SS CH60

When that thunderous explosion echoed through the valley, Ye Fusheng’s heart leaped. Snapping back to his senses in a flash, he raised his arm just in time to block a curved claw strike from Helian Yu’s flexing fingers. Unperturbed, the latter shifted from a claw to a palm, striking Ye Fusheng’s arm and using the leverage to vault clean over his head. In the blink of an eye, Helian Yu materialized behind him, the two iron-clad fingers of his right hand thrusting rapidly toward the back of Ye Fusheng’s neck.

As if he grew eyes on his back, Ye Fusheng suddenly whipped around just before the steel could pierce his flesh, snapping his dagger horizontally behind his neck. Helian Yu’s two fingers slammed squarely into the blade. The sudden surge of channeled energy sent a numbing jolt through Ye Fusheng’s thumb and forefinger, but his feet seemed coated in oil as he slid back over a zhang, his eyes locked onto Helian Yu.

This man’s movement technique was utterly spectral. Even with Ye Fusheng exerting his full power, he could only outpace him by a mere half-step or a single move. Wisely, he shifted from offense to defense, intending to entangle and stall rather than fight for victory.

“The fire-mines have erupted, and the mudslide is unleashed. Do you think they still have lives left to live?” Helian Yu flexed his fingers, casting his gaze far off toward the collapsing mountain slope. “That person you care so much about might well have been blown into a pile of minced meat by now.”

A sweet taste surged up Ye Fusheng’s throat. The consequence of forcibly stirring his true qi was that his internal energy was now running rampant through his meridians. The long-suppressed “Youmeng” poison was growing restless once more; his head buzzed violently, and his vision began to blur. He had absolutely no mind to pay heed to Helian Yu’s psychological warfare.

Forcibly swallowing the blood down, his dagger flashed. His silhouette flickered, and in an instant, he closed in on Helian Yu, his blade slicing upward from below. Even though Helian Yu retreated with extreme speed, this slash still managed to rip across his front from his lower left abdomen up to his right shoulder. Regrettably, it only tore through the fabric without drawing blood from the skin beneath.

Helian Yu locked a hand onto his forearm. Refusing to match him in a contest of brute strength, Ye Fusheng twisted his wrist to slip free. The two traded blows back and forth, and within moments, a dozen rounds flew by. When they finally parted again, one carried a trace of crimson at the corner of his lips, while the other had blood seeping from his shoulder.

Helian Yu touched his left shoulder. That sudden hand-switch on the last slash had been truly ghost-like, carving a gash near his neck. Though it was merely a flesh wound, it had been a very long time since he had last bled.

He let out a soft chuckle, looking at the blood staining his fingertips. “To reach such a realm within ten years… I must admit, Gu Qifang’s eye for choosing disciples was not bad at all.”

Holding the dagger tight, Ye Fusheng did his utmost to control his breathing. Channeling his true qi at such a high intensity left him unsure of how much longer he could endure, but until the bitter end, he would never sit quietly and await death.

He could not leave. The moment Helian Yu broke free, Chu Xiwei and the others might face a fatal catastrophe. Every moment he managed to drag this out here bought another measure of safety on the other side.

“However, I am bored of this game.”

The laughter suddenly turned freezing cold as Helian Yu reached out and tore off his outer robe, revealing a matching plain white, tight-sleeved inner tunic. Only then did Ye Fusheng realize that a soft sword was wrapped around his waist—two fingers wide, four feet long, and entirely matte black without a hint of luster. Wrapped around his middle, it looked just like a dark satin belt, but as Helian Yu drew it out and shook it, it emitted a bizarre, hissing sound like a venomous serpent baring its fangs.

Ye Fusheng recalled the counterfeit Puyun Blade he had brought out of the underground palace, and remembered the long sword this man had carried on his back when they first met ten years ago. It clicked all at once: Helian Yu was fundamentally a swordsman. It was only because his finger and palm arts were already so lethal that there were precious few occasions left that required him to draw a blade.

