Chapter 8: The Murderous Blade

To avoid unnecessary trouble, Ning Xiu first returned to the manor alone, then sent Zhang Heng out to quietly bring Wu Wan’er back. Officially, it was declared that Wu Wan’er was Zhang Heng’s daughter. With the Songfeng Ridge bandit gang still active, if they learned the Wu family’s daughter was alive and well, they would hardly let matters rest so easily.

For a period afterward, Ning Xiu resumed his monotonous routine of cultivation. Zhang Heng’s demands grew ever stricter: the daily training of chopping and thrusting increased from one thousand repetitions to three thousand, and especially the Reaping Stroke, which surged to four thousand times.

Through the “Martial God” system, Ning Xiu watched the proficiency of the Deadly Three Blades steadily rise—from initial fumbling, to tentative mastery, then modest achievement, and finally skillful execution. Yet he could never reach seamless perfection or supreme mastery.

The Deadly Three Blades, according to the system, was but a one-star inferior martial art. By rights, it should not be so difficult to master. After all, during these days of practice, his proficiency with the Blood Blade technique had advanced a whole tier, reaching modest achievement.

Perplexed, Ning Xiu asked Zhang Heng directly about this issue.

“Do you know why I’ve made you practice the Reaping Stroke so much?” Zhang Heng regarded Ning Xiu as he spoke.

This too Ning Xiu found puzzling. Normally, all blade techniques included the eight basic moves: sweep, chop, parry, slice, reap, counter, cut, and thrust. That Zhang Heng’s Deadly Three Blades consisted of only three forms was odd enough, but devoting a third of its content to the Reaping Stroke was even more bewildering.

The Reaping Stroke is a withdrawal move. To Ning Xiu, the blade is the soul of all weapons, embodying relentless advance. Whether it was the Five Tigers Soul-Splitting Blade, bold and sweeping, or the mysterious Blood Blade, retreat was never part of their philosophy.

Only those who dare to die can take lives.

Seeing Ning Xiu shake his head, Zhang Heng was silent for a moment before saying, “The Deadly Three Blades—if you can take lives, that’s best. But not everyone you face can be killed so easily.”

“I’ve walked the martial world for half my life, and seen countless fearless blade-wielders. Their blades can kill others, but also themselves. They fail to understand that to kill, you first must survive. Of course, this isn’t about cowardice or timidity—you must grasp the meaning yourself.”

With these words, Zhang Heng turned and entered his room.

Watching his desolate figure, Ning Xiu pondered deeply. How much truth, learned at the edge of life and death, was contained in Zhang Heng’s words?

Unable to comprehend fully, he resolved to seek understanding through real combat.

...

For reasons unknown, the frequency of bandit attacks near Shouchun increased dramatically, their methods growing ever more brazen and cruel, as though in revenge.

The people of Shouchun County were chilled by the authorities’ inaction. City merchants and wealthy families lived in constant fear; fewer caravans ventured out, and only the county’s three great clans dared travel, with lesser merchants banding together for safety. Even so, all remained anxious, dreading the day misfortune would strike them.

At this time, a blade-wielder appeared, carrying a blood-red curved blade and wearing a fierce demon mask.

Any bandit who preyed near Shouchun could not escape his blood blade.

This blade-wielder was none other than Ning Xiu. The blood blade in his hand had been custom-forged by Zhang Heng himself. Ning Xiu kept nothing from him, nor did he intend to hide.

At first, Ning Xiu targeted lone bandits; gradually, he began to take on squads of a dozen or more. Through these battles, his understanding of blade techniques deepened.

Through repeated trials by blood, he finally grasped the essence of Zhang Heng’s teaching, achieving mastery of the Deadly Three Blades.

As for the Blood Blade technique, its core lay in one word: “deception.” At mastery, every strike could be delivered from an impossible angle. To achieve this, one must first be precise.

Precision was measured by a simple standard: slicing paper and shaving tofu.

A hundred sheets of thin paper stacked together on a table: the first stroke must slice off only the top sheet, not disturbing the second. The second stroke must take the second sheet, and so on, until all one hundred are cut. As for shaving tofu, a block two inches thick was placed on a board, to be sliced into twenty pieces, each intact and unbroken—this constituted the threshold of mastery.

Applied to a human body, it meant slicing open vital blood vessels with absolute precision, neither a fraction too deep nor too shallow.

Those with keen eyes would notice that the wounds on the bandits’ corpses grew smaller, cleaner, and increasingly uncanny.

Songfeng Ridge, Blackwind Stronghold.

Within the spacious hall, furious roars echoed endlessly.

“Bastard! Damn it! Who is that demon-masked blade-wielder?”

Staring at the corpses just carried in, their wounds covering nearly every vital point, the scar-faced man at the head seat crushed his wine cup with a snarl.

The man, consumed by rage, was none other than Feng Chu, master of Blackwind Stronghold.

Aside from Feng Chu, the hall was filled with the stronghold’s senior members, but none dared make a sound, fearing to anger their ruthless, bloodthirsty chief.

“In merely seven days, we’ve lost over fifty brothers, including seven core lieutenants. If this continues, will Blackwind Stronghold have anyone left?”

Feng Chu took a deep, rough breath and swept his gaze around the room. His voice was hoarse: “Three days—within three days, bring me the head of that demon-masked blade-wielder.”

“There’s still one more woman needed, born in a cursed year and month. Fourth Brother, you’ll personally take men to the nearby counties and seize the target. If the Wu family woman hasn’t fled, the task would already be done. It seems the one who acted was that blade-wielder!”

Feng Chu’s eyes were cold and sinister. “If you let them escape again, don’t bother coming back!”

“Yes!” A burly man below, hearing his name, twitched at the corner of his eye, immediately accepted the order, and charged out with a group of Blackwind brothers.

“Demon-masked blade-wielder, I don’t care who you are—this time, I’ll make sure you die with no grave to your name!” Feng Chu clenched his fist, his face twisted with murderous intent.