Chapter 115: The Iron Sword Startles the Wind and Rain (Part 1)
Zhu Luo’s words seemed calm, but they were in fact extremely forceful, extremely domineering. Everyone understood that the true meaning behind them was: How dare you actually attack me?
Wang Po did not move his feet. He rolled up his sleeves and began to wipe his iron sword. He was only preparing for battle, not yet striking, but this alone had already filled Zhu Luo with hidden fury, because it had been many years since anyone dared to attack him.
The Eight Directions Wind and Rain were nearly divine. Any attempt to attack a god was provocation, blasphemy, a death wish. Even a mere gesture was unacceptable, even if that person was Tianliang Wang Po.
The people on Rain Street were also shocked. They did not understand why Wang Po would do this. He could not possibly have any chance.
Zhu Luo’s realm had long surpassed the mundane and entered the sacred domain.
If one did not count the White Emperor and his wife, there were twelve strongest individuals in the human world, and he was one of them.
Wang Po was on the Carefree List, the undisputed strongest of the middle generation. Having entered the upper level of Star Gathering before the age of forty was indeed astonishing, but the distance from the Saintly Realm was like the gap between the starry sea and a muddy swamp.
Many believed that Wang Po would one day enter the sacred domain and become a new member of the Eight Directions Wind and Rain, perhaps even achieving greater heights. But that would certainly be decades or even centuries later.
Right now, Wang Po before Zhu Luo was merely a junior who could only bow and receive instruction.
Yet he wanted to attack Zhu Luo?
“This junior dares not,” Wang Po said.
He raised his head, looking at Zhu Luo calmly, even somewhat woodenly.
Zhu Luo’s brows gradually relaxed, and the atmosphere on Rain Street lightened slightly.
Wang Po lifted his iron sword, pointing it through the curtain of rain at this unshakable continental powerhouse, and said, “Please, senior, strike first.”
The street erupted in clamor. Even the increasingly violent rain could not drown out the people’s exclamations and discussions.
Zhu Luo’s brows suddenly shot up. A vast aura burst forth, shaking the heavy rain apart.
Then he laughed again, a cold and detached laugh that echoed through the entire city of Xunyang.
“What a pity,” Zhu Luo said indifferently, sounding somewhat regretful. Because among the few individuals in the human world most likely to enter the sacred domain, one would die after today, with no further chance.
“What a pity,” Su Li sighed.
He did not want Wang Po to die and had done some things to prevent it, but Wang Po did not accept it. Because Wang Po’s sword path was different from his own sword path, and also different from Zhou Dufu’s sword path back then. His sword emphasized one word: straightness.
When Wang Po rolled up his sleeves and wiped his sword, Su Li suddenly felt that this fellow’s sword might one day burst forth with a brilliance entirely different from his own and Zhou Dufu’s, perhaps even more interesting.
So he found it very regrettable.
This world would never have the chance to see Wang Po’s future sword. Surely the world would also find that regrettable.
Liang Wangsun watched Wang Po in the rain and said nothing, his mood somewhat complicated. To accomplish certain things, to complete one’s life experience, and thus abandon life to march toward the unchallengeable—this was not too difficult for geniuses like them to understand or accept. That was why he was willing to sacrifice his life to kill Su Li, even though his spiritual world was a bloody ocean. But what about Wang Po? Was it truly only based on the ideals in his heart?
At this thought, he suddenly felt great admiration. He thought to himself, no wonder he had never been able to catch up to this man in over thirty years. No wonder Xiao Zhang, no matter how madly he cultivated, could not surpass this man in over thirty years. No wonder Xun Mei had to imprison herself in the Heavenly Book Mausoleum for over thirty years, only managing to stand shoulder to shoulder with this man before her death by transcending life and death.
Also watching Wang Po was Chen Changsheng. He did not speak or think too much, only unconsciously feeling boundless admiration. He thought Wang Po was incredibly cool, and for some reason... it always made him feel a sense of closeness.
Then he understood. Wang Po was very much like many people around him... no, it should be said that many people he knew were like Wang Po, in certain aspects—like Zhexiu, like Tang Thirty-Six, like Gou Hanshi, like... himself.
