Chapter 70: The Ambush

Before his opponent could react, Wang Yuanfeng unleashed another move, his sword flashing like a rainbow piercing the sun as he thrust directly at the man’s neck, aiming for the Ying acupoint.

Whoever this person was, he had already revealed his murderous intent—even if it was only a fleeting trace, Wang Yuanfeng could sense it through the clarity of his sword-heart. That was enough to mark him as an enemy, and so Wang Yuanfeng resolved to show no mercy.

His sword flew forward like a streaking rainbow. The man’s reaction was swift: his body shrank and, in the blink of an eye, he transformed into a musk deer, bounding onto a nearby rock before gradually resuming human form.

“So it’s you. May I ask what business brings you here, sir? Is there something you require?”

Only now did Wang Yuanfeng get a clear look at the man, who appeared to be in his sixties or seventies, dressed like a wealthy merchant, his eyes darting slyly—a man clearly skilled in intrigue.

First, Wang Yuanfeng had flushed him out from the undergrowth with a feint, then wounded him with a sword tip to the ribs, and followed with another relentless attack, forcing the man into his animal form and driving him onto the rock.

Now that Wang Yuanfeng had seen him turn into a musk deer, he recognized him as the very same creature that An Youyu had purchased and released earlier.

The musk deer pressed a hand to his injured side, suppressing the pain. He hadn’t expected to be wounded out of carelessness—had he known, he wouldn’t have bothered hiding. Now, as he regarded Wang Yuanfeng, uncertainty flickered in his eyes, his gaze shifty with unspoken calculations.

Wang Yuanfeng studied the old man who had taken the form of the musk deer; his cultivation seemed slightly superior, at the great elixir stage. Although he’d managed to wound him, a true fight would be evenly matched. Still, Wang Yuanfeng was not intimidated, and so he spoke.

“May I ask, sir, what you intend by blocking my way? If there is nothing urgent, please allow me to pass. I am in a hurry.”

The musk deer regarded Wang Yuanfeng at length. No matter how he sized him up, he seemed the lesser in skill, but those opening moves had truly startled him.

He thought, perhaps the youth’s swordsmanship was simply formidable, and he had only been caught off guard. Composing himself, he addressed Wang Yuanfeng.

“I am Zhang Xiangzi. I have been waiting here, for I have a matter to discuss with you, young man.”

At the mention of the name “Zhang Xiangzi,” Wang Yuanfeng found it fitting, but judged by his actions, this was no benign encounter—otherwise, he would not have shown murderous intent. Vigilant, Wang Yuanfeng asked,

“What is it you require, Master Zhang? You can speak plainly, though I likely cannot be of much help.”

“Ha, you can help, you certainly can.” Zhang Xiangzi repeated, his eyes fixed intently on Wang Yuanfeng. “As long as you come with me and stay at my residence for a few days, that would be a great help to me. Once the time comes, I will let you leave.”

“I have neither old grudges nor recent enmity with you, nor do we know each other. Why have you singled me out for this?” Wang Yuanfeng pressed, suspecting he had unwittingly become entangled in some larger conflict, and that Zhang Xiangzi, sensing he could be a variable, had decided to act against him.

If he was being treated as a variable, it meant Zhang Xiangzi himself was unsure of the outcome. As Zhang Xiangzi replied,

“You and I bear no ill will, nor are we acquainted. I simply have business here I must attend to, the details of which I cannot share. By chance, you’re here as well, so I have no choice but to detain you for a while…”

At this, Wang Yuanfeