Chapter Thirty-Five: The Duel of Magic

Forget it, there’s no need to rush. Zhao Jing shook his head. A mere early-stage Foundation Establishment cultivator was hardly worth his concern; he could find any opportunity to drive the other out of the Eastern Peak Sect like a stray dog. His gaze returned to Yang Mu, his expression calm as if nothing had occurred.

“Practice for me to see.”

The young man’s fists burst forth like a sudden storm, brimming with strength and vigor, perfectly concealing the hint of distraction in his eyes. Dusk fell, and confusion finally crept into his gaze. By habit, Zhao Jing should have left long ago; now, with night deepening, the other remained seated on the bench, as steady as a mountain, showing no sign of rising.

Yang Mu’s eyes darted. He put on a pitiful look. “Master, I’m hungry.”

Zhao Jing looked over with interest, silent for a moment before nodding slightly. “That will be all for today.”

He rose slowly and strolled out of the courtyard as he always did. Only when Zhao Jing’s silhouette vanished from sight did Yang Mu let out a breath, feigning rest on the bench a while longer. Once he was certain he was alone, a chill flickered in his eyes.

Old fox!

Though nothing had been revealed, he had sensed something amiss with sharp intuition. The sense of danger grew stronger—a primal instinct etched into his bones.

“The risk is too great,” Yang Mu murmured, a trace of hesitation on his face.

Normally, he would abandon tonight’s plan without a second thought. But…

If he missed this chance, when would he again encounter someone like Elder Lin of Qingshan, so willing to “meddle”? He had endured for seven years—he could endure seven more. But how long would it go on? Was he to spend his life in the immortal sect practicing mundane martial arts?

“Perhaps it’s just an illusion,” he tried to comfort himself with words even he didn’t believe. Gritting his teeth, he summoned his courage and peered outside.

As long as he was careful, he might not get caught.

…

There were two quarters left until the hour of the Ox.

A nimble figure slipped through the night. Yang Mu had never learned any lightness techniques, but years of tempering his body allowed him to move as swiftly as a martial artist. “Faster!” he urged himself.

He had long since memorized the patrol routes of the mountain disciples. Ducking into the woods, he sprinted along a side path toward the cliff.

If only he’d looked up, he would have seen a middle-aged man standing atop the treetops, hands behind his back, watching him with a growing smile.

Where do you think you’re going, my clever disciple?

On Huayang Peak, Zhao Jing was known among the disciples as a benevolent steward, exuding an air of upright harmony—a Foundation Establishment cultivator on the verge of forming a golden core, held in high esteem by all.

Now, his face was cold and his gaze carried a hint of melancholy, the sneer at his lips deepening.

I’ve treated you so well, yet you wish to run. Truly, you chill your master’s heart.

Zhao Jing made no move to intercept Yang Mu.

He wanted to see what kind of exquisite despair would appear on his disciple’s face if he showed himself at the very moment when the other was most elated, all vigilance dropped.

Just as he once, years ago, had forced himself to confess all his buried affections in one breath, only to look up and see the woman leaning in another man’s arms—Yang Mu’s uncle—both of them gazing at him in puzzlement, as if at the world’s greatest fool.

“Brother, rest assured entrusting your nephew to me. How could I let you down?” Zhao Jing chuckled, leaped from the treetop, and unhurriedly followed Yang Mu’s path.

Suddenly, a lazy voice called from behind him.

“Care to have a chat?”

He halted, expressionless, and turned. Beneath the very tree he’d just stood upon, a Daoist in a blue robe leaned against the trunk, head tilted in his direction with a faint smile.

In the span of a heartbeat, Zhao Jing released all his spiritual sense. Lost in memory, he’d failed to notice anyone nearby. A quick probe assured him that only this stranger was present in the woods, so he relaxed.

The man’s face was unfamiliar. Though only at the early Foundation Establishment stage, he had slipped into Huayang Peak unseen. At the very least, it showed a deep familiarity with the place.

In that case, he should know who Zhao Jing was.

So why would he dare appear alone before Zhao Jing?

The two men locked eyes in silence, yet the air between them grew tense with a murderous energy.

Lin Ze found the sensation strange. Setting aside the distant sword immortals and demon kings, this was the strongest person he’d ever encountered—his aura was deep, his spirit energy dense, and when still, he seemed fused with heaven and earth.

This was the peak of Foundation Establishment—the highest existence in a sect of such depth. Among the ten thousand outer disciples, only the thirty or so Golden Core elders could claim certain victory over him.

Meanwhile, Zhao Jing’s calm was only surface-deep. Yet his wariness was not for Lin Ze.

An early Foundation Establishment cultivator wouldn’t last ten moves against him. What truly concerned Zhao Jing was whether the Daoist had brought others. Even at great spiritual cost, he dared not withdraw his senses.

Only after a long time, when he was sure there were no others present, did he finally raise his hand.

He had no interest in idle talk. Any questions could wait until the Daoist was on the ground.

A wisp of gentle breeze coiled around his fingers, his wide sleeves fluttering in the air. His palm pressed softly into the void—so gentle it seemed he was merely trailing his hand through river water from a wooden boat, yet ripples swelled forth.

Wave after wave of invisible ripples spread outward. Though they seemed slow, in the blink of an eye they had drifted far, each laden with killing intent.

Lin Ze watched as the ripples reached within a yard of him—then suddenly whipped a streak of white light from his sleeve and struck.

It was as if a traveler rowing peacefully downriver suddenly had a companion smash the water with a broad oar—waves splashed, the calm was broken, and all pleasure was lost.

With the white light came a biting chill.

The ripples froze, then shattered.

“Sword energy?” Zhao Jing’s eyes finally showed surprise.

The Eastern Peak Sect was a sword sect—even with many branches now, disciples still favored wearing swords at their waists. Yet those who truly comprehended sword intent were few, and those who could wield sword energy even fewer.

How could someone like that have escaped his notice?

His mid-grade “Gentle Breeze Dusting Art” was easily broken, but Zhao Jing was not shocked—that technique, though at minor mastery, was enough for ordinary Foundation Establishment cultivators, but not against sword energy.

Even with his higher cultivation, he would have to exert real effort to overcome it.

With his mind settled, Zhao Jing relaxed. So this was the man’s trump card.

Had it been an inspector of mid-Foundation Establishment stage tonight, things might indeed have ended badly. But, alas, still too green.

“Since you’re a sword cultivator, I’ll give you a chance to draw your sword.”

He smiled lightly, the breeze at his palm dissipating as a cluster of blue flames flared to life—a mid-tier technique, a testament to the old steward’s foundation on Huayang Peak.

Heart-Scorching Flame.

Zhao Jing had cultivated it to perfection; it was one of his best immortal arts.

Rising without wind, it burned away all evil under heaven.