Those similarities were often the most shining points: persistence, gentleness, determination, perseverance, pride, silence. Chen Changsheng saw in Wang Po all of himself and his friends. A single old robe, yet countless lights. He also saw in Wang Po the beauty of Chen Chujian, and even Nanke.
Knowing I cannot win, I still fight, and I will fight you to the death. Such a person is truly remarkable. Besides his senior brother Yu Ren, Chen Changsheng felt he had gained another role model for his cultivation journey.
So he began to learn.
He rolled up his sleeves and drew the Dragon’s Roar short sword from its sheath.
Just then, Wang Po inserted the sword’s hilt into the sheath’s mouth. With a crisp *clack*, the sword and sheath merged into one, becoming a large sword. Then he slowly gripped the hilt with both hands, staring straight at Zhu Luo ahead.
Chen Changsheng thought it was quite a coincidence. He inserted the sword’s hilt into the sheath’s mouth, turning the short sword into a horizontal sword with a very long hilt. He too gripped the hilt with both hands, staring at Zhu Luo at the other end of the street.
Thus, separated by over ten zhang, they stood one behind the other in the rain.
Su Li sat on his horse. Rainwater washed his face, making it somewhat pale, but his eyes grew brighter and brighter.
Zhu Luo walked forward. The rain did not intensify, but the wind grew wetter and colder. The light became dim and gloomy. Someone looked up at the sky and saw that the dark clouds above had deepened considerably.
Drinking alone under the moon without companionship—his dao was the severance of emotion and the extinction of nature, solitary and unmatched.
As his steps rose and fell, the fallen leaves in the rainwater were suddenly shaken up. Carrying water droplets, they were blown about wildly by the cold wind. With the dance of these wet leaves, a desolate feeling enveloped the long street.
Several muffled groans and cries of pain came from the crowd. The wet leaves, carried by the force, cut several cultivators like sharp arrows. Only then did people wake up, realizing how terrifying the upcoming battle would be. They quickly retreated to the farther streets and alleys. In an instant, the long street became even quieter, emptier.
The word “empty” was not quite accurate, because there was still the heavy rain.
In the heavy rain, the truly unstoppable wind and rain of this continent were slowly approaching.
Wang Po carried his sword, Chen Changsheng led his horse, and Su Li sat on his horse, facing the wind and rain.
Standing at the very front was Wang Po.
With a soft *shush*, the iron sword rose against the rain, held horizontally before him.
Wang Po did not strike, because he was the junior and Zhu Luo was the senior.
Naturally, Zhu Luo would not take advantage of him either. He raised his hand and lightly tapped in the heavy curtain of rain, which was equivalent to striking.
A muffled thunderclap sounded before Wang Po. A fierce wind howled, and rain poured down as if a waterfall had sprung up there.
The wet fallen leaves still danced in the rain.
Zhu Luo walked slowly forward, his black cloak also dancing in the rain.
Wang Po’s face paled several shades.
His sword domain endured an unimaginable crushing force. In the air before him, rain flew wildly, and hundreds of traces appeared and disappeared continuously. Those traces were the collisions between Zhu Luo’s aura and his sword domain.
Zhu Luo did not deliberately raise his aura; he simply walked forward slowly, and Wang Po had to treat him like an honored guest.
The gap in strength and realm between him and Zhu Luo was too obvious.
Zhu Luo’s momentum and sword intent had not been fully released, yet they had already emptied the long street. Even the silent walls on both sides of the street were cut with countless deep marks by the wet leaves dancing in the wind and rain.
Wang Po’s hand gripping the sword hilt trembled slightly, his knuckles turning white.
The heavy rain soaked him completely, and countless raindrops streamed down, no one knew how much of it was sweat.
Meeting once, he knew that the golden wind could not move the jade dew. He could not possibly be Zhu Luo’s opponent, but still he had no intention of turning away. He did not retreat a single step. The iron sword remained horizontal before him, like a dike, like a mountain.
