Chapter 72: The Great Battle with King Arthur

Appearing once more, Leng Bingyan was already soaring above the boundless ocean. Staring down at the endless sea below, his gaze sharpened, his voice ethereal and drifting far and wide: “Since you’ve come, why not reveal yourself?”

A peal of wild laughter echoed, followed by a figure appearing three miles away from Bingyan.

Leng Bingyan frowned slightly. “How should I address you—King Arthur?”

“I didn’t expect my name to be so well-known. Then how should I address you, mighty warrior from the East?” Three miles distant, a rugged middle-aged man stood proudly, the arrogance and grandeur in his brow daunting to behold. From any angle, he emanated the aura of a ruler, his authority accumulated over countless years, powerful and imposing.

“Wangqing.” Bingyan replied calmly. He knew well the legends surrounding King Arthur; in England, Arthur’s tale was a household story. For such a formidable figure, it was only natural that Bingyan, himself a powerful warrior, would recognize him.

Legend had it that King Arthur was blessed by the gods, granted immense power, and with twelve valiant knights, unified the entire realm of Britannia. These twelve became the famed Knights of the Round Table. Each knight bore flaws, and there were moments of betrayal, yet Arthur, with his transcendent demeanor, forgave the traitors, winning them over. Even after death, the knights became heroic spirits, willingly continuing to follow Arthur.

Arthur never died; he had survived a thousand years, and his strength had been forged over ages. The legends claimed his original sword was the Sword in the Stone, but it broke during a duel with King Pellinore—a battle believed to violate the chivalric code, which led to the sword’s destruction.

Later, guided by Merlin, Arthur received the Sword of Kings from the Lady of the Lake. Crafted in the elven land of Avalon, its hilt was made of gold, its grip adorned with gemstones, its blade sharp enough to slice iron like mud. The Lady of the Lake named it Excalibur, meaning “steel breaker” in ancient Celtic. Merlin warned Arthur: “Though the Sword of Kings is powerful, its scabbard is more precious. Whoever wears the scabbard shall never bleed—you must never lose it.”

The Sword of Kings—Excalibur, also known as the Steel Breaker, Iron Cutter, or Sword of the Lake—was a peerless weapon, revered by Western champions as a holy artifact equal to the Pope’s sacred scepter.

Yet Bingyan knew Arthur had lost the scabbard, and though he still wielded the mighty blade, he could no longer unleash its true power.

“Wangqing?” Arthur mused, seemingly bemused.

“Life brings joy and sorrow, birth and death, fate and fortune, great happiness and grief. The world passes by, fate is as fragile as a paper kite, fleeting and ephemeral. One must forget the scenery, and forget emotion.” Leng Bingyan thoughtfully reminded, one must forget both the scene and the feeling. Though he said this, he was not Laozi, able to sever the three corpses, nor was he the Daoist patriarch Hongjun, who comprehended the path of detachment. He was merely a youth desiring to forget, uncertain if he truly could.

“Profound—I don’t understand.” Arthur pondered a moment, then shook his head.

“You are quite intriguing, boy. Small in stature, yet possessing such power that even I cannot fathom. It’s no wonder Percival and the others were defeated by you.” He paused, his tone imposing. “But the dignity of Britannia is not yours to trample. Today, I, King Arthur, shall reclaim it from you.”

As he spoke, Arthur drew a golden blade three feet long—the legendary Sword of Kings.

With its appearance, the sword hummed, the air around it stirred, surging outward. The trees wished for calm, but the wind would not cease. Leng Bingyan shook his head; he had not intended to become Arthur’s enemy, yet trouble had sought him out. Standing proud, he opened his heart. “Very well, let Wangqing experience the famed power of King Arthur, renowned throughout the West.”

His carefree bearing earned Arthur’s nod; he sincerely wished to befriend this formidable opponent, but alas, they stood on opposing sides. With a thunderous shout, Arthur brandished Excalibur, his form spinning and vanishing from sight. Swift as lightning, he arrived before Bingyan in an instant.

“Bang!” Leng Bingyan did not summon his violet sword; he felt it unnecessary against Arthur. His right arm bent and stretched, meeting Excalibur’s iron-slicing edge with nothing but flesh. The contrast was stark: as sword met arm, Arthur was jolted by tremendous force, forced back several steps. Bingyan, however, stood unmoved, not shifting an inch.

The gulf between their strengths was apparent. Arthur, astonished, quickly retreated to his original position three miles away.

