Chapter Eighty-Nine: Youthful Valor Cuts Through the Nomad's Song, A Battle to Defend Lin'an [Seeking Monthly Votes]

Roused by wine, one dances before the hundred blossoms; golden hairpins cast shadows beneath silver lamps. Alluring and enchanting, the heart is unsettled—the warblers and swallows gather in the Flower Pavilion, dancing in harmony.

An Le carried a jug of old yellow wine, clad in flowing white robes, sleeves billowing with spring breeze, hair unbound, gazing upon the Flower Pavilion beneath the starlit night and the first glow of lanterns. This was the most renowned place for revelry in Lin’an Prefecture—An Le had heard of it, but never set foot within. The flower boats on West Lake were also places of indulgence, but compared to the Flower Pavilion, they were mere trifles; whether in opulence or splendor, the difference was vast. If not for the presence of Lady Yunrou on the West Lake boats, they would never have attracted so many scholars and poets.

The greatest distinction between the Flower Pavilion and the many boats on West Lake was that cultivators frequented the Pavilion; almost all chose it over the boats. This grand Flower Pavilion was a microcosm of the dreamlike prosperity following the southern migration of the Zhao dynasty—devouring ambition, ensnaring souls.

Ranked fifteenth on the Young Sage List was Ximen Qiu Hua, an eccentric genius, possessing both body cultivation and spiritual refinement at the fourth stage, aged only twenty-two. Unlike talents such as Wang Qinhe, Ye Wenxi, or Sima Pudu, Ximen Qiu Hua had no noble background; in fact, his origins were humble, being born to a dancing girl of the Flower Pavilion.

Raised within the Pavilion, his talents eventually drew the attention of its hidden benefactor, who granted him the right to study and participate in the imperial examinations, despite his low status. Ximen Qiu Hua attended the Literary Academy only a handful of times before ceasing altogether—for though his humble origins had been erased, none of the scholars would accept him. The academy’s scholars, frequent patrons of the Pavilion, knew his background well and mocked him, finding shame in studying alongside him. Ultimately, he returned to the Pavilion, immersed himself in books, and, nurtured by the environment, mastered the arts of zither, tea, and flute.

His standing within the Pavilion rivaled many courtesans; visitors sought him not for beauty or desire, but for admiration of his artistry. No one dared to offend him, for behind him stood the Pavilion’s enigmatic patron, whose status and power were legendary.

An Le smiled, recalling the information from Lady Hua’s letter, gradually sketching Ximen Qiu Hua’s image in his mind. Brushing off his white robes, An Le strode toward the Flower Pavilion.

A crescent moon pierced the windows, the spring breeze fluttered the curtain. Before the Pavilion, many scholars and cultivators noticed the elegant youth, carrying old yellow wine and two swords at his waist, approaching slowly. The name of An Le now resounded throughout Lin’an—reciting poetry before the Prime Minister’s mansion, guiding the righteous, had become an unforgettable scene for countless people. Thus, as An Le appeared, many cultivators halted, especially scholars from the Literary Academy; their drunkenness vanished, and they stared at the youth.

“Master An,” many cultivators greeted him warmly, casting secret glances, wondering if the illustrious An Le had come to seek pleasure here. Rumor had it he favored the flower boats of West Lake, not the Pavilion—was he changing tastes? Unlike the academy scholars, most literati bore him no ill will, approaching with admiration and camaraderie.

An Le smiled and bowed in return, stepping into the vibrant Pavilion. A fragrant breeze swept in, several graceful figures approached quickly, slowed their steps, and bowed.

“We greet Master An,” they chorused, voices soft and alluring, causing An Le to compose himself.

The graceful women parted, and an older lady, still retaining youthful beauty, walked forward and bowed. “Long have I heard of Master An. Today, with your presence, our Pavilion is honored; see how the girls’ eyes sparkle with anticipation.” She held a round fan painted with chrysanthemums, her words exaggerated yet delivered with elegant poise.

“Master An, please ascend. I have prepared the finest chamber for you, and you may choose any of the girls. I hear your painting skills are unparalleled; we have talented artists among our sisters—perhaps you might guide them?”

Her smile bloomed like peach blossoms as she spoke. An Le smiled in return, regarding the woman—though unremarkable in appearance, the aura of years suggested she possessed third-stage cultivation.

Clasping his hands, An Le said, “Elder sister, I have come to the Pavilion to seek someone. Please convey: Sixteenth on the Young Sage List, An Le, has come to challenge.”

The woman’s smile froze. The surrounding scholars and cultivators quieted, listening intently. Using the Young Sage List to challenge—who else but the Pavilion’s genius, Ximen Qiu Hua?