No matter how violent the wind and rain, that dike would not collapse, that mountain would still stand before the eyes, straight and unmatched.
Looking at the sword, washed even colder by the rain, feeling the unyielding will and the unimaginable power emanating from it, Zhu Luo raised an eyebrow slightly, feeling somewhat surprised. Further away, Xue He was even more stunned into silence.
Wang Po’s sword was stronger than anyone had imagined.
His sword could actually withstand the pressure of the sacred domain.
How had he done it?
Xue He used a sword. Watching the tall, thin man on Rain Street, he finally fully understood what Su Li had meant by that sentence.
—Wang Po used only one sword.
Only one sword, only one sword path. Only then could it be so pure, so strong!
Before Wang Po, the most famous sword master on this continent was Zhou Dufu. Zhou Dufu also cultivated only one sword path—the path of killing life. He used life and death to break through life and death. Wang Po could not learn Zhou Dufu’s sword, so he walked his own path.
He walked a straight path.
Wang Po’s sword path was summed up in one word: straightness. This straightness meant directness. He walked straight, the strokes of his characters when keeping accounts were very straight, and his numbers were never wrong.
When he looked at things or did things, he always followed his own likes and dislikes. It seemed even his intestines were straight. So even if his person was shabby beyond words, once his sword left its sheath, it was inevitably sharp and cold, straight as a cliff in the mountains.
How could even the most violent wind and rain destroy a cliff in such a short time?
Zhu Luo had already struck.
Now it was Wang Po’s turn to strike.
When he struck, it was naturally a sword strike.
He struck with one sword.
Holding the long handle made from the sheath, he swung the sword through the storm toward Zhu Luo.
Without a doubt, this was certainly the strongest sword of Wang Po’s life, because Zhu Luo was certainly the strongest opponent he had ever faced. If not for Su Li’s sake, logically speaking, before stepping through the threshold of the Saintly Realm, he had no reason to fight Zhu Luo. And based on the overall interests of humanity, Zhu Luo would not attack him either.
In other words, this battle had occurred decades, even a century, ahead of time.
The sword’s momentum surged. Its sharpness pierced through all the rain curtains and arrived before Zhu Luo.
Zhu Luo still showed no intention of using his sword. He struck again.
This time, he extended two fingers.
Wang Po’s sword stopped in the heavy rain, unable to descend any further.
From over ten zhang away, Zhu Luo’s two fingers turned into wind and rain, clamping down on the strongest sword of Wang Po’s life. Just as Liang Wangsun had used two fingers to clamp Chen Changsheng’s sword earlier. The gap in strength between Chen Changsheng and Liang Wangsun was vast, and the gap between Wang Po and Zhu Luo was equally vast, perhaps even greater.
The distance between the mundane and the divine had always been unreachable.
Wind and rain met iron sword on the long street, locked in stalemate. The wet fallen leaves still danced.
With sharp hissing sounds, several tears appeared on Wang Po’s clothes.
His sword domain was ultimately not perfect, especially after he had struck.
For a continental powerhouse like Zhu Luo, his eyes were a wisdom sword.
A single fallen leaf, in harmony with the principles of heaven and earth, evaded Wang Po’s sword momentum and landed on the iron sword. An unimaginable amount of true essence, all carried by that leaf, descended at once. A great mountain fell upon the iron sword.
Wang Po’s face was as white as snow, and blood spilled from the corner of his mouth.
His sword domain was broken.
What now?
He suddenly took a step forward.
Then he sank his waist, bent his knees, and turned his wrist.
He... withdrew his sword.
The iron sword cut through the rain and returned, accompanied by a soft sound.
That fallen leaf instantly turned into shredded threads.
In the heavy rain, Su Li’s cheer rang out.
“Excellent sword!”
(Using words to present images is truly difficult. I have always focused on this aspect and personally believe I have done well. But when the images truly appear, they will certainly have a unique beauty. The film adaptation of *The Legend of Chosen* is slowly starting to take shape recently. This will certainly be a very long process. The concept trailer made in advance feels quite good. I’ll share it on WeChat later for everyone to see. See you tomorrow.)