Chapter 30: Twenty Blades Unleashed, Twenty Lives Claimed

The blade—floated!

Suspended in mid-air, defying gravity—an ethereal weapon, wielded without a hand, like the divine artistry of an immortal!

From the decks of twenty or thirty ornate pleasure boats, over a hundred Confucian scholars stared in stupefied disbelief as the butcher's knife drifted aloft, slicing through the air towards them in stark defiance of logic and reason.

A flying blade?!

Indeed, the concept itself was not unheard of. The mechanists of old had once crafted such weaponry—concealed flying daggers meant for stealth and ambush. But this was different. Vastly different.

This blade bore not the subtlety of a hidden weapon, but the majesty of a force of nature. Surrounding it was a halo of indistinct, colossal blade shadows—each one pulsing with a pressure so immense it suffocated every scholar who laid eyes upon it.

Among the myriad schools of thought… which one could wield such mastery?

A hush fell across the flotilla. The Confucians dared not speak, sweat beading upon their brows as they fixed their gaze upon the butcher's knife soaring toward them.

Nie Changqing stood atop a pole plunged into the lake's surface, his robes flapping violently in the wind. The qi and blood within his body, once suppressed by the scholars' overwhelming righteous aura, surged anew. With spiritual energy, he guided the blade—unleashing a strike both dazzling and sublime.

This was the strongest slash he had ever delivered since attaining the rank of Grandmaster.

And yet, Nie Changqing remained unshaken. Inwardly tranquil, it felt no different to him than butchering a pig with a single stroke in his earlier days.

"Compared to the young master's pressure, which once suppressed Han Lianxiao with but a thought… my paltry skills are nothing."

He whispered this to himself.

Then, his gaze swept toward the pleasure boats, steady and resolute.

Boom!

Mist coiled into a spiraling vortex as the lake's spiritual energy surged skyward, like three divine flowers converging at a peak.

The scholars' expressions turned grave.

They hadn't expected Lu Fan to command Nie Changqing to strike. Though not noble by birth, they were still scholars of status, recognized with titles of merit.

Would Lu Fan truly dare to kill them?

To do so would invite the wrath of the imperial court, perhaps even the intervention of the Grand Preceptor.

How would Lu Fan clean up such a mess?

And yet… regardless of their inner turmoil—

Nie Changqing's slash had already fallen.

The lake, once rippling with wind and waves, fell eerily still—as calm as a polished mirror, unsettling in its serenity.

The pleasure boat locked onto by the butcher's blade stood frozen in dread. The scholars at its prow, once proud and composed, paled in horror.

Though scholars, some among them were also martial cultivators. One such man, a second-rate martial artist, felt as though he had plunged into the depths of hell beneath that overwhelming slash.

All trace of righteousness evaporated from his face, and the noble qi in his chest scattered.

Spinning around in panic, he shoved his peers aside, fleeing toward the rear of the boat like a madman.

Buzz...

Everyone waited for the blade to strike.

But the butcher's knife disappointed them.

It halted—one inch from the boat's deck.

Hovering eerily in place, its restraint was somehow more terrifying than if it had struck.

The lake remained silent.

On the other pleasure boats, the scholars widened their eyes in disbelief. The lack of immediate carnage left them strangely unsatisfied.

Yet on the targeted boat, the scholars had already lost their composure. Like the first man, they turned to flee in panic—but they did not get far.

Crimson lines split their bodies as if painted by fate itself. They were cleaved at the waist, their corpses torn asunder.

Boom!

The once-still lake erupted in white foam. A serpentine current, like a pale dragon, slithered from beneath Nie Changqing's pole all the way to the stricken boat.

The lake had been sundered—shallow though the cut, it stretched for hundreds of meters.

This strike carried the force of a dragon-slaying blow.

The righteous qi of the scholars crumbled utterly.

Crack.

The pleasure boat fractured.

Though the butcher's knife had not physically landed, its pressure alone left a deep, devastating scar across the deck.

A few scholars who reacted swiftly escaped with their lives, but blood spewed from their robes, and they collapsed upon the boards with anguished cries.

Green lakewater gurgled up through the hull.

The boat began to sink.

The scholars onboard, bereft of righteous qi, were no more than fragile, trembling men—less than third-rate warriors. In desperation, many tore off their robes and leapt into the freezing lake, swimming desperately for shore or other boats.