“It is named ‘Qianyuan’ (Plunging Abyss).” Helian Yu flicked a finger against the flat of the sword. “Exert all your capabilities to fight for your life beneath it.”

Before his voice finished drifting through the air, both man and sword dissolved into cold shadows. Sensing a piercing gale sweeping toward his throat, Ye Fusheng hastily shifted his steps and leaned sideways, raising his dagger to block. He barely managed to deflect the incoming sword tip. Before he could make another move—and without even being able to clearly perceive Helian Yu’s hand movements or footwork—seven lethal sword strikes were already pressing down upon him in rapid succession.

Caught unprepared, Ye Fusheng rapidly cycled through three different footwork patterns, leaning his upper body backward while throwing a kick toward Helian Yu’s Huantiao acupoint. Yet this soft sword was remarkably flexible, extending and retracting at will. In a flash, it whipped backward like a striking viper, looping around to coil tightly around Ye Fusheng’s lower leg. Though he wrenched himself free in the nick of time, a deep cut was carved into his leg, instantly soaking a patch of his clothes in dark blood.

The rain from the sky was gradually thinning, but Helian Yu’s swordplay remained as fierce as a torrential downpour. In his hands, the soft sword behaved at times like a weightless, supple ribbon—floating unpredictably, coiling and constricting so that one could never map its trajectory. At other times, infused heavily with internal energy, it became incomparably rigid; even before the edge touched skin, the biting chill of the blade-wind was already felt.

Hardness and softness mutually integrated; variations infinite.

Ye Fusheng had never seen such swordplay, but he had heard of it.

That day in the inn, Ruan Feiyu had spoken of the “Puyun Sword,” who once stood at the pinnacle of the martial world’s eight supreme experts. Though that man had vanished from the martial arts world thirty years ago, anyone who had seen him draw his sword would never forget it until the day they died.

“The so-called ‘A Single Sword Rips the Clouds to Open Heaven and Earth’ refers to the final strike in his sword style. Relying on this ‘Puyun’ form, he was matchless under heaven.” Ruan Feiyu’s eyes had reflected deep reminiscence and admiration when he returned the counterfeit sword to its scabbard. “That sword style embodies the transformations of the Eight Trigrams, dividing and recombining. It can merge into sixty-four complex and ungraspable stances, or separate into eight simple yet unbreakable moves. Yin and Yang blend seamlessly, hardness and softness complement each other—no one can peer through its internal variations.”

At that time, Ye Fusheng had frowned: “Has no one ever broken this sword style?”

Ruan Feiyu had smiled gently, saying, “To the best of this old man’s knowledge, from the moment he first entered the martial arts world until he vanished without a trace, no one ever defeated him. Not a single person.”

“…What is the name of this sword style?”

“Shuiyun (Water and Clouds)—flowing water stretching endlessly, sweeping away all smoke and clouds.” Ruan Feiyu had murmured softly, “If there comes a day you encounter this sword style, flee with all your might.”

Ye Fusheng had kept those words close to his heart, though he never expected the old fellow to possess such a crow’s beak—a true oracle of misfortune.

As this thought crossed his mind, another strike came coiling like a spiritual serpent out for the kill, vibrating and thrusting home. In a flash, it reached his heart. Ye Fusheng could not clash with it directly; he could only utilize a clever, deflecting force to retreat, spinning the dagger in his palm to entrap the dragon-like soft sword.

Before he could catch a breath, Helian Yu’s left hand came clawing forward, two fingers aiming straight for his eyes, almost brushing his eyelids. Terrified, Ye Fusheng threw his head back. The fingers raked down from the corner of his eye, dragging open a shallow track of blood.

With this retreat, his grip loosened. The soft sword whipped like a lash, wrenching the dagger out of his hand. With a flick of Helian Yu’s wrist, the dagger was hurled straight back, hurtling directly toward Ye Fusheng’s face. By now, Ye Fusheng’s stamina was depleted, and he had no time to catch the weapon. Retreating in a frantic scramble, he heard a muffled thud of steel burying into flesh—the dagger had driven deep into his left shoulder.

