Chapter 116: Iron Blade Startles Wind and Rain (Part 2)
The first slash Wang Po had aimed at Zhu Luo was the strongest slash of his life, and Su Li had no reaction to it. Now, as Wang Po withdrew his blade, Su Li's shout of praise pierced the torrential rain and landed in everyone's ears. Because besides Zhu Luo, he was the only one present who walked in the sacred domain, and only he could understand how difficult it was for Wang Po to withdraw his blade like that.
Moreover, that slash had cut through that wet leaf—what did that mean? It meant Wang Po had seen through the wind and rain Zhu Luo had summoned!
A cultivator at the peak of Star Gathering realm, able to cross the threshold and glimpse the operating rules of that world—how incredible was that? Seeing through was already extremely difficult, let alone actually striking true. Wang Po's comprehension of the blade path was so profound it seemed not like mere decades of cultivation, but as if he had immersed himself in it for centuries.
Su Li had seen countless prodigies in his life, had personally taught Autumn Mountain Lord, Seven Intervals, and Chen Changsheng, yet he was still shaken by the talent contained in this single slash.
The rain-washed cold blade met the wet falling leaf in the air. Anything wet becomes heavy; this leaf was now as heavy as a great mountain, yet it still could not withstand the iron blade's chop. With a muffled boom, the wet leaf shattered into countless fragments flying in all directions, as if a rapidly expanding sphere had appeared in the dark, rainy street.
Violent true essence burst forth with countless leaf shreds, the hard bluestone ground was riddled with dense holes, and the street walls, already covered with countless blade scars, were carved into piles of sand.
Wang Po held his blade before him, deploying his blade domain once more.
His body, and behind him Chen Changsheng holding the reins, and Su Li on horseback, were all protected behind the iron blade.
The rainy street rang with dense, crisp impacts, like tens of thousands of needles simultaneously striking a smooth metal surface, unbroken and continuous.
The wind in the storm grew fiercer, blowing everything. In the ruins of the inn several li away, an exquisite abacus lay in the dirty water, its beads rattled by the wind, producing crisp sounds that truly resembled a piece of music.
The wind and rain gradually ceased, the long street grew quiet, and the beads on the abacus slowly stopped turning.
Wang Po still stood in place, not yielding an inch. The iron blade remained in his hand, with no intention of lowering it, but his face was already very pale, and his simple clothes were torn and bloodied everywhere.
The street was silent. Water dripped from the remaining eaves, drop by drop, but no one felt annoyed, because no one cared about such things.
Chen Changsheng no longer held the reins. He gripped his sword with both hands, watching ahead with serious focus, looking past Wang Po's shoulder at that seemingly invincible, godlike strongman. Wang Po was already severely injured. And Zhu Luo, up to this moment, had not truly struck. No matter how you looked at it, Wang Po had already lost, but he had at least blocked Zhu Luo for a moment—that was already remarkable.
Next, naturally, it would be his turn to block.
Zhu Luo did not pay attention to Chen Changsheng's movements. With a slightly surprised expression, he looked at Wang Po and said, "I didn't expect that you haven't even reached the peak of Star Gathering realm, let alone being anywhere near Half-Step Saint, yet you can already glimpse some of the edge rules of the sacred domain?"
Wang Po said, "All things share the same principle; the mundane and the sacred naturally have points of connection."
Zhu Luo said, "Such talent, such insight—no wonder you dared to strike at me... but what's the point?"
Yes, for the whole matter, Wang Po's talent and perseverance meant nothing.
Because he could not defeat Zhu Luo.
Zhu Luo's sword was still in its sheath, yet he could make the strongest on the Carefree List bleed all over and suffer severe injuries.
Renowned in all directions, wind and rain darkening—truly unimaginably strong.
The gap between them lay in years, in realm, in the abyss separating the sacred from the mundane—it simply could not be erased by talent and will. How could Wang Po not lose?
But some people didn't see it that way.
"You lost," Su Li said.
The distant crowd watched the scene, hearing these words, and felt confused. How could that be? Wang Po was covered in blood, clearly severely injured—where was any chance of victory?
Su Li sat on horseback, looking at Zhu Luo, and said, "Losing to such a junior—don't you find it shameful?"
Zhu Luo's hair, loose on his shoulders, was stirred by the wind, slowly floating up, and his eyebrows did the same. However, just as he was about to say something, he fell silent and looked down at himself. There were no wounds, no bloodstains, only a corner of his robe slowly drifting down.
A tiny piece of his left sleeve had been cut off.
Whether for Zhu Luo or for any cultivator of any realm, this would not affect their combat ability. But watching that piece of cloth drift down into the rainwater at his feet, Zhu Luo was silent for a long time. Seeing this scene, the crowd fell silent, thinking—had he really lost? Where?
No one understood Su Li's words or Zhu Luo's silence. Chen Changsheng didn't understand either. Liang Wangsun vaguely understood. Wang Po understood, but he didn't accept it.
Victory and defeat, winning and losing—on the surface, they mean exactly the same thing. But at certain times, in certain specific contexts, losing doesn't mean you've been defeated. For example, a thug in black-and-white clothes might have his head smashed into the concrete, yet still grab a piece of wood and lightly tap the ultimate villain's bald head—it's meaningless, but he wins. Su Li naturally wouldn't use such value judgments to evaluate the first exchange between Wang Po and Zhu Luo. Wang Po had certainly lost—undisputedly, inevitably, and rightfully lost—but Su Li still believed the loser was Zhu Luo.
