Chapter 240: Even a Mud Bodhisattva Has a Temper
Chen Ping’an, who had gained some insights while watching the waterfall, ultimately did not draw the locust-wood sword to execute that sword strike Qi had used in the ancient temple against the pink-robed great demon.
Chen Ping’an muttered to himself, “What’s going on? Why do I feel that if I drew the sword, it would definitely be wrong? Could it be that practicing fists and practicing swords are two completely different things—one can be improved through hard work, while the other only cares about talent and aptitude?”
At that moment, Chen Ping’an did not yet realize that it wasn’t because his comprehension was too poor, nor because he had no talent for sword practice. Rather, the swords he had witnessed—whether the people wielding them or their sword techniques and divine abilities—were simply too high and too far beyond what a mere Martial Realm third-tier martial artist like Chen Ping’an could grasp.
But the problem lay in Chen Ping’an’s keen eyesight; he could see many things that ordinary martial artists couldn’t. This placed an invisible burden on him. Whenever he thought of delivering a sword strike, Chen Ping’an, who was accustomed to pursuing perfection, felt that the long sword in its sheath weighed tens of thousands of catties.
Everything Chen Ping’an had seen and heard along the way—whether it was Wei Jin of Snow Wind Temple, who had reached the rank of Land Sword Immortal and whose sword arrived before he did, slicing open the sky of the world where the bride ghost resided, or the Mohist hero Xu Ruo, who drew his long sword just a bit and, through visualization, summoned a mountain range to block Wei Jin’s sword strike, or finally Qi Jingchun’s effortless sword strike that cleaved through the Mixed Element Golden Light Array of the White Emperor City’s orthodox lineage—was entirely unlike his experience with Ning Yao.
At the ancestral home on Mud Vase Alley, Ning Yao had performed the basic walking stances from the Foothill-Shattering Fist manual a few times. Chen Ping’an could barely keep up with her movements and even managed to grasp some of the true essence of fist techniques—a completely different story. Because after the old man surnamed Cui had looked through the fist manual, he had already given a final verdict: the framework of the Foothill-Shattering Fist was actually crude and not worth mentioning, so anyone could imitate it. For example, in Rouge Prefecture, Zhao Shuxia, after secretly watching Chen Ping’an perform the walking stances, could also temper his body and strengthen his physique.
But the most valuable part of the Foothill-Shattering Fist was the “breath” of “us martial artists.” That was why the Foothill-Shattering Fist was easy to learn but difficult to master—practicing the fist to a high level and thoroughly understanding it was hard.
How hard?
Consider the motto of the Foothill-Shattering Fist: “Those who practice my fist face the Patriarch of the Dao, lose but never retreat.” Old Cui, the grandfather of Cui Chan—a top-tier martial artist who had returned to the peak of the tenth realm—when faced with Lu Chen, did he throw a punch? No. Regardless of whatever concerns or reasons the old man had, if you only looked at the result, he ultimately did not deliver that punch. Thus, it could be seen that the essence of the fist technique advocated by the Foothill-Shattering Manual was something later generations of fist practitioners could fully grasp; calling it as difficult as ascending to heaven was not an exaggeration.
The waterfall crashed into the pool, sending water splashing everywhere—like a million pearls shattering at once—while mist rose into the air.
“A’Liang, practicing swordsmanship is really hard.”
Chen Ping’an stared blankly, scratched his head, and took a gulp of his wine in frustration. He stood on the railing of the waterside pavilion, looked around, and finally fixed his gaze on the waterfall. Although the thought of drawing his sword was gone, he remembered the barefoot old man who had helped him temper his third-realm body. The old man had mentioned that when the Cloud-Surging Great Swamp style’s fist framework first appeared in the world, it had driven the rain curtain in the sky back into the heavens.
Chen Ping’an now looked at the enormous waterfall cascading down, wondering if that old man in the bamboo tower could throw a punch that would send the waterfall splashing upward and make the great water retreat in reverse.
Once his thoughts shifted from the unfamiliar act of drawing a sword to the familiar act of throwing a punch, Chen Ping’an immediately gained confidence. This confidence came from hundreds of thousands of walking stance repetitions, from never retreating when facing an enemy time and again.
Chen Ping’an gazed at the magnificent waterfall and had a sudden thought: if he threw his full-strength punch, could he blast through the waterfall’s curtain in one go? If he managed to do so, would there still be any residual fist energy left to strike the tough rock wall behind the waterfall? He wondered if Xu Yuanxia and those other martial artists who had already stepped into the Qi Refining Realm could punch a crater into the rock wall.
