Chapter 882: Chapter 522: Wine, the Old Confucian, the Mo Xia Sword, and Yourong’s Calligraphy (Part 3)
The old man’s waist straightened, his face indifferent, first glancing at the spot where the crying young girl, like a bait, had left.
He then turned to look at the young Confucian Scholar who was not completely fooled.
This kid stayed behind? But...
"Don’t even think about running, hahaha..."
The disfigured old Confucian Scholar suddenly chuckled.
In the next moment, the old Confucian Scholar followed a certain locked energy and his figure suddenly disappeared from where he stood.
Zhao Rong looked up sharply, staring at the empty courtyard.
A cold sweat broke out on his back.
Sure enough, in less than three breaths.
Something happened that made his breath catch!
The old Confucian Scholar’s figure suddenly reappeared in the same spot, and this time, his vulture-like claw grasped the shoulder of a girl with tear-streaked eyes.
Brought her back.
In the old man’s other hand, two fingers held a fragment of a withered yellow maple leaf.
All around the courtyard, the forest full of red leaves rustled loudly.
Qin Jianfu coldly sized up Zhao Rong, clasping his withered hand and crushing the once fiery red maple leaf.
The bamboo leaves, dyed red by autumn’s touch, dissipated completely.
The old man smiled faintly, loosened his five fingers, and scattered the maple leaf dust.
Zhao Rong’s mood plummeted.
The back soaked in cold sweat felt chilling.
This was the worst situation he had originally least wanted to imagine.
Gui Ning spoke, "Your cultivation levels are too low, being locked onto by energy but unaware. Without the shielding methods of higher-level cultivators, no matter how fast you flee, as long as you’re within a thousand miles, you’ll be tracked by a Golden Core cultivator’s energy lock within three breaths."
"A thousand miles... three breaths..."
Zhao Rong took a deep breath.
He softly recited the words of the sword spirit’s disappointment, lowered his head, and began searching for something in his sleeve.
Not far away, the disfigured old Confucian Scholar, who had returned, did not immediately deal with the crying girl.
He promptly grasped her, watching Zhao Rong’s expression, as if wanting to see some extreme despairing look.
Only those consumed by deep hatred know that the most important aspect of revenge isn’t the killing but the torment of the hated, mental torture greater than physical.
However, the current reaction of the young Confucian Scholar made him somewhat curious.
The old Confucian Scholar watched the busy young Confucian Scholar with interest.
Warmth suddenly radiated from Zhao Rong’s waist, it was the white jade token of Qing Jun.
A beauty was thinking of him from afar, softly rubbing that ink jade token.
The young Confucian Scholar kept his head down, his hands moving non-stop, he had no time to respond this time.
Maybe not in the future either.
Zhao Rong took out the scholar sword left by his mother from his dimensional item and strapped it to his waist.
He remembered Mr. Yan had once said.
"A gentleman dies, yet his cap remains untied, his complexion unchanged."
In his memory, his gentle mother, whose face had long blurred, said.
"A Zhao man should wield the sword and face death."
Finally... thinking back carefully, it seems he, Zhao Ziyu, was still a nominal sword master.
With a nominal sword spirit, even though it never went his way and always disdained him, he couldn’t really let it look down on him, could he?
In the courtyard stirred by the autumn wind, the young Confucian Scholar grasped the sword hilt with one hand, straightening his back, and raised his other hand to adjust his headpiece.
Within his mental lake, Gui warned with some apprehension, "What are you going to do?"
Zhao Rong’s tone suddenly carried a touch of regret, "It’s a pity, I originally wanted to give this old beast a good punch, but I’m still a gentleman, a... peach blossom sword master, and must maintain decorum."
Sword Spirit: "..."
"I’ll say it one last time, it’s called Fu Shi, not some damn peach blossom!"
"Oh."
Zhao Rong nodded gently, suddenly said, "Gui, over this past year, I’ve always had a question, don’t know if I should say it or not."
"Don’t say it. You shouldn’t say it." The sword spirit was quite blunt.
The sword master just smiled, his tone was declarative, not interrogative.
Humph, who does this little sword spirit think it can oppose?
He laughed, "For such a handsome sword master like myself, do you truly dislike or just pretend to dislike..."
The sword spirit didn’t even give it a thought and replied emphatically, "Truly dislike."
The young Confucian Scholar froze for a moment, then unknowingly laughed, his smile radiant as he nodded.
He was truly happy.
It’s widely known, one must reverse the sword spirit’s words.
Then, the sword master instantly composed himself.
In the small bamboo courtyard, Zhao Ziyu of the Ascendancy realm, with a seven-foot body, calmly lifted his head, straightened his attire, silently facing the Fourth Grade Golden Core old Confucian Scholar directly ahead, and in a flash, wielded his sword to charge forward.
Today, the autumn air was sharp, perfect for facing death.
Qin Jianfu’s previously calm pupils shrank slightly.
Seeing this petty ant, easily crushed with one hand, refusing to let his spirit drop even in death, choosing to seek death actively.
Ever since his appearance, expressions either real or feigned, but always maintaining a cat and mouse-like playfulness, the old Confucian Scholar suddenly felt an inexplicable surge of anger.
Unreasonably furious!
The young Confucian Scholar’s charging figure grew faster.
Rushing towards the old Confucian Scholar.
The blood-red sword tassel drooped on the scholar sword hilt, covering his sword-holding hand’s back.
The five fingers gripped tightly until the blood drained.
The old Confucian Scholar suddenly stepped forward, "Little beast, seeking death!"
The young Confucian Scholar silently drew his sword.
In his mental lake, above the tall tower, the sword spirit in purple looked down at the lake where a dark blue glazed dragon carp radiated brightly, sighing and smiling.
Within the courtyard.
The old Confucian Scholar’s fury reached its zenith, his big hand ruthlessly threw the tear-eyed young girl aside, fiercely drawing the old bronze pipe, and at the same time, this Golden Core’s rage created a field of terror weighing thousands of pounds within a hundred meters of the old man.
The young Confucian Scholar’s body slowed slightly, as if a bull colliding into an invisible quagmire swamp, his speed decreasing continuously.
He was bleeding from his seven orifices, the direction of his sword tip unwavering.
An inch...
A millimeter...
A hair’s breadth...
People advance, sword advances, people die, sword halts.
Qin Jianfu laughed in frustration.
Grasping the bronze pipe, he swung it mercilessly towards the approaching young Confucian Scholar’s head.
Then...
Then a woman replaced the young Confucian Scholar, gently taking the sword from his hand.
And then.
The Golden Core’s might, the bronze pipe shattered.
The whole scene fell silent.
It turned out that from Zhao Rong’s palm, which once had certain characters secretly written by a female teacher of a scholar academy, a mass of ink color suddenly surged.
The source of the ink was a character for "eternal" and "correct".
Ten strokes, unassuming.
Yet able to deconstruct all the characters created by saints in the world.
The ink color spread like mist or water.
The entire bamboo courtyard, as if covered with a layer of landscape painting fabric.
A serene and dignified Confucian-robed woman, emerged from the landscape painting, walking to the point between the clashing young and old Confucian Scholars.
Her blurry face gently stopped the rushing blue confidant with a slender hand, taking the literary sword from his hand.
The Confucian-robed woman, back to the disfigured old Confucian Scholar, lowered her head, and re-sheathed the literary sword back in the dazed young Confucian Scholar’s waist sheath.
She then softly tidied his corners.
Behind the woman, the bronze pipe swung down, silently shattered.
Her ink-hued Confucian-robed figure, also faded by half.
Like diluted ink in clear water.
The Confucian-robed woman, as if nothing happened, stood still.
She slightly tilted her ink-blurred face, gently shook her head at Zhao Rong.
Zhu Yourong’s projection, incapable of speech, yet for someone, it seemed to convey those words...
Ziyu, you are not allowed to die.
She commanded.
Zhao Rong remained silent.
...
The Confucian-robed woman, who loved eating ink-written characters, knew early on.
For the seven-foot man she cherished, only when he thought of death.
Would he actually die.
Otherwise, who could kill him?
...
————
PS: Four thousand five hundred words, all done, added five hundred more, ahem.
On another note, what should the next Chapter be titled?
Perhaps call it... "At the feast, I sit at Little Xiao’s table", "...I sit at Qing Jun’s table", "...I sit at Yourong’s table"...