Chapter Eighty-Nine: A Wanderer’s World Alone (Part Seven)

He Long'an stared straight at Ah Fei. Looking at this smug swordsman before him, he quickly made up his mind: if endurance had reached its limit, then there was no need to endure any longer.

Silently, he turned and walked directly toward the waterfall.

Behind him came Ah Fei's hearty laughter, along with a loud shout: "He Long'an, don't choke on it. Just because you can stand up to pee doesn't mean you're a man..."

He Long'an did not look back. When he reached a point several dozen steps from the awe-inspiring waterfall, he began to calm his breathing and circulate his inner energy, guiding it through the greater and lesser cycles.

The little black staff had already drained the spiritual energy from his body. Right now he was nothing more than a plain martial artist with no reliance to lean on, yet strangely, that only made He Long'an feel more at ease.

Fifty steps, thirty steps, twenty steps...

The closer he drew to the waterfall, the more chaotic the currents of force became, until at last they seemed like violent winds scraping bone, wild and disordered.

He Long'an was secretly alarmed. With each step forward, the pressure he bore seemed to double, as though an unreachable mountain were crashing down upon him.

And it did not fall just once, but endlessly.

He regretted it a little, feeling that in a matter of life and death like this, quarrelling with such an unreliable swordsman was hardly worth it.

But after a moment's thought, he hardened his heart and went on without hesitation.

In truth, when he had attained enlightenment in the lake of his heart after being gravely injured, he had already told himself very clearly: this martial world was his alone.

In the Great Tang, where there was scarcely any inheritance to speak of, the only one who could protect He Long'an in the end was He Long'an himself.

So what if a ghost woman kept him? So what if sword intent clung to him like ivy? So what if his meridians were severed and his dantian and spiritual sea shattered? So what if that damned Night God Cult sent assassins after him again and again?

I, He Long'an, am just a little piece of trash.

Even with a cheat at my side, if I want to survive, if I want to live like a human being, then I must face hardship step by step and press forward against the odds!

...

Standing on a huge boulder nearest the waterfall, He Long'an restrained the urge to leap straight in, silently weighing things, calculating things, then returning.

Under Ah Fei's contemptuous gaze and mockery, he kept a straight face and went downstream along the great river. Several hundred yards from the center of the waterfall, he entered the water without hesitation.

An old scholar once said that haste makes waste. What a fine saying that was.

He Long'an merely wanted to test whether the scholar's reasoning actually had any merit.

Step by step, he moved toward the surging river, choosing a spot where the water reached his chest. Taking a deep breath, he settled into stance and began to box slowly.

As he punched, he advanced against the current.

Far away on the great boulder, Ah Fei watched coldly. At last a trace of approval appeared in his eyes, and he muttered, "This little brat isn't all that stupid."

Ordinary people often misunderstand the path of cultivation, believing that martial artists refine essence, Daoists refine qi, Buddhists refine the mind, and Confucians cultivate speech, family order, governance, and peace under heaven, which sounds grandest of all.

In truth, once one climbs the summit and sees the scenery from higher and farther away, one discovers that the scholars really did say something right:

Different roads lead to the same destination; all streams return to the source.

As for how exactly those different roads converge and all waters return to the source, the vast majority of cultivators never even touch that level. Even when a few occasionally gain some insight, they have only merely understood it.

The road ahead is still long.

The mountains in the distance are far too high.

Ah Fei, who called himself a swordsman, belonged neither to martial artists nor Daoists nor Buddhists nor Confucians, and cared nothing for the so-called great path to immortality. In his heart there was only the sword.

To hide a sword in the heart is in truth no different from hiding a sword within oneself. A swordsman is, naturally, a scabbard.

Of course, the highest realm of the sword path is a pure sword heart, where man and sword become one...

Ah Fei could not be bothered to explain these truths to He Long'an, and besides, he knew that even if he did, it would only sound like an insufferably showy speech.

As for sword cultivators, they themselves are the sword. How one tempers oneself into an unmatched blade is a matter for the swordsman alone; no matter how brilliant the master, he cannot teach it.

That was why true land immortal swordmasters were so few across the world that they could nearly be counted on one's fingers.

...

Ah Fei's judgment was indeed sharp. At this very moment, He Long'an truly regarded himself as a sword, planted in the middle of the roaring river, beginning to temper himself slowly.

A sharp blade comes from grinding. This was only the beginning.

Punch by punch, He Long'an fought on, using the river water to temper and familiarize himself with his own body.

To his delight, he discovered that boxing against the current was indeed not the same as standing on level ground.

As time passed, his punches grew increasingly round, smooth, and flowing. While the intent behind his fists stretched on endlessly, his breathing too began to lengthen.

Thus, after more than half an hour, by the time He Long'an had practiced an ancient boxing set more than thirty times, he was less than ten yards from the waterfall's edge.

Beneath his feet lay a huge pit long carved out by the river's ceaseless washing, like a giant cauldron set upon the earth to receive the dragon of water descending from the heavens...

The water rose above He Long'an's head.

Ten breaths, fifteen breaths.

Eighteen breaths.

He Long'an, standing in the great pit at the bottom of the water, had not even reached the waterfall's torrent when the churning waves had already swept him up, slammed him heavily against the rocks at the riverbed, and flung him high into the air again...

What ancient boxing, what little black staff, what ninth-rank martial artist—under the might of nature, all of it was pure nonsense!

He Long'an was like a dirty rag, hurled thirty or forty yards away, limp and floating on the water's surface, his life and death impossible to tell.

Ah Fei took a single step, lightly touching the river surface as he moved, then lifted He Long'an back to shore and laid him on a flat rock.

He extended one finger and pressed it to He Long'an's pulse gate, his face turning rather grim.

With just that one impact, more than half of He Long'an's life had been stripped away. The meridians that had just been repaired were once again in utter disarray, and his dantian and spiritual sea seemed badly damaged as well.

Most serious of all was his soul. Smashed by the water dragon's immense force against the riverbed rocks and knocked hard several times, it seemed to be wounded even more grievously...

As for breaking seven or eight ribs and coughing up a pound or two of blood, such minor injuries would not be enough to take the life of a ninth-rank martial artist.

But the pain was inevitable.

...

Thus He Long'an once again appeared in the lake of his heart.

This time, the lake water had not dried up. On the contrary, the water level had risen quite a bit, for the little black staff had discovered that things were going badly and had secretly spat out a great deal of the spiritual energy and noble righteousness it had previously swallowed.

Soaked in the lake water, He Long'an kept his eyes tightly shut, his breath coming in fits and starts. It was not until after an unknown length of time, when the tidal agony finally jolted him awake, that he stirred.

More than ten bones were broken, but the advantages of a ninth-rank martial artist finally came into play. Threads of life force, like needle and thread, slowly drew the broken bones back together and reconnected them, growing steadily and continuously.

His severed meridians and internal organs were also beginning to repair themselves under some mysterious nurturing life force.

The most unbearable injury was still the damage to his soul.

The weakness of a martial artist's soul really was no joke. Just a few violent impacts against the riverbed rocks had nearly turned him into an idiot.

He Long'an stared blankly at the mist-veiled sky, doing his best to feel the pain, to savor the torment brought by injuries in different parts of the body, and trying to remember it all.

Compared with being alive and living well, what was pain worth?

Nothing at all!

He Long'an gritted his teeth and decided that he would reason with this searing, unforgettable pain: since I hurt this much, could it perhaps hurt a little more slowly next time?

Or, if he could be made a little stronger, that would be fine too.