Chen Ping’an felt a bit tempted.
But soon, he jumped down from the railing and sat on the long bench in the waterside pavilion, drinking his wine like a tourist who had come to admire the scenery.
Chen Ping’an looked toward the path. A moment later, a group of brightly dressed people slowly approached. Some were laughing loudly with heroic airs, others were gentle and elegant with refined manners, and among them were women with dignified bearing and smiling faces as beautiful as flowers. The three leaders were in the front. In the middle was a handsome young man with a face like jade, a jade pendant hanging from one side of his waist and an uncommon short sword on the other—his bearing imposing. On his left was a man carrying a saber, striding like a dragon or tiger, looking around with pride. On his right was a young scholar in a square hat, holding a folding fan.
Behind the three were several women and young girls, all with remarkable beauty and demeanor.
Further back was a retinue of attendants, most of them young, strong men with sharp eyes and overbearing demeanors. One of them carried a horn-backed bow, the most eye-catching of all.
An indescribable aura of the martial world rushed toward the waterside pavilion.
The road to watch the waterfall at Sword Water Mountain Villa was a dead end, ending at this pavilion. The group of people crowded the path with almost no space left, so Chen Ping’an had to stay in the pavilion for now, planning to leave once they entered. The three leaders and the women stepped up the stairs one after another, while the attendants took their positions outside the pavilion. Most of them only glanced at Chen Ping’an, who carried a sword case on his back, and then paid him no further attention.
The leading young man, who seemed more like a scion of a noble family, noticed Chen Ping’an and paused his gaze, apparently waiting for Chen Ping’an to speak first. But when their eyes met, Chen Ping’an appeared somewhat dull. The young man smiled slightly and nodded in greeting, though inwardly he found it strange. Among the various heroes who had entered the villa, was there someone who didn’t recognize him?
Chen Ping’an nodded in return.
Just as Chen Ping’an intended to take the opportunity to leave the pavilion, a young woman sitting beside the handsome young man looked at him gently and said, “If you came here to enjoy the scenery and haven’t had your fill, there’s no need to leave.”
Chen Ping’an was taken aback because he couldn’t understand the official language of Comb Water Country that the woman spoke.
The woman understood immediately and repeated herself in the refined speech of Treasure Bottle Continent.
This time, Chen Ping’an understood.
A young woman about seventeen or eighteen, as tall as a man, with a cold, frosty expression, carried a long sword with an exquisite scabbard wrapped in gold wire. However, her way of carrying the sword was unusual—reversed, hanging on the opposite side. This was exactly the same as the middle-aged man.
She glanced at the locust-wood sword case on Chen Ping’an’s back and the “vermillion wine flask” at his waist, but she couldn’t discern his background or realm, so she lost interest.
The saber-carrying man said magnanimously, “Little brother, just sit right there. Drink your wine, enjoy the scenery, don’t be restrained. If we’re going by who came first, we’re the ones intruding on your leisure. Of course, if you find our chatter too noisy later, you can leave then.”
Ordinarily, someone would have to stay put, but Chen Ping’an cupped his hands and said, “I’ve been here for a while and have seen the waterfall. I’ll be heading back the same way.”
The saber-carrying man laughed heartily, even rising to his feet to gesture in a parting salute. “No problem, no problem. Little brother, do as you please.”
The youngest girl widened her eyes, thinking that this stranger really had poor judgment and a big attitude. Could it be that he didn’t know the host in the pavilion was none other than Song Fengshan, the young master of Sword Water Mountain Villa? The top-tier young swordsman of Comb Water Country’s martial world! Rumor had it that even a princess of Comb Water Country admired him so much she nearly eloped with him. Even if the guest didn’t recognize the host, shouldn’t he recognize the big shot who dared to carry his saber in reverse? That man who had just saluted him, as approachable as could be, not at all like a martial arts bigwig, was actually the current master of Horizontal Saber Villa, famous throughout Comb Water Country as a foremost saber master. He had traveled through more than a dozen countries and earned a fearsome reputation. Even the old sword saint Song Yushao had personally praised his saber technique, saying it was only a hair’s breadth away from reaching the divine and extraordinary realm of martial arts.
The girl secretly chuckled, thinking that this shabby-looking boy must be a fledgling new to the martial world. Could he be a little thief bold enough to sneak into Sword Water Mountain Villa, too scared to linger? Ha, if so, that would be amusing.