The force behind this throw was immense, nearly pinning his shoulder clean through. Though he had moved to avoid the bone and tendons, the blade was buried deep within his flesh, and he dared not move it carelessly. Forcing himself to stand firm through the agonizing pain, he heard Helian Yu smile: “A polite exchange of courtesies.”

This man was utterly vindictive. Because Ye Fusheng had carved a shallow gash on his left shoulder, he demanded one of Ye Fusheng’s shoulders in return.

Pulling out the dagger and quickly tapping his acupoints to staunch the bleeding, Ye Fusheng found his left arm temporarily useless. The rain had soaked him entirely, his clothes and hair plastered against his skin, making his already lean frame appear even slighter.

Blood from the dagger mingled with the rain, dripping down drop by drop. His face was deathly pale, his breathing ragged and heavy. Over the past ten years, he had survived countless encounters with flashing blades and shadowing swords, yet today, within a mere few exchanges, he had hovered between life and death a dozen times.

In the next instant, the dagger and the soft sword clashed once more. Ye Fusheng used the impact to leap backward, widening the distance between himself and Helian Yu. A murderous intent flared in his eyes. The dagger spun and pivoted within his palm before suddenly hurtling through the air! This throw was far too fast, far too ferocious, carrying almost the roar of wind and thunder as it tore away like a flying crane catching a shadow. The internal energy attached to it carried a devastating gale, carving a visible rift through the curtain of rain, arriving before Helian Yu’s chest in the blink of an eye!

This strike was truly too fast, and a dagger lacked the length of a long blade. Helian Yu had no time to pull his sword back to defend. Bringing his two iron-clad fingers across his heart, he pinched the flying dagger right in the nick of time—yet his face suddenly grew lighter. The moment Ye Fusheng threw the weapon, he had pressed close, his hand moving like a crane capturing a dragon, tearing the silver mask clean off Helian Yu’s face.

Narrowly escaping the strike to his chest, Ye Fusheng backed away a zhang, staring at the exposed face almost greedily, as if determined to etch every single feature into his mind, wishing he could carve it into his very bones.

This was indeed Mu Yan’an’s face.

Yet with a different attire and a complete shift in disposition, he seemed to have become an entirely different entity—transformed from a refined, elegant scholar into a merciless, life-reaping demon of the underworld.

As the silver mask splashed into the muddy water, Helian Yu’s eyes, which had remained consistently relaxed and composed, froze for a brief moment. The smile on his face receded like a falling tide, and his slightly upturned lips pressed into a hard, straight line, sharp as a whetted blade.

“This is truly… something I did not expect.”

He bent down to retrieve the mask, carefully wiping away the mud with his sleeve. Unfortunately, the fastening cords had been snapped. He had no choice but to store the mask away carefully, raising his eyes to look at Ye Fusheng. “I originally intended to leave you with a life, but I didn’t expect you to be so eager to court death.”

“There are plenty of things you didn’t expect,” Ye Fusheng let out a soft cough, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth.

Helian Yu asked softly, “For example?”

Ye Fusheng’s gaze drifted past him, his lips curling into a slight smile. “For example… you cannot kill me today.”

Amidst the wind and rain, a dark shadow closed in silently, pressing right against his back.

Helian Yu’s brow furrowed as a blade caught his throat. Disregarding the danger entirely, he spun his body around. The edge carved a shallow wound, a thin thread of blood oozing out like a red string tied around his neck.

A blade and a sword clashed while palms and fingers met. Two distinct cracks of breaking bone echoed simultaneously. Chu Xiwei had already crossed paths with him, landing squarely in front of Ye Fusheng, looking coldly at Helian Yu.

Chu Xiwei’s right hand hung unnaturally at his side, while two fingers of Helian Yu’s left hand were curled tightly into his palm. Within two brief exchanges, both had sustained damage.

At the absolute precipice of life and death, Chu Xiwei had finally returned.