Chapter 279: Piercing the Heart

Chapter 279: Heart-Piercing Strike

The moment these words were spoken, a stunned silence fell over the entire arena.

Xiao Wu instantly looked up at Xie Shu, as if about to rise, but Xie Shu gently raised his hand and eased him back down onto his shoulder.

Xiao Wu’s lips moved slightly, but after a long silence, he finally lowered his gaze and said nothing.

Since Xie Chunshan wanted to test his sword, Xiao Wu had no right to stop him now.

On the dueling platform, the disciples buzzed with excitement. This was a battle between the two most celebrated cultivators of their era—a rare opportunity to witness such a contest. For those with mediocre talent, this might be their only chance in life to glimpse such an exalted duel. They didn’t need to grasp the full picture; even a sliver of insight could open doors for them, allowing them to carve their name into the annals of cultivation.

From the pavilions, the sect leaders saw things quite differently from the junior disciples. They exchanged glances, their expressions grave.

Daoist Cangshan was the foremost figure of the righteous sects, while Xie Chunshan was the undisputed master of the demonic path. Xie Chunshan’s challenge to Daoist Cangshan was no mere sparring match—it was a contest that could determine not only superiority but life and death.

Daoist Cangshan’s hand, which had been stroking his white jade horsetail whisk, paused. He rose from his seat and took a step forward, standing at the edge of the cliff.

Locking eyes with Xie Chunshan, he raised his voice, his authoritative tone echoing through the mountain valleys: "Young friend, you wish to test the Cangshan Sword?"

Xie Shu replied with ease, "I request the privilege."

At this moment, two towering peaks loomed over the dueling platform. Daoist Cangshan was clad in white, Xie Chunshan in black—one standing atop each summit, their sleeves and robes billowing in the fierce wind, like counterweights on a cosmic scale. And what was at stake on this scale was the fate of the righteous and demonic paths for the next century.

If Xie Chunshan won, the righteous sects would decline, and the demonic path would rise to dominance. The disciples of Wuwang Palace would roam unchecked. If Xie Chunshan lost, the righteous path would flourish, the demonic sects would retreat into obscurity, and Shangling Sect would secure its place as the dominant power.

The countless young disciples below had no idea that destiny's threads were tightening around them—that a duel seemingly unrelated to them was already intertwined with the destiny of all.

Under the gaze of the crowd, Daoist Cangshan was the first to raise the Cangshan Sword. For a battle of their level, a mere dueling platform could not contain their sword intent. Only by transforming the Shangling mountain range into their arena, with the heavens and cliffs as their backdrop, could they unleash their full might.

Daoist Cangshan looked at Xie Chunshan, his smile never reached his eyes, his gaze sharp with hidden intent. "Young friend, after you."

Xie Chunshan smiled. "You first."

Daoist Cangshan said, "I am older than you by a few years. I shall yield the first move to you—please, strike first."

Righteous cultivators always had countless rules when crossing swords, flaunting their lofty and unsullied virtue, unwilling to take advantage. But this so-called "nobility" seemed almost laughable when applied to Daoist Cangshan.

Xie Shu fluttered his fan lazily and chuckled. "We demonic cultivators act freely, unbound by such formalities. Daoist, please."

His words were a thinly-veiled barb at the hypocrisy of the righteous path.

The guilt-ridden are easily pricked. Daoist Cangshan snapped his sleeve and snorted coldly. "Then I shall not stand on ceremony."

With a sharp ring of steel, the Cangshan Sword left its sheath. In the flickering light, sand and stones flew as a fierce gale howled through the empty valley like the shrieks of tortured spirits.

Daoist Cangshan struck first.

As the leader of Shangling Sect, his swordplay was measured and poised, as unshakable as the towering Shangling mountains rising from the plains—an immovable bulwark, embodying eight centuries of righteous fortune.

A vast tide of sword energy pierced the sky, with the devastating force of a collapsing peak as it swept downward, like an immortal descending from the clouds to interrogate the challenger.

Under such overwhelming spiritual pressure, Wu Buke and Xue Sui both staggered back two steps, barely steadying themselves. The weaker attendants had nowhere to retreat—their backs pressed against the rocks, their eyes filled with terror.