As Chen Ping’an left the pavilion and descended the steps, a cold voice came from behind. “Wait a moment.”
Chen Ping’an turned around. It was the young woman with the reversed sword. She stood at the top of the steps, looking down at him. “Who is your master? Are you from a swordsmanship sect in Colored Clothes Country or Ancient Elm Country?”
Though her tone was somewhat overbearing, Chen Ping’an turned and shook his head, trying to say something diplomatic. “I’m from further north. I came to Sword Water Mountain Villa with friends. I heard the young master is being nominated as the martial arts league leader of Comb Water Country, so I wanted to take the chance to offer congratulations.”
The handsome young man smiled faintly.
The young scholar, waving his folding fan, lightly teased, “An immortal before you, yet you don’t recognize him.”
The saber-carrying man looked at his daughter’s back and said angrily, “You little martial arts fiend, don’t be rude to the guest! What did I tell you before? Once you leave our manor, you can’t just challenge anyone to a spar!”
The sword-carrying woman pressed her palm on the hilt, causing the tip of the scabbard to lift slightly, pointing toward Chen Ping’an at the bottom of the steps. She completely ignored the man’s words, fixing her gaze on Chen Ping’an. “Are you at the second or third realm of martial arts? How many years have you practiced swordsmanship?”
Chen Ping’an frowned, cupped his hands, and turned to leave, unwilling to engage with this young woman from a prominent martial family in Comb Water Country.
Being easygoing didn’t mean Chen Ping’an had no principles. On the contrary, with strangers, he never provoked them, but he also had no fear.
Cai Jinjian, Fu Nanhua, Mountain-Moving Ape, the head-exploding snake from Chess Mound Mountain, the government guards on the Embroidered River ferry—and of course, Cui Chan, who was still hiding under the ancient well in Huangting Country, too scared to show his face, and the female ghost strangled and beaten to death in the ancient temple—had all learned that lesson.
The sword-carrying woman sneered coldly and dropped a remark, “A piece of trash like this, daring to carry a sword and walk the martial world, and even entering Sword Water Mountain Villa. The one who taught you swordsmanship must have only taught you to be a coward, right?”
The saber-carrying man felt helpless. His daughter’s foul temper, born with her, was truly a curse.
But despite his complaints, the man had always been proud of his only daughter’s martial talent. He didn’t hide his expectations, openly stating that his daughter would never marry out—only someone would marry into Horizontal Saber Villa, because she was destined to succeed him as villa master. The saber-carrying man didn’t want to bully others by relying on his power, so he stood up to persuade his daughter not to provoke this outsider. Martial practitioners should value virtue first, with martial skill being secondary. But he knew that the younger geniuses of today paid little attention to such old sayings—they just let them go in one ear and out the other, sneering behind their elders’ backs.
In the last ten years, the most dazzling young expert in Comb Water Country was none other than the young master sitting beside him. Having reached the fourth realm of martial arts at a young age, he had earned the title of Little Sword Immortal. Before every sword strike, whether being challenged or seeking a spar, Song Fengshan would burn incense, bathe, change into a brand-new set of clothes, and after striking, leave no survivors.
But such a decisive sword genius was very likely to become the youngest fifth-realm grandmaster in Comb Water Country’s history.
With a thirty-year-old fifth-realm grandmaster, after defeating the Green Bamboo Sword Immortal, Song Fengshan could rightfully claim the title of “Sword Immortal” all to himself. By then, his grandfather, old sword saint Song Yushao, should still be alive. With the Sword God of Colored Clothes Country already dead, across the territories of more than ten countries, who could stand against Sword Water Mountain Villa?
That was the key reason the martial world of Comb Water Country was willing to bow to a younger generation member.
But the old villa master Song Yushao had rarely appeared in decades, perhaps feeling a sense of loss toward this new martial world with its new atmosphere.
Rumors had it that the relationship between grandfather and grandson was not very good, and the old sword saint especially disliked his grandson’s wife, who hid needles in cotton wool.
Hearing the sarcastic words of the reversed-sword woman, even Chen Ping’an, with his mild temper like a mud Buddha, abruptly stopped. He turned to look toward the pavilion.
He didn’t know much about the so-called rules of the martial world or the customs of Comb Water Country, but Chen Ping’an believed that some truths were universal, and some matters were clear-cut in terms of right and wrong.
Fortunately, the saber-carrying man had already walked to his daughter’s side and scolded her sternly, “With such arrogance, how can I dare let you walk the martial world alone? Postpone it by another year!”