“Master An, this place is for pleasure, not fighting. Perhaps our renowned Lady Tianxiang might converse with you? She admires your ink bamboo, copying it daily,” the woman said, regaining composure.

Yet An Le continued to smile, looking beyond the red lanterns to the upper balcony, where a plain-clad man stood, gazing down at him.

“Aunt Xuan, please invite Master An upstairs,” the man called, his voice drifting down.

Aunt Xuan sighed, her smile unchanged, and turned to An Le. “Please, Young Master An,” her tone less fervent.

An Le followed Aunt Xuan up the stairs; the Pavilion grew quiet, all eyes tracking their ascent. Many hearts stirred with excitement—today, the Young Sage List had shifted, An Le leaping from eighteenth to sixteenth. While still reeling from his breakthrough, none expected him to challenge the fifteenth-ranked Ximen Qiu Hua so soon.

Ximen Qiu Hua, both body and spirit at the fourth stage, while An Le’s spirit had broken through, but his body remained at the third stage. Both were geniuses—was An Le seeking to battle above his level?

Ximen Qiu Hua had gained his rank through talent alone, recently reaching fourth stage. His history was no secret in the Pavilion—his mastery of zither and tea had drawn the attention of the elite. Yet late initiation meant his cultivation lagged, and despite earning his place on the Young Sage List, his rank was limited by his power. In this, many saw a resemblance between An Le and Ximen Qiu Hua.

On the fifth floor, Aunt Xuan opened the door; sandalwood drifted out, the air quiet and free from the usual scents, as if a place of worship rather than revelry.

An Le entered, Aunt Xuan closed the door, isolating them from the noise. To find serenity in such a lively place held a unique charm.

Dressed in white, An Le saw the plain-clad man seated at the tea table, his features gentle.

“Please, Young Master An,” Ximen Qiu Hua greeted him, already aware of the challenge, showing no surprise.

An Le took a seat opposite, several yards apart.

Ximen Qiu Hua took hot water from the charcoal stove, placed tea leaves in a porcelain cup, poured water, letting the leaves unfurl. Beside the tea table lay a yellow pearwood zither, its strings shimmering in the lamp light.

A cup of hot tea, enveloped in spiritual energy, floated to An Le. He accepted it, the green tea within sparkling, its color enticing. After admiring it, he drank it in one gulp.

The rich aroma burst forth, releasing both flavor and spiritual essence. The artistry was exquisite, precise in temperature and timing.

“You’ve come to challenge me, but if I recall, you only just rose to sixteenth. Shouldn’t you consolidate before challenging?” Ximen Qiu Hua asked gently.

“Time is short; I must seize it,” An Le replied softly, setting down the cup.

The two seemed not adversaries on the brink of a life-and-death Young Sage List duel, but old friends, conversing over tea.

“Time is short?” Ximen Qiu Hua seemed puzzled, fiddling with the tea set, then suddenly looked up, his gaze fixed on An Le.

“Do you mean to challenge your way upward, to replicate the legendary feat of General Li You’an?”

Ximen Qiu Hua was astonished.

An Le did not answer; raising his hand, spiritual energy summoned the Ink Pool. The trembling Ink Pool emitted a sword’s hum, and the room filled with intersecting sword energy.

“My cultivation is weak, but my talent compensates. Battle is nourishment, a means to advance. By fighting, perhaps I can display some edge in the imperial examinations, making those who plot against me hesitate.

“In this world, background matters, but true strength is the ultimate arrogance.

“I wish to become strong, to ascend and see far, to stand atop the heights and gaze upon all below.

“Lin’an is full of storms—if I cannot avoid them, I will become the vortex.

“I’ll cultivate an invincible aura, challenge the Young Sage List, and battle all of Lin’an.”

An Le spoke softly, but his words rang with steel, causing Ximen Qiu Hua’s eyes to narrow.

To battle all of Lin’an—what audacity, what domineering ambition! His fighting spirit shone like the sun, stirring Ximen Qiu Hua’s heart with both awe and admiration.

To tread the undefeated path of the legendary scholar Li You’an required immense courage—just voicing the intent would daunt many.

Yet this youth, with third-stage body and fourth-stage spirit, raised his sword to walk the legendary path, challenge the Young Sage List, and battle Lin’an.

Ximen Qiu Hua took a deep breath, his eyes filled with respect.

He knew all about An Le—born to a minor family in Chongzhou, entering Lin’an without cultivation, receiving Lady Hua’s guidance, and rising like a dragon in a month.

An Le was already a legend, and today, he sought to forge a greater one by challenging Ximen Qiu Hua.

Feeling the Ink Pool’s sword energy fill the room, Ximen Qiu Hua’s own spiritual energy surged forth.

He stared at An Le, a flame burning deep in his pupils—the will to fight.

