Chapter 106: Black One and White Two

“I am a sword cultivator,” He Chang’an said seriously, looking straight at Hei Da.

“A sword cultivator? Hahaha…” Hei Da was momentarily taken aback. Glancing at the bamboo sword hanging at He Chang’an’s waist, his expression flickered briefly before he burst into laughter.

“A sword cultivator? You’re joking. I’d have become an immortal on land ages ago…”

…

The Tang Dynasty was established through martial prowess, so there were more sword users than knife wielders.

Rough and uncultured warriors, regardless of their level of cultivation, charged forward recklessly, typically armed with a straight-edged, well-tempered steel Tang broadsword as standard.

In earlier years, it was forbidden for common warriors to carry broadswords, but as the country weakened and wars erupted, local heroes ignored imperial edicts and each carried a fine blade.

At one point, the knives of the jianghu outmatched those of border guards.

Scholars from the National Academy repeatedly submitted impassioned memorials, listing the dangers of civilian swords outclassing the weapons of official troops, calling it “martial disorder breaking the law,” urging the court to deploy the army to eradicate the problem once and for all.

The court, however, turned a blind eye to this.

Students of the National Academy, furious at the court’s disregard for their advice, would cause uproars in front of the imperial city every few years.

This vexed the emperor greatly, but he was powerless to act.

Later, Master Zheng of the Demon-Slaying Division took charge and beat those academy scholars into retreat, arguing that with enemies on all sides and demons rampant, men must strengthen themselves.

He warned that any further disturbances under this pretext would be met with an invitation to the Demon-Slaying Division for a “tea session”—a euphemism for execution.

The academy students feared neither the emperor nor the ministries, but they did fear “Judge Zheng.” Without even exchanging pleasantries, they quietly ceased their protests.

From then on, it became normal for jianghu folk to carry knives openly.

He Chang’an also owned a broadsword, but ever since A Jiu personally carved him a bamboo sword named “Spring Dawn,” he had put away his broadsword in his storage pouch.

That bamboo sword stayed tied to his waist, never once drawn in battle.

Hei Da, the master of Black Flag Mountain, cast a serious glance at the bamboo sword and grinned, “Your bamboo sword has an extraordinary origin.”

He Chang’an held the sword with his left hand but remained silent.

Hei Da was a cunning old hand—seemingly straightforward and generous, but truly a sly and dangerous man.

The tavern keeper, just as Zhang Xiaoyan had suspected, was Bai Er.

One black, one white—both ruthless, cunning figures notorious throughout Hebei, even ranked in the Demon-Slaying Division’s files.

“I’ve heard sword users are experts,” Hei Da said to himself. “I never believed it until Bai Er brought back a few sword-wielding women and cooked them into two big pots. My men and I tasted it—it was indeed quite flavorful.”

Hei Da laughed again, revealing a row of sharp teeth.

He Chang’an still said nothing.

He had a persistent feeling that “villains often die because they talk too much,” a truth as comforting as the scholar’s phrase “To learn and to practice in due time.”

True masters are usually taciturn.

Hei Da, though seeming coarse and careless, was meticulous; he aimed to provoke He Chang’an with words to shake his resolve.

Facing He Chang’an, a ninth-rank warrior who had even killed the Devouring Heaven Ape, Hei Da, despite being three ranks higher, could not afford to relax.

Like a lion fighting a rabbit, he must give his all. Fierce bandits with great reputations are never easy opponents.

“What’s wrong? Afraid to speak? Warriors believe in either killing with one breath or dying with one breath. Are you afraid of losing that breath?”

“You say you’re a sword cultivator? Do sword cultivators have to hold their breath too?”

Hei Da sneered and stepped closer.

Then He Chang’an moved.

He suddenly leapt back several steps, creating distance, his feet smashing two green stones beneath him, before charging fiercely at Hei Da.

At the same time, he drew his sword, becoming one with it.

The bamboo sword “Spring Dawn” suddenly shimmered with a clear light; a chilling sword energy shot forward, aiming directly at Hei Da’s lower abdomen.

This move was extremely cunning and tricky: while the sword visibly stabbed at the opponent’s brow, a strand of sword energy struck stealthily at the vital energy center in the lower abdomen, while his left fist readied a powerful strike.

This was a move He Chang’an had devised himself, inspired by the scholar’s oft-quoted phrase “One mind with two uses.”

Or perhaps “three minds with two uses.”

In any case, it was a grand technique unleashed at once.

Hei Da, still advancing with wide strides, laughed heartily when faced with He Chang’an’s tricky sword strike, and met it head-on with a punch.

One force overcomes ten.

In warrior cultivation, each major rank is a world unto itself. A sixth-rank peak fighter facing a ninth-rank mid-stage opponent is like being separated by a street; a single punch could severely injure the weaker foe.

Hei Da’s powerful punch condensed into a dog-head-sized imprint, smashing straight toward He Chang’an.

Then his second and third punches followed in a triangular formation, blocking all of He Chang’an’s possible evasions.

Suddenly, his fourth punch was unleashed.

Just as the three large fist imprints were about to strike He Chang’an, a cruel smile curled on Hei Da’s lips.

Those three punches were fake.

With a flick of his left fingers, the three dog-head-sized fist imprints exploded into three large clouds of gray-blue mist, enveloping the charging He Chang’an.

Hei Da and Bai Er of Black Flag Mountain were formidable warriors capable of standing toe-to-toe with fifth-rank masters, but their specialty was poison…

Long before He Chang’an and Zhang Xiaoyan entered Green Stone Town, an ambush against them had already been set.

Green Stone Town was their territory—its mountain goods shop, herbal medicine shop, blacksmith, tavern, and inn all belonged to Black Flag Mountain.

The entire town was like a bottomless pit; countless heroes and even official soldiers had vanished without a trace after arriving.

A place where you’re devoured without even bones left.

…

Many miles from Green Stone Town, atop a mountain, a tavern suddenly appeared, crashing to the ground as bricks and timber scattered everywhere.

From the ruins, two or three dozen staff and customers crawled out, looking around in confusion.

Zhang Xiaoyan of Dragon-Tiger Mountain sat leisurely in a large chair, elegantly shaping his eyebrows. His gaze was radiant and beautiful, his hand holding a bronze mirror emitting a soft, clear light that enveloped him.

Old Lord Mo’s face was grim. Standing seven or eight zhang away, though unharmed and free of dust or debris, he looked disheveled, his white hair in slight disorder.

A pale, cunning-looking middle-aged man crawled out of the ruins. Seeing the scene, he cried out in despair, stomping his feet and weeping bitterly.

“My tavern… how could it end up like this? It’s a humble inheritance from my ancestors. Your celestial battles bring suffering to us common folk…”

It was the tavern keeper, sniffling and crying uncontrollably.

Old Lord Mo remained silent, stepping back a few paces, clutching a pellet in his palm, nearly soaked with sweat.

“Hei Da looks rough and punches hard, but his specialty is poison; Bai Er seems weak and sly but is actually stronger in combat. Old Lord Mo, what if we join forces?”

Zhang Xiaoyan snapped open a paper fan, lounging elegantly as he looked at the pale, cunning tavern keeper and said calmly.