The woman was furious, her cold expression turning even more icy, but the man before her was still her father and her master, the one who had personally taught her martial arts and saber techniques. With so many outsiders present, and having grown up immersed in the affairs of the martial world, no matter how unwilling, she could only snort coldly and stop hurling insults. She turned and walked toward the long bench in the pavilion, sat down heavily, and looked toward the waterfall, restless and annoyed.
The man apologized to Chen Ping’an, “Little brother, on behalf of my daughter, I, Wang Yiran, offer my apologies.”
Chen Ping’an nodded and turned to leave. In his heart, his impression of the young woman had sunk to the lowest point. She reminded him of the father-daughter pair Zhu He and Zhu Lu—the same scenario: the father, clearly a reasonable and generous good person, yet the daughter he raised was so domineering and self-centered.
How strange!
Thinking of Zhu Lu, who had tried to assassinate him, Chen Ping’an thought of the mastermind behind it: Li Baoping’s second brother, Li Baozhen. This was a grievance he could not bypass, and Chen Ping’an couldn’t help but sigh.
Chen Ping’an left without a word. This detail instantly made the fiery-tempered young woman completely unable to contain herself. She shot to her feet and shouted harshly, “The dignified master of Horizontal Saber Villa personally apologizes to you, and you don’t even let out a single fart? Born without a mother, raised without a father!”
Chen Ping’an turned expressionlessly, tightened the ropes binding the sword case on his back, and said, “If you want a spar, then let’s spar.”
During the seven-hundred-mile journey from the ancient temple to Sword Water Mountain Villa, Chen Ping’an had been mostly silent, his mood low. Xu Yuanxia and Zhang Shanjun had noticed this. Even the big-bearded man had restrained his drinking, no longer telling drunken jokes or racy talk. When Chen Ping’an said he wanted to see the waterfall, both of them, though tempted, had tacitly said they didn’t want to move, leaving him to his own thoughts.
The woman strode to the top of the steps and sneered, “Good, I’ve been waiting for that!”
But Chen Ping’an’s next words shocked everyone in and around the pavilion. “Will an oral death pledge count?”
The saber master Wang Yiran, famous throughout Comb Water Country, said gravely, “Little brother, we can spar. Win or lose, I won’t interfere. But I hope there’s no fighting to the death—just a contest of skill, how about that?”
Just as the sword-carrying woman was about to speak, Wang Yiran shot her a sharp glare. Never having seen her father so severe before, she was struck silent, not daring to exchange harsh words with that damn outsider.
Wang Yiran stared hard at Chen Ping’an. “If you insist on a death pledge to fight, I won’t allow it. But if it’s just a spar, even if you strike hard, I’m willing to let my daughter endure it. I hope she learns the depth of the martial world through this, stops looking down on others, thinking she’s invincible after learning a few superficial skills!”
At the end, the man glanced at his daughter. With so many outsiders present, these words carried heavy weight.
Teach your child in public, correct your wife in private.
That was probably the old rule of the veteran martial artists.
Chen Ping’an took a deep breath. “Then let’s spar!”
Standing beside his daughter, Wang Yiran lowered his voice. “Shanhu, be mindful of your strength. Leave some leeway, don’t narrow your own path in the martial world.”
Clearly, Wang Yiran still had more faith in his daughter. But as a father, he had to say the right things.
The sword-carrying woman looked at the boy on the path outside the pavilion, curling her lips. “Father, I know what I’m doing.”
She pressed her hand on the saber hilt, smiled faintly, and with a tap of her toes, leaped high toward the ignorant young swordsman.
The moment her famous sword left its sheath—
A muffled rumble came from the path. In the corner of everyone’s vision, that figure vanished. The next moment, the youth with the sword case appeared right in front of the sword-wielding woman. One punch smashed into her forehead. Using the rebound, he flipped back to his original position, retracted his fist stance, and stood there gracefully. As for the woman, she flew like a broken kite, punched clean over the pavilion roof, and finally crashed into the pool beneath the waterfall, her life unknown.
The two sides in the spar.
One side made a lot of noise but little substance—none at all, actually.
The other side made no noise at all, but his attack was like a torrential downpour crashing down.
Chen Ping’an turned and left, taking off the Sword-Nurturing Gourd, raising it high, and taking a gulp of wine, leaving the pavilion crowd to stare at his back.
So even a mud Buddha has a temper after all.