Xiao Wu remained seated, unmoved, his brows furrowed as he watched the black-clad figure at the storm’s center.

Xie Shu still stood in place, one hand lightly waving his folding fan, his wide sleeves fluttering in the wind. His demeanor was effortless, radiating an effortless elegance.

His defiance undoubtedly enraged Daoist Cangshan. In an instant, the winds and clouds surged as sword energy pierced the sky, a flash of cold steel aimed straight for the killing point between Xie Chunshan's brows.

Yet Xie Shu did not raise his sword.

He sidestepped the strike with two quick steps, then snapped his fan shut and raised it midair, blocking the longsword head-on.

With a sharp *clang*, under the unparalleled might of the Cangshan Sword, the fan only bent slightly—still intact.

Xie Shu thought to himself, *Just as I suspected.*

This fan was no ordinary weapon—it was the finest in Wuwang Palace. Moreover, it hadn’t even taken the sword’s full force but had deflected the residual energy. Even so, the fan should have shattered.

Its survival meant only one thing—the Cangshan Sword rejected Daoist Cangshan.

As this world’s architect, Xie Shu had reviewed no fewer than ten versions of its lore. Some details were never explicitly written, some were discarded, but as his understanding of this world deepened, those clues—hidden or discarded—had still shaped its laws, subtly shaping reality.

For instance, cultivation must be earned step by step—any power gained through plunder or forbidden arts would inevitably backfire. For instance, a cultivator’s lifespan was finite; once their time neared its end, their strength would wane like a receding tide. And for instance, the path of the sword must align with one’s Dao heart—if one cultivated an incompatible path, their power would crumble to a fraction.

A tender heart could never wield a ruthless blade. A righteous heart could never command a sinister and venomous sword. And a ruthless schemer could never master a sword of clarity and purity.

The Cangshan Sword, named for the towering majesty of its namesake mountain and its duty to protect all living beings, was a legacy blade passed down for generations of the Shangling Sect. It had once accompanied countless noble and virtuous sect leaders, serving as the sect’s sacred treasure.

But what if its current master leached others’ cultivation to cling to life?

Perhaps Daoist Cangshan had once been upright, once been honorable—but time had changed him. As his lifespan eroded, he was no longer the proud and indomitable figure of the past.

Such a man could never wield the Cangshan Sword well.

Moreover, in the quiet of night, Xie Shu had analyzed Xiao Wu’s swordplay countless times. He replayed each memory, attempted each move, until the Shangling Sect’s secret techniques unraveled before him like beginner-level game code. Superficially, they appeared entirely different, yet their underlying logic bore striking similarities. At a glance, Xie Shu could instantly discern the effects, flaws, and counters of every stance.

Every foreshadowing planted in the game now found its counterpart here.

Xie Shu drew Xie Chunshan’s sword.

Clouds churned; rain lashed down.

Xie Chunshan’s sword was named Abyss—its blade pitch-black, a faint glow swirling beneath its surface, its edge slender and sharp like the steep peaks of the Wuwang Mountains.

Even now, Xie Shu had yet to fully grasp Xie Chunshan’s swordsmanship.

He had once painstakingly studied the sword techniques of the Wuwang Sect, delving into every move, striving to mimic them perfectly. But as he progressed, Xie Shu suddenly realized—Wuwang Palace’s swordsmanship had no fixed forms.

The heart of the sword mirrored the heart of the Dao. Xie Chunshan himself was a man of whims and impulses, driven by whim alone. He needed no memorized stances, no deep understanding of manuals—what he needed was sheer, unbridled arrogance.

Xie Shu was nothing like Xie Chunshan. He was cautious, calculating, always planning three steps ahead, ensuring an escape route for every move. But in this world, he could embrace *arrogance*.

He was this world’s creator, a god who had shaped its very rules. From the grand tides of fate down to the life stories of every key figure, he had left his mark on it all. The laws of this world bore his name in every line—he *was* its providence and destiny.

If the Creator willed Daoist Cangshan’s death, how could he possibly live?

In this, Xie Shu’s mindset aligned perfectly with Xie Chunshan’s.