“Master An, such boldness! In that case, I will accompany you to the end,” Ximen Qiu Hua said.

He stood, walked to the red-carved window, opened it, and looked at An Le. “This room is leased to me by the Pavilion—a place for tea, zither, and flute. Fighting here would ruin it. Shall we battle atop the Pavilion?”

The Ink Pool floated at An Le’s side; he smiled, “Agreed.”

Ximen Qiu Hua bowed elegantly; though not of the Literary Academy, his demeanor surpassed any scholar An Le had met.

He summoned the zither from the table, slung it across his back, and took the jade flute with red tassel from the wall.

Spiritual energy surged, and Ximen Qiu Hua drifted out; An Le followed.

They exited the room, seeming to walk on the moon, ascending to the roof, landing on the black tiles of the Pavilion, facing each other from opposite corners.

The chilly spring night breeze stirred their garments.

The river and sky were one, spotless; a solitary bright moon hung above. The immense silver moon cast its light upon the Pavilion roof.

Ximen Qiu Hua set the zither on his leg, one leg raised, and smiled at An Le, “Please, Master An.”

The Ink Pool soared skyward, then descended to An Le’s side. He drank a mouthful of wine, set the jug down, then tapped the Ink Pool.

Instantly—sword energy filled the heavens.

The challenge of Master An against Ximen Qiu Hua spread instantly, especially as the crowd looked up.

On the Pavilion roof, two figures confronted each other, their energies colliding.

Many unleashed their spiritual senses, left their rooms, climbed to rooftops, or gazed from afar.

Battles on the Young Sage List always attracted the attention of Lin’an’s cultivators—none on the List were ordinary.

Among the challengers was the renowned An Le.

Many wondered why, after just advancing to sixteenth, An Le was so eager to challenge fifteenth, not pausing to consolidate his power.

Yet some discerned something extraordinary.

Spiritual projections rose into the sky, observing from above, watching the battle between Lin’an’s finest youths.

Ye Wenxi, Ye Yinping, Qin Hua’an, Sima Pudu, and other Young Sage List figures watched with their spiritual senses.

Li You’an, Zhao Huangting, Lady Hua, and other famed experts were also curious.

As sword energy overflowed, the challenge began.

Compared to Wang Qinhe’s challenge to An Le, this was An Le striving against a higher-ranked opponent.

Both took it seriously, without relaxation or negligence.

Under the moonlight, their eyes met—one refined, one bold; their gazes contained only each other, wrapped in moonlight.

Both were eminent among their peers; to be on the Young Sage List was no small feat, and neither wished to lose, each intent on surpassing the other.

An Le sought to defeat Ximen Qiu Hua, to cultivate an invincible aura, the beginning of his campaign to conquer Lin’an. If he lost the first match, the blow would be immense—not only would his aura falter, but his spirit would be diminished.

Ximen Qiu Hua’s fighting spirit surged—An Le wanted to step on him to build invincibility; he would not allow it easily. Giving his all was the greatest respect for An Le’s difficult path.

With a pluck of five fingers, the zither’s sound echoed, invisible energy rising and merging with his spirit.

Like a serpent trailing a stream of energy, it darted forth, swift as an arrow, toward An Le.

Qingshan raised lightly, intercepting the serpent—it scattered. An Le’s aura surged; his sword pressed down, sword energy closing in.

The sharp spring wind transformed into sword energy, cutting down like a straight line.

Ximen Qiu Hua’s body swayed, a lock of hair sliced off, landing on the zither before being swept away by the music.

The zither’s melody surged, transforming the energy into wild beasts.

“Gong.”

Spiritual energy stirred; Ximen Qiu Hua’s brow center shone, his spiritual eye opening.

His lips parted, the zither’s sound floating.

Around An Le, the music formed beasts, interwoven with sharpness; each note carried killing intent.

An Le’s blood roared, ancient beast imagery emerged—a primordial tiger’s roar, suppressing every musical beast.

The music exploded, weaving countless threads of energy, all originating from Ximen Qiu Hua’s fingertips; as he plucked, a string snapped.

“Shang.”

Ximen Qiu Hua exhaled, the melody changed, flowing from mountain streams to rushing tides—countless threads, like sword energy, descended.

An Le finally moved, Qingshan raised, sword energy blossomed; with a thrust, bamboo branches sprouted, swaying to disrupt the threads.

He stepped forward, facing the flowing musical energy, Qingshan’s sweep unleashed righteous sword energy—grand, resolute, unstoppable.

An Le’s spirit in his brow also unfurled; at the fourth stage, his spiritual refinement was impressive. A sword waterfall appeared, like invisible rain, each drop imbued with sword energy.

Step by step, he shattered the melody; with each stride, his aura surged, fighting spirit soared, his momentum intensified.

Only thirty steps separated them, but the space was filled with dense music and drifting threads, each capable of severing a head.

An Le used the bamboo sword technique, cleaving a path through.

Their duel had two layers: spiritual and technical.

Sword energy, entwined with the Ink Pool, hid in darkness, ever ready for a lethal strike; Ximen Qiu Hua sealed the surroundings with melody, wary of the sword’s proximity, denying An Le an opening—a contest of spirit.

Technical exchange was the interplay of zither’s changing melodies, each threat neutralized by An Le’s bamboo sword technique—a contest of skill.

Ximen Qiu Hua’s head swayed, both hands plucking strings; his face paled, his spirit beginning to wane.

“Jiao.”

Ximen Qiu Hua’s gaze sharpened, both hands pressed down; the melody paused, but then his slender fingers struck the zither chaotically.

“Cai Nu once crafted the sound of the Hu Jia—one stroke, eighteen beats.”

This was the Hu Jia Eighteen Beats.

Bang, bang, bang!

On the roof, black tiles shattered, eighteen fragments leaping, the melody transforming into the wild wind of the desert.

An Le changed his sword stance, advancing with the Youthful Sword technique—youthful spirit soaring to the heavens, cutting through endless sand.

Their spiritual clash sent waves across the roof, tiles flying.

The youth’s spirit cleaved the Hu Jia.

Thirty steps closed; sword energy surged, righteous sword energy thundered down.

Ximen Qiu Hua’s face was ashen, his spirit barely sustaining; after Gong, Shang, Jiao, he could no longer gather momentum.

But An Le grew stronger with each bout, his aura compounded, closing in on Ximen Qiu Hua.

Ximen Qiu Hua’s eyes shone, fighting spirit blazing, hair flying, but he did not retreat; five fingers plucked, drawing the strings like a full bow, thunderous tension.

This refined scholar, mingling in the Pavilion.

Now, he was like a frontier archer slaying barbarians.

The jade flute floated, resting on the strings.

Zither as bow, flute as arrow.

Music can kill.

He sought to slay the mountain-like youth before him.

Bang!

Suddenly, before Ximen Qiu Hua could react, a shattered tile, charged with sword energy, shot and struck the zither, shattering it.

All things can carry sword energy.

Ximen Qiu Hua spat blood, his energy in chaos, unable to gather force; his eyes contracted, the thick night became a pool of ink, drawing fine threads like a pitch-black string.

It grazed his neck, drawing a drop of crimson.

Ximen Qiu Hua’s aura collapsed; he staggered two steps on the roof. An Le, having cleaved through melody and threads, now faced no obstacles; he thrust, piercing Ximen Qiu Hua’s chest, withdrew, and blood spurted.

In that moment, the music vanished, the sword energy faded.

Only the two remained, facing each other atop the roof.

One’s eyes were full of regret, yet satisfied by a fierce battle.

The other’s gaze held invincible momentum, fighting spirit blazing like the sun, soaring like a great roc on the wind.

It was as if, in this instant, he wore invincibility like surging waves, sword pointed at the city.

To battle all of Lin’an.

ps: A long chapter, written in one breath—please support with monthly and recommendation votes.

“Brother Shen.”

“Mm.”

Shen Changqing walked along the road; when he met acquaintances, they would greet or nod.

But no matter who it was, no one’s face showed excess emotion, as if indifferent to everything.

To this, Shen Changqing was accustomed.

For this was the Demon Suppression Bureau—a government body maintaining stability in Great Qin, chiefly responsible for slaying demons and monsters, though it had other tasks as well.

It could be said that everyone here bore much blood on their hands.

When one becomes accustomed to life and death, many things lose their impact.

At first, Shen Changqing felt out of place in this world, but he soon adapted.

The Bureau was vast.

Those who remained were powerful experts or possessed the potential to become so.

Shen Changqing belonged to the latter.

The Bureau divided its members into two roles: Guardian and Demon Slayer.

Anyone entering the Bureau started as a Demon Slayer at the lowest rank, then gradually advanced, with hope of becoming a Guardian.

Shen Changqing’s predecessor was an apprentice Demon Slayer—the lowest level.

With those memories, he was familiar with the environment.

He didn’t take long to reach a certain pavilion.

Unlike the Bureau’s other grim locations, this pavilion stood out, offering rare tranquility amid bloodshed.

Its doors stood open, people coming and going.

Shen Changqing hesitated only briefly before stepping inside.

Upon entry, the atmosphere changed.

A scent of ink, mixed with faint blood, greeted him, causing his brow to furrow instinctively, then relax.

The Bureau’s members carried a bloodstained scent impossible to cleanse.