They regarded each other quietly. Arthur, after a brief pause, raised Excalibur and prayed sincerely: “Honored Lord, grant your faithful servant strength. Amen!”

At the conclusion of his prayer, Excalibur shuddered in the air, then poured forth dazzling golden light. Arthur’s eyes gleamed; he grasped the sword and, from afar, swept it toward Bingyan.

The short golden blade, three feet in length, swung through the air, rotated, and suddenly released a broad sword aura. The Sword of Kings instantly expanded and lengthened, reaching Bingyan’s position.

Leng Bingyan watched, unfazed, a faint smile appearing. He raised his hand, gathering immortal energy within his palm.

“Boom—” The sound was extraordinary. The golden sword aura crashed against an indestructible barrier, shattering instantly. The broken aura resembled fragments of glass, a gentle golden mist rising from the countless tiny particles, obscuring everything within its center.

As the brilliant sword aura shattered like a solid object, Arthur sensed something amiss, a wave of panic rising within him. When the golden mist dissipated, Leng Bingyan still stood, unscathed, shaking his medium-length hair, youthful and lively.

Turning to his sword, Arthur nearly lost his soul in fright—Excalibur, famed for cutting iron, was now broken, only its hilt remained. “Heavens, what manner of opponent am I facing? How can he be so powerful?” Arthur muttered in disbelief, having experienced his adversary’s strength firsthand.

It could hardly be called a battle, for Bingyan had not attacked—he had simply defended.

“A terrifying enemy!” Arthur thought, yet he did not intend to surrender. He felt a sense of injustice; had he not lost the scabbard, Excalibur’s power would not have diminished so greatly, and today’s calamity would never have occurred.

Composing himself, Arthur stood ready. “You are a warrior—an extraordinarily powerful one. Out of respect, I shall fight with all my might.”

“So will I.” Bingyan replied, eager to see Arthur’s true capabilities—what could he achieve at the immortal level?

“Lord, grant me strength!” Suddenly, Arthur drew a scroll from his cloak, tossing it high. The scroll unfurled in the air, strangely stretching for hundreds of meters, wrapping repeatedly around Bingyan’s area. Peculiar characters were inscribed upon it, unfamiliar to Bingyan—similar to English letters, yet distinct. After several moments, the scroll formed a tight ring around the perimeter.

“Activate!” Arthur shouted with excitement, his emotion clear. At his command, the ring formed by the scroll became part of a sphere, a massive globe of light enveloping Bingyan, while Arthur remained outside, observing his handiwork.

“Lord, thunder!” Arthur cried out, and lightning flashed within the globe, thunder roaring with such force that even Arthur outside shuddered. The scroll was a divine gift, unique in the world; once used, it could never be regained. Hearing the thunder within, Arthur was unsure of its true power, but he knew he himself could never withstand it.

After a long while, the sphere’s interior fell silent. Arthur breathed a sigh of relief; he realized now that he had been anxious the entire time.

Everything was settled; the enemy was vanquished, and he could retire in triumph. Suddenly, a deep sound drew his attention. Listening carefully, he was startled to find the source was within the globe.

“The nine-word mantra: Lin!” With Bingyan’s utterance, the light sphere trembled, suddenly flashing within. “Bing!” As soon as “Lin” fell, “Bing” followed, the sphere swelling as if it might burst.

“Dou!” With the shout of “Dou,” a tremendous explosion erupted, the sphere violently bursting. For hundreds of miles, powerful energy enveloped the area, the sea surface within plunged two meters.

Arthur gazed incredulously at Bingyan—no, this was not the original Bingyan, but her feathered form!

At this moment, Leng Bingyan was furious. She had thought to defeat Arthur easily, not expecting he possessed such treasures. Arthur’s own strength was not exceptional, at best equal to an ordinary immortal. His true power was in his treasure—the scroll, bestowed by Jehovah, crafted with divine might. Its instantaneous force rivaled Jehovah’s full-powered strike.

Normally, Bingyan’s early-stage immortal emperor power could disregard it entirely. Even without her feathered form, she could nearly match its strength. Compared to Jehovah’s immortal lord power, she was as strong or stronger.

Yet she had underestimated him, never imagining Arthur’s secret weapon, thus maintaining only the power of a golden immortal to prevent unnecessary energy waste. But the scroll’s explosive force compelled her to transform into her feathered form.

A quiet aside—help me with some publicity...