Chapter 29: A Single Move

Li Miao paid no heed to what thoughts Zuo Lishan might harbor; he simply began to speak on his own accord: “Before coming to Qilu, I took the time to learn about the life of Master Zuo.”

“Your father was a respected elder of the Mount Tai Sect, and you laid your foundations from childhood, never once lacking the resources for martial training.”

“At twelve, you entered the Mount Tai Sect and apprenticed under the previous master as his last disciple.”

“By fifteen, you’d already reached the level of a third-rate expert and were named heir apparent within your sect.”

“At twenty-five, your martial skills were consummate, and you descended the mountain to roam the martial world. First, you journeyed to Lingnan, where you single-handedly defeated the infamous ‘Blood Garment Tower’. Next, you traveled to the northern deserts and slew ‘Great Asura’ Meng Nan.”

“That same year, you returned to Mount Tai to participate in the Five Peaks Alliance, where you bested the elite swordsmen of the Mount Hua, Mount Heng, Song, and Hengshan sects, earning the title ‘Sword of the Mountains’.”

“Now, nearing forty, you are a peerless master, rarely matched in the martial world.”

Li Miao smiled, then continued, “At the level of the greatest masters, there are some whose reputations are undeserved, relying on the accumulation of years and deep reserves of inner power to suppress others, but their techniques are lacking.”

“But you are different, Master Zuo. Your reputation is well-earned, and you even have the potential to surpass yourself.”

“Your life reads like a tale from a novel. So, you believe you are the chosen one of destiny, and thus you look down on others.”

“You think that even if I set a trap for you, it would not be enough to hold you.”

“That’s why you’re sitting here so calmly, waiting to see what I’m really after.”

Zuo Lishan did not deny any of this.

“So I say, you are overthinking things.”

With that, Li Miao raised his palm, moving it slowly through the air, and pressed it across the void to Zuo Lishan’s chest.

Boom!

With a muffled thud, Zuo Lishan was suddenly sent flying backward, the chair beneath him dragging deep grooves across the floor.

As he neared the wall, Zuo Lishan abruptly mustered his strength, sprang to his feet, and, drawing his sword from the ground, halted his momentum. The chair crashed into the wall and shattered into a pile of wooden fragments.

His clothing at the chest was torn, revealing the imprint of a palm.

Zuo Lishan snapped his head up to glare at Li Miao.

“There is no scheme, no trap, and nothing hidden in my words,” Li Miao said calmly. “It’s simply that luring you here alone is enough for me to kill you.”

“Quite literally.”

Only then did he pick up the cup of wine Zuo Lishan had poured for him and down it in one gulp.

Zuo Lishan’s brows drew tight.

Li Miao’s palm strike just now was slow—he saw it clearly, yet made no attempt to dodge.

He was not yet forty; though his inner strength was not the best among the highest masters, he was by no means lacking. The force of that palm was loose, with no sign of inner energy surging—like some feeble exercise for the elderly.

Yet, that palm scattered his stance entirely!

Power rises from the ground; the first lesson for any martial artist is the horse stance—to root oneself, to advance or retreat with ease, all begins at the feet.

In a duel between masters, if your stance is broken, it’s as good as life and death decided.

All the more so when Li Miao’s palm had struck from a distance—what kind of profound inner strength was required for such a feat? Zuo Lishan couldn’t even begin to fathom it.

Fei Junxuan stood by, dumbfounded, paralyzed by fear.

Mei Qinghe, on the other hand, had expected this outcome and showed no surprise.

After a long silence, Zuo Lishan finally spoke. “Who…are you, really?”

“To my knowledge, Li Qianhu of the Embroidered Guard is but thirty-five this year—he can’t possibly possess such profound inner strength as you.”

Li Miao spoke again. “I told you, you think too much.”

“You see yourself as Heaven’s favored child, the one who sets the mark for others to chase.”

“You always win—win to the point of arrogance, win to the point of lawlessness, win to the point you see others as blades of grass, and believe rules are for the mediocre, not for you.”

“That’s why you dared do what you shouldn’t have, drawing me here.”

“You’ve never known utter, humiliating defeat—the kind that makes you kneel and cannot raise your head.”

“Today, I’m here to teach you that lesson.”

Li Miao stood and beckoned to Zuo Lishan. “Come.”

Zuo Lishan spoke no more. He raised his sword and advanced.

A hum—the sword’s cry—as the blade thrust straight for Li Miao’s face!

Swordsmanship, at its core, is merely hook, hang, point, lift, thrust, sweep, and chop.

But the angle, the flow of force, the path of inner energy, and the intent behind each strike differ with every school. Thus, a simple thrust can be worlds apart from one school to another.

Zuo Lishan’s thrust was the signature move of the Mount Tai sword style, “What of the Great Mountain.”

Just as, on that day, Mei Qinghe had used Mount Hua’s “Sword Sings Across the Cold River”—both were direct thrusts, yet utterly unlike.

This strike was weighty, majestic, as if the heavens themselves pressed down.

It came crashing toward Li Miao!

Mei Qinghe closed her eyes, already aware of the outcome.

As a fellow swordsman, she could not bear to watch.

A sharp crack rang out.

A whoosh—then a thunk, as something struck wood.

Mei Qinghe opened her eyes.

The sword in Zuo Lishan’s grasp was now only half its length.

The broken tip was embedded in the table before Li Miao.

Just as it had been the day Mei Qinghe first encountered Li Miao.

Zuo Lishan staggered back several steps, his expression finally faltering as he stared at the broken sword in his hand, then looked up at Li Miao.

“You—” He could not finish the sentence.

Li Miao beckoned again. “Come, you have another sword at your disposal. You can try one more strike.”

“After that, I’ll kill you.”

Zuo Lishan tossed aside his sword, turned and drew the long blade from Fei Junxuan’s waist, and once more faced Li Miao.

Sweat began to bead on his brow.

Li Miao stood there at leisure, with no stance, no tension, his whole body relaxed and full of openings.

Yet, Zuo Lishan could not bring himself to attack.

His last thrust had nearly reached Li Miao’s chest—only then did Li Miao reach out to catch the blade with his bare palm.

Unable to fathom Li Miao’s martial arts, he assumed Li Miao practiced some hardening technique, intending to seize his weapon bare-handed. Thus, he shifted his attack to Li Miao’s wrist, hoping to cripple his hand.

But when his sword struck Li Miao’s wrist, it was as if the force vanished into thin air.

Li Miao then grasped the blade, gave it a casual twist, and with a crisp snap, a sword that had served Zuo Lishan over twenty years was broken in two and discarded on the table.

What kind of martial art was this? What kind of realm? What kind of man?

He could not comprehend any of it.

Could it be that monsters and immortals truly walked the earth?

Zuo Lishan stopped thinking—any further, and he feared he’d lose even the sharp edge essential to a swordsman’s intent.

He steadied his breath, focused his spirit, and without hesitation charged forward once more, executing again “What of the Great Mountain!”

I do not believe it! I do not believe it! I do not believe it!

This strike poured out all his blood and energy, consumed every ounce of strength.

He threw everything he had into this ultimate sword thrust—straight at Li Miao!