Chapter 181: Those Who Live by the Sword
The old man nodded, “Thank you.” Then he looked at the middle-aged man on the boat.
The man with the short, thick hair stood proudly and said, “Although this is a duel of swords, you were injured by Lie Zunyi eight years ago, and I doubt you’ve fully recovered. If we fight now, with your lingering injuries, I would have an unfair advantage.”
The old man asked, “What do you propose?”
The man replied, “A contest of sword intent.”
The old man exhaled slowly and, remaining seated, said, “Thank you.”
A gust of wind rippled the water’s surface.
The old man and the man on the boat faced each other, both motionless.
The old man, as still as a mountain, his eyes closed, his head bowed slightly, as if in meditation, the only sound the faint hum of the sword at his waist.
The middle-aged man stood on the boat, his hands clasped behind him, his body rising and falling with the gentle sway of the boat.
Birds took flight, and animals, startled, looked towards them before fleeing into the forest.
The air around them seemed to distort, and the old man’s body, as if influenced by the water’s movement, began to sway gently.
Then, a powerful sword intent pressed down, and the water’s surface became smooth and still, like a mirror.
Shi Hao, also sitting cross-legged, seemingly lost in thought, watched their duel.
Detached from form and consciousness, united with the Great Dao, this was the state of “sitting and forgetting.”
In this state, the distinction between self and other dissolved, merging with the Dao.
He was an observer, a silent witness.
He saw their invisible sword intents clashing, warping space, like fireworks exploding in the vastness of the universe, their movements transcending the physical realm, leaving no trace in the mortal world.
His previous self, still bound by his physical senses, his ego, wouldn’t have been able to perceive this ethereal battle of pure intent.
But now, his mind free, his spirit unbound, he watched as a detached observer, a silent witness.
He didn’t know their ranks, their identities, their stories.
And because of this detachment, he could truly appreciate their skill, their mastery.
The old man’s sword intent was vast and encompassing, radiating a boundless compassion, a desire to save all beings.
It was the sword of a savior, simple yet profound, unwavering in its purpose.
The other’s sword intent, however, was sharp and domineering, its power absolute, an unyielding force that would crush any who opposed it.
Countless techniques, each unique and unrepeatable, flashed through his mind, a dazzling display of skill.
Shi Hao, his mind clear and still, watched their silent duel, their swords undrawn, yet their sword intents clashing, their energies filling the air.
The world around them faded, only the invisible dance of their swords remaining, their light illuminating the void.
It was a battle that would have stunned the world, yet it existed beyond the realm of the physical.
A thousand swords clashed, the world trembled, their sword intents manifesting as countless techniques, a breathtaking display of power and skill.
Finally, the old man’s sword intent converged into a single, powerful thrust.
The other’s sword intent, like a thunderbolt, descended, its power overwhelming.
As their energies collided, a flash of light, and then silence, the world returning to normal.
The old man remained seated, while the middle-aged man stood on his boat, the gentle sway of the water now rocking him gently.
The old man sighed softly, “I have lost.”
The middle-aged man’s face was expressionless, “Last time, you won by a single strike. This time, I win. You’ve been preoccupied with worldly affairs. Although your sword intent is filled with compassion, your skill has stagnated.”
The old man shook his head, “Although they call me the Sword King, thirty years ago, at your age, I was no match for you, neither in strength nor in skill. You will surpass me.”
The middle-aged man didn’t reply, but looked at the young man beside the old man, “Who are you?”
The young man tilted his head, as if struggling to remember, then said, “Shi Hao. My name is Shi Hao.”
“So you’re Shi Hao,” the middle-aged man said slowly, “You have a powerful enemy waiting for you. He stands on the path ahead.”
He turned, and the boat, as if guided by his will, turned upstream, against the current.
The river wound through the mountains, and soon, the boat disappeared around a bend.
Shi Hao turned to the old man beside him.
The old man looked across the river at the distant mountain, its peak bare, autumn leaves falling from the trees, carried by the wind, swirling across the water’s surface.
He sighed, “I’m old… truly old.”
Shi Hao, after a moment of silence, asked, “Where should I take you?”
The old man smiled, “Nowhere. I’m at the end of my journey. I’ve made my arrangements. I chose this place for our duel, hoping to die in an unknown, forgotten place.
“But I’m glad you were here to witness it. If you don’t mind, bury me in the forest. A simple, unmarked grave will do.”
Shi Hao nodded, then said, “Although your grave will be unmarked, your name will live on in our hearts, remembered for generations to come.”
The old man smiled, a look of contentment on his face, “I don’t need to be remembered. I only wish for our land to be free from the barbarians’ tyranny, for our people to live in peace and prosperity. That has been my only goal, my lifelong pursuit. If that day ever comes, please visit my grave and tell me.”
The wind picked up, swirling the fallen leaves around them. Shi Hao looked at the churning river and said solemnly, “That day is not far off.”
He sat there in silence, looking at the water, his gaze seemingly penetrating its surface, seeing the fish hiding in the depths, seeking shelter from the cold.
He was watching the fish, and they seemed to be watching him.
He smiled faintly, “Don’t look at me like that. Although I seek the Dao, I’m still just… me.”
He sighed, gently lifted the old man’s body, and carried him into the forest.
He drew the old man’s sword… It was just an ordinary sword, the kind you could buy in any village with a blacksmith for a few taels of silver.
He dug a grave, placed the body inside, and covered it with earth.
He went to a nearby rock, his sword flashing, carving a simple, unmarked stone.
He placed the stone at the head of the grave.
He felt a sudden urge to carve the old man’s name on it.
But he didn’t. He simply turned and walked away, his sword in hand.
Names on tombstones were for remembrance, but he knew he wouldn’t forget this man’s name, and neither would the world.
A hero in life, his name would live on in legend.
Zhao Gucheng, the Sword King.
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