As Abyss cleared its sheath, black clouds surged from the horizon, blotting out the sky. The battlefield plunged into darkness. The crowd lifted their eyes toward the storm’s heart, where swordlight surged like a tidal wave, thunderous and overwhelming. Trees trembled, leaves scattered—within mere breaths, the two had already exchanged a hundred blows.

Another two hundred breaths, and a thousand strikes had passed.

The swords wailed mournfully; mountains and rivers shook. Outside the arena, dust and debris swirled, while at its center, two figures—one black, one white—flickered in and out of the mist, visible only in the fleeting moments when blade-light tore through the clouds.

Beyond the storm, the junior disciples held their breath. The elders’ faces were grim.

Xiao Wu's face was icy, but upon closer inspection, his fingers dug into the railing of the pavilion, nearly crushing the wood to splinters.

After what felt like an eternity, a blade's energy arced through the air, followed by the sound of something heavy hitting the ground—as if someone's sword had been knocked away, and they themselves had crashed down hard.

The rain cleared, and a beam of sunlight suddenly pierced through the layers of clouds, casting dappled shades of azure and jade, forming a rainbow bridge between the two mountains.

The mountain fog clung stubbornly, neither here nor gone, as everyone held their breath and looked. On the ground, two figures were faintly visible—one in black, one in white, one kneeling, one standing.

The standing figure was upright, while the kneeling one leaned on his sword, as if the outcome had already been decided.

Xiao Wu abruptly stood up.

The one standing was Daoist Cangshan, and the one kneeling was Xie Chunshan.

But before the Righteous Path could cheer, the standing figure collapsed with a thunderous crash. Thick streams of blood gushed from his chest, and Daoist Cangshan's eyes fluttered weakly—his breathing ragged, his life slipping away.

Xie Shu propped himself up with his sword, his entire body seared with pain. His face was deathly pale, his forehead and back slick with cold sweat, his palms so clammy he could barely grip the hilt.

It hurt—his skin, his meridians, even his organs—every part of him screamed in agony, as if—

Even back in the ICU in the Previous Dynasty, hooked to an IV, he had never felt pain like this.

Daoist Cangshan was, after all, a seasoned swordsman. Xie Shu’s victory had been by a hair's breadth. Even after dismantling his sword techniques, he couldn’t evade every strike. His body was riddled with wounds, his meridians shattered nearly as thoroughly as Xiao Wu’s had been when he first arrived at Wuwang Palace—a state of severe depletion, barely clinging to life.

Demon cultivators knew no mercy, only self-interest. A body like this, returned to the Demon Palace, would be devoured by underlings long before the wounds could heal.

But it didn’t matter. The plot was nearing its conclusion.

Xie Shu had anticipated this earlier. Given how loosely the rules worked, Xie Chunshan didn’t necessarily have to die by Xiao Wu’s sword. He could challenge Daoist Cangshan instead. At Xie Shu’s current level, killing Daoist Cangshan outright would be ideal, but even if he lost, severely wounding the old man—putting him out of commission for a hundred years—would suffice.

Without this millstone around his neck, Xiao Wu’s path to unifying the immortal and demonic realms would be far smoother. That cultured, aristocratic young master, carefully nurtured in Wuwang Palace for so long, would ascend to the highest position in the world—without setbacks or strife, his rise unimpeded.

This was the last thing Xie Shu could do for his favorite character before leaving.

Now, all that remained was for Daoist Cangshan to deliver the final strike, and everything would end.

Xie Shu lurched upright.

The pain was excruciating. He nearly gasped aloud but clenched his teeth, steadying himself as he walked toward the half-dead Daoist Cangshan.

A few feet behind the old man lay a broken sword, its tip buried half an inch into the soil—knocked from a disciple’s hand earlier during Xiao Wu’s sparring match.

Xie Shu had deliberately left Daoist Cangshan with a sliver of life and maneuvered him to this exact spot.

66 clung to Xie Shu’s hair, its interface displaying a bold [OK].

Xie Shu took two steps forward and knelt beside Daoist Cangshan. The old man spat out a mouthful of bloody foam. "You... why would you...?"

