Jinyi had already surpassed Gu Xijin.
But perhaps this was more due to the slumber of the Daoist of Delay; with that, Long Jinyi, as senior brother, was forced to think harder and do better.
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Adversity often shapes a person more profoundly!
“Linghu has likely forgotten Senior Brother’s words. He’s still—far from it.” Fan Lanzhou sighed softly, then added, “Let him face this trial himself. Xiaoman, what about you? How are your opponents?”
Yang Xiaoman pretended to ponder, then frowned, “Next match is Sister Shen Qier from Embroidered Smoke Peak. If I pass her, it’ll likely be Sister Qin Hongluo from Colorful Cloud Peak. Both are prettier than me, and their figures are better… It’s infuriating—why must I compete alongside them?”
She spoke with girlish petulance.
Fang Junmei and Fan Lanzhou laughed uproariously, though Fan Lanzhou soon doubled over coughing, clutching his wound.
The two hurried over—one pounding his back, the other channeling spiritual power.
“No matter,” Fan Lanzhou waved them off once he’d calmed, “Xiaoman, I imagine you’re fairly confident, but don’t be careless. No one knows what tricks they still have hidden…” He grew serious, warning her, but ended with another bout of coughing, blood at his lips. His injuries were grave and would not heal so quickly.
Yang Xiaoman and Fang Junmei frowned deeply.
“Second Senior Brother…”
They called softly, unable to say more.
Fan Lanzhou raised a hand to halt them, his gaze resolute, “Say nothing. Tomorrow’s match—I must fight!”
His words were swift.
“Go now!” he finished, voice unyielding.
The two, though worried, said nothing more; seeing Fan Lanzhou’s expression, they knew he could not be swayed.
...
After bidding Fan Lanzhou goodbye, Yang Xiaoman did not return to Hundred Flowers Valley but stayed in her own empty room to cultivate. Fang Junmei, meanwhile, returned to his quarters to continue studying the Grand Evolution Wind and Cloud Sword Technique.
Recalling Yang Xiaoman’s mention of Long Jinyi’s words, he pondered them carefully, his eyes flickering with subtle brilliance. After some time, he sighed quietly, and his gaze upon the sword manual changed.
...
He read late into the night.
Setting aside the jade slip, he looked out the window—white mountain clouds drifted under the clear moonlight, so low as to be within reach.
The night was deep, the crescent moon sharp, its light bathing the courtyard in silver, filling it with an ethereal tranquility, as if it were an unreal world.
A cool night breeze carried the scent of peach blossoms, seeming to waft into the soul and intoxicate.
Clouds visible through the window, wind upon opening the door.
It was nearly twenty years since Fang Junmei first ascended Immovable Peak—never before had he set aside cultivation to truly savor its night.
Arms crossed, leaning on the window frame, Fang Junmei’s gaze grew distant, his spirit trembling as for the first time he felt the Daoist of Delay’s attachment to Immovable Peak.
His longing for the Pan Kingdom and Sword North Mountain City surged as well.
How were those at home?
Was Adele dead or alive? How fared Shu Chuchu? What direction had Leng Qianqiu taken Sword North Mountain City?
He was over forty now; if he did not return to Pan Kingdom soon, he might never again see those old friends. The urge to fly back home rose in his heart.
But now, burdened by the secret of the Bloodletting Pill, he found it increasingly impossible to leave the sect easily.
After an indeterminate time, Fang Junmei sighed, withdrawing his gaze, and glanced toward Fan Lanzhou’s room.
No light shone within, but Fang Junmei knew he was surely meditating.
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“What else can I do?”
Fang Junmei furrowed his handsome brows, regretting having accepted the arrangement from the Daoist of the River—he should have risked everything that day, either taken the stage himself or secured the Daoist of Delay’s lineage.
His gaze shifted, falling upon the Three-Breath Divine Stone in his left hand. As he stared, its faint brilliance glimmered in his eyes.
If he lent this stone to Fan Lanzhou, he was certain Fan Lanzhou could use it, and his strength would surely increase—but could he be trusted? Would he covet it? After just twenty years—a trifling span for cultivators—could he truly entrust Fan Lanzhou so deeply?
Halfway through his thoughts, Fang Junmei hesitated.
Was this suspicion mere caution, or was it the lingering effect of the Broken Heart Pill? Even Fang Junmei could not say—perhaps it was both.
His eyes grew more uncertain.
...
After a cup of tea’s time, Fang Junmei finally steeled himself, rose, and went to Fan Lanzhou’s room.
He was not one to trust easily, but his heart was broad; he did not yet know the true function and importance of the Three-Breath Divine Stone, nor had he developed the scheming nature of an old fox. Moreover, Fan Lanzhou and the others had been genuinely good to him. All these reasons combined led him to decide—he would lend the Three-Breath Divine Stone to Fan Lanzhou.
Soon, he knocked and entered; the lamp was already lit.
“Junior Brother, what brings you here?”
Fan Lanzhou’s voice was calm, tinged with impatience—it was clear nothing could be more important now than recovering quickly, defeating Feng Wanhai, and preserving Immovable Peak’s status.
Fang Junmei smiled, “Second Senior Brother, I have a treasure that might help you—”
“Stop right there!”
Fan Lanzhou interrupted abruptly, halting him mid-sentence. His usually gentle eyes grew uncharacteristically deep as he scrutinized Fang Junmei.
“…You have a treasure you want to lend me?”
After a moment, Fan Lanzhou spoke.
Fang Junmei nodded.
“If you’re so confident it will help me, it must be something you’ve kept hidden—a truly valuable item?”
Fan Lanzhou pressed.
Fang Junmei frowned, unsure how to answer, sensing Fan Lanzhou’s intent.
“Leave. I don’t need your treasure.”
Fan Lanzhou’s expression was cold, dismissing him.
Fang Junmei felt deeply awkward.
Fan Lanzhou seemed to realize his tone was harsh; he softened, “Junmei, your Senior Brother is not as noble or upright as you imagine. Deep within, I too have darkness. If I covet your treasure, not only would you be endangered, but the seed of darkness in my heart would grow stronger. So—do not tell me what treasures you possess, and do not lend them. I am not yet at the point of inevitable defeat.”
He paused, then added, “Never tell anyone in future what treasures you have—keep them to yourself. The plundering in the world of cultivation is far crueler than any mortal rivers and lakes.”
Fang Junmei was silent for a moment, then nodded slightly.
In the years while the Daoist of Delay slumbered, Fan Lanzhou had taught him another lesson—one that revealed Fan Lanzhou’s wisdom and strength all the more.
As for Fang Junmei, he was only just beginning his journey.
...
Early next morning, the four brothers set out together.
Linghu Jinjiu seemed somewhat recovered, laughing and chatting with the others.
Today’s protagonist, Fan Lanzhou, wore a clean white robe embroidered with wind and clouds, his sleeves billowing, his figure handsome and radiant. The rare Ancient Sword hung at his waist, exuding the elegance of a sword immortal.
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