Zhu Luo's reaction at this moment showed that to some extent, he accepted Su Li's reasoning.
When Zhou Dufu was three years old, could he defeat all opponents under heaven? When Empress Tianhai first entered the palace, who could she beat? When you were Wang Po's age, could you defeat him? This was what Su Li wanted to say to Zhu Luo. It sounded somewhat like sophistry, but actually made sense—though this kind of reasoning had to be understood within the domain of the continent's strongest figures.
Chen Changsheng understood, and thought somewhat dazedly, that if compared by age, then he... oh, and Xu Yourong, and Chen Chujian, wouldn't they be the strongest? Su Li didn't know Chen Changsheng's thoughts at this moment, or he would have mocked him thoroughly. He continued to Zhu Luo, "There's another problem—you've regressed too much."
Zhu Luo was silent, displeased. The light rain fell, but dared not touch his cloak, veering away and drifting past.
"Back then, you could kill the Second Demon General with one sword reflecting the moon. Now, how could you possibly be a match for Haidi? The dashing young man who once killed with poetry, now old and decrepit, completely lacking in edge—that's one thing. But on top of that, you act without any magnanimity, not even comparable to that woman Tianhai. For centuries, you dared not set foot in the capital. And now you want to use circumstances to kill a junior who might threaten your position? Tsk tsk, you've really made something of yourself."
Su Li continued, "Why? You're old, nearly a thousand years old, long overdue to die. Old and not dying—what's that? A thief, an old thief. People are like trees—when they're strongest, they should sway wildly in the spring wind. Living too long and clinging desperately to life, your body decaying into rotten wood, until finally struck by lightning into charred ash—what's the point?"
Zhu Luo finally spoke, looking at him and saying, "Are you done?"
Su Li said, "Done cursing."
Zhu Luo said, "What you said makes sense."
Su Li's sword-like brows lifted slightly, showing some interest, and asked, "So?"
Zhu Luo said, "That was your second sword."
Every word stabbed the heart, every sentence was a sword. Su Li was severely injured and unable to fight, but his sword heart remained, and his words could still wound.
Su Li looked at him quietly, confirming that this old fellow indeed had the qualifications for wild arrogance, having been unaffected at all.
"I've taken two of your swords. Now, it's time for me to draw my sword."
With these words, Zhu Luo's right hand moved like a dragon breaking through layered clouds, reaching his waist and gripping the sword hilt.
Dark clouds descended again, heavy rain fell again, the sky darkened again, and fallen leaves came thick and fast, dancing wildly among the raindrops.
Zhu Luo drew the sword from its sheath. The sword was not bright, and looked unremarkable. However, the edges of the dark clouds covering Xunyang City suddenly grew bright, as if plated with silver. Was that a halo? What was behind the clouds? The sun? No—it was the demon moon, which should not appear in the human world.
That was Zhu Luo's past, his greatest glory.
Many years ago, on the snowy plains, he had seen that bright moon, recited a beautiful poem, killed a very strong opponent, and thus became a generation of strongmen on the continent, earning the title "Solitary Drinker Under the Moon."
Finally, this strongman showed Xunyang City the true sight of the Saint realm.
Through layers of rain curtains and countless wet leaves, Chen Changsheng sensed that majestic, solemn light power, feeling his body grow stiffer and stiffer, even instinctively wanting to avoid it. So this was the Saint realm? So this domain wasn't like the Star Gathering realm's star field—a single light covered everything, with no division at all. How then could one attack? He had read through the Daoist canon since childhood; in terms of knowledge and learning, he was definitely not inferior to anyone, yet he couldn't understand the light at the edges of the dark clouds or the brightness brought by that sword, because the operating rules of the sacred domain were beyond his comprehension.
The pitch-black storm, the bright sword, the leaden clouds that seemed about to burn.
Against such a magnificent backdrop, Wang Po's figure seemed even smaller, as if it might be swallowed at any moment.
"Forget it!" Chen Changsheng shouted to him.
Wang Po didn't turn around, saying, "I want to try again. Having this kind of experience isn't easy."
The storm washed his face, showing neither fear nor joy, as calm as his voice, stirring awe and respect in people's hearts.
That was true calm—the calm of "hearing the Way in the morning, dying in the evening is acceptable."
Chen Changsheng said nothing more, knowing he had learned something again.
Zhu Luo's sword arrived.
The world was either light or darkness. The sword came, dark wind and rain carrying light, and no matter how vast the world, there was no corner to hide. Wang Po couldn't dodge either.
He struck again, a straightforward slash with no novelty, but where the blade's momentum landed, it was full of novelty.
He wasn't cutting at that sword light, not at the countless flying leaves, not at Zhu Luo over ten zhang away—he was cutting at the wind and rain.
Wind and rain moved through space.
Wang Po's iron blade fell straight down, cutting through the rain column, slicing through the wind threads, breaking through space.
With a tearing sound, a dark rift appeared on the rainy street.
If there was no way to avoid Zhu Luo's sword within this world?
Then cut open a new path, and go to a new world together.