Several times during the fight, he had sensed something amiss and thought to disengage. Their cultivation levels were similar—prolonging the clash would only leave both gravely injured. Better to call a truce. With the storm clouds obscuring the arena, they could have dragged out the fight for a hundred exchanges, traded some performative banter to fool the onlookers. But Xie Chunshan had pressed him like a man possessed. Now, Daoist Cangshan was on the brink of death, and Xie Chunshan hadn’t emerged unscathed either.

Xie Shu grabbed his collar and yanked him forward, baring his teeth. "Old man, do you know why, after attending so many immortal and demonic gatherings together, I chose today of all days to make trouble for you?"

His body ached, his voice gritted against the pain, his words fragmented—but his laughter was bright and unrestrained. "When Xiao Wu came to Wuwang Palace, his meridians were shattered. Was that your doing?"

Daoist Cangshan’s pupils dilated. "Xiao... Xiao Wu...?"

Over the centuries, he had leeched the power from countless others. Xiao Wu wasn’t the first, nor was he meant to be the last. The Shangling Sect was the foremost faction of the Righteous Path—countless geniuses had fallen, and no one would suspect a reclusive elder. Daoist Cangshan couldn't for the life of him recall harming such a person.

Xie Shu whispered, "Old man, guess—if I were to reveal that you’ve been prolonging your life by stealing others’ cultivation, what would your precious disciples think of their venerated elder then?"

Righteous Path cultivators all care about saving face. If longevity ranked first in Daoist Cangshan's heart, his leathery, orange-peel-like face would undoubtedly come second.

Hearing these words, the old man indeed turned his murky eyes, shakily turning his gaze.

Daoist Cangshan's hand reached backward, his brow twitching. He channeled his last shreds of mana, quietly controlling the broken sword.

Even at death's door, Cangshan remained the foremost figure of the Righteous Path. Qi energy surged around the blade, swift and precise, aimed straight for the chest.

At the same time, the system's electronic voice echoed in Xie Shu's mind: "Critical plot point activating. Host pain perception shielding initiated. Pain suppression: engaged. Plot completion rate calculating... Metrics met. Reward: Return to original world*1. Initializing return protocol. Countdown: 10, 9, 8, 7—"

Amidst the system's cold countdown, Xie Shu suddenly staggered. He indifferently lowered his gaze—beneath his dark robes, the tip of a broken sword pierced straight into his heart, soaking his clothes in a flood of blood.

He felt no pain, yet the sensation of his heart being impaled was still unnervingly alien.

Xie Shu's vision, hearing, even his sense of touch grew hazy and distant. The world blurred behind fog—or frosted glass. For a moment, it almost felt like his ICU vigil at death’s door.

He waited for the blade to fully pierce through his heart.

But the next second, the sword tip abruptly stopped. The cold, sharp metal halted mid-heart, not advancing another inch.

In a daze, Xie Shu lifted his eyes. A figure clad in white stood before him, a bamboo hat obscuring his face. His whole hand clamped the blade tightly, allowing the edge to cut deep into flesh, refusing to let it move forward even half an inch. Blood dripped freely, leaving bone-deep gashes.

Xiao Wu. Of course it was him.

Xie Shu could no longer hold himself up, staggering as he collapsed. His eyes dropped, lifeless, to the blood spilling from the other's palm, staining the blade before dripping slowly from its edge.

As his eyes closed, Xie Shu thought: "That's Xiao Wu's sword hand."

A swordsman’s hand—ruined. For him?

So, in the midst of hollow confusion, Xie Shu instinctively raised his hand, his fingertips brushing against Xiao Wu's palm.

His own hand was drenched in blood. So was Xiao Wu's. The blood burned where they touched. When their hands met, it almost seemed as though Xie Shu were gently cleaning Pingwu’s wounds.

But Xiao Wu’s grip faltered; Xie Shu’s fingers slipped free.

"3, 2, 1—"

Almost simultaneously, the mechanical voice reverberated in Xie Shu's mind.

"Congratulations, Host. Countdown complete. Program successfully initiated."

"This mission is complete. Enjoy your hard-won normal life."

Author's Note:

66 (cheerfully): "Mission success! Confetti time~~"

Biscuit (ominously): "Don’t pop the champagne yet."