Those who couldn't swim collapsed where they stood, faces deathly pale.

Nie Changqing lifted his hand, fingers forming a beckoning grasp.

The suspended butcher's knife shivered, then floated back into his hand.

He stood tall upon the pole, plain robes billowing in the wind—yet he had cleaved the lake in twain with a single strike.

The Art of Blade Command—its debut appearance, stunning and peerless.

The scholars aboard the remaining boats were utterly dumbfounded.

Many trembled in soul and spirit.

A single blade—wielded from afar—could part a lake, slay men, and shatter ships?

Could this truly be the work of a mere martial artist?

Even among the legendary Grandmasters or the countless philosophers and masters of the Hundred Schools, who could claim such prowess?

The surface of North Luo Lake lay deathly silent.

Fishing boats bobbed gently upon the water.

On one such vessel, Ning Zhao stood quietly with her cicada-winged sword in hand, her rosy lips slightly parted at the sight of the unimaginable scene before her.

Even she—was utterly astonished.

Seated beside her in his wheelchair, Lu Fan did not so much as glance at the chaos. The wind tousled his hair as he calmly picked up a white chess piece, fingers brushing across the flawless, dustless board.

Then—

With two fingers, he dropped the piece upon the celestial center of the board.

Click.

"Old Nie," Lu Fan said quietly, "continue."

The spiritual-pressure-infused board shimmered. Placing a black piece would release quintuple pressure; placing white restored fifty percent of a chosen ally's spiritual energy.

Though Nie Changqing had only a sliver of qi left, half of that sliver… was still one sliver restored.

Standing atop the pole, blade in hand, Nie Changqing opened his eyes once more.

A flicker of exhilaration flashed across his face.

That irresistible, addictive energy… had returned!

Buzz...

The butcher's knife in his grip surged once more with spiraling spiritual force.

Still pondering the mysteries of the slash he had just delivered, Nie Changqing unleashed another blow—this time from a different angle—toward a second pleasure boat.

The scholars aboard were petrified.

They had neither the calm nor the composure of true masters in the face of death.

Slash after slash.

Nie Changqing wielded his blade relentlessly, while Lu Fan dropped piece after piece with ease.

Their synergy was seamless.

There was, inexplicably, a poetic elegance to the scene.

Twenty white pieces fell in succession.

And with each one, Nie Changqing delivered a strike.

Twenty slashes cleaved twenty pleasure boats.

His comprehension of the Art of Blade Command deepened with every blow.

Across North Luo Lake, the Confucian scholars scattered like dumplings falling into soup. Faces pale with cold and dread, none dared utter a word of protest.

Some, sliced by the butcher's blade, plunged lifelessly into the lake—staining the waters crimson.

The thick mist that once veiled the lake was now dispersed—chased away by the fury of twenty devastating strikes.

Nie Changqing returned to the fishing boat, dragging his pole.

Lu Fan was there, calmly returning each chess piece to its box.

"Master," Nie Changqing asked, butcher's knife still in hand, "what shall we do with the rest of the scholars? Shall I finish them?"

Lu Fan rubbed his slender fingers, propping his chin with a lazy glance at the scholars flailing in the lake.

A faint smile curled his lips.

"Let them struggle."

"Those who sought fame by stepping on Lu Ping'an—should they not pay the price?"

"If they drown, so be it. If they survive…"

"When they reach the shore, the City Lord's Office will settle accounts."

"For now… let us visit Drunken Dust Pavilion."

…

Far behind the drifting boat, Chen Beixun's gaze narrowed. Upon his back, he bore a sword case of yellow pearwood. His body quivered.

To command a blade across the void, to cleave a lake with one strike—

The discarded disciple of the Daoist Sect… was this truly his power?

How utterly despairing that single blow had been.

Beside him, Liu Ye and Zhu Yishan sat collapsed on the boat deck, eyes vacant.

"This… this is impossible…"

"He's still human? Can someone truly wield a blade like that?"

Their voices were almost mad.

"Calm down… we still have our sword sect's Grandmaster," Chen Beixun muttered, clenching his fists, his eyes burning.

The mist that once wreathed North Luo Lake—was now no more.

Cleaved apart by Nie Changqing's twenty slashes.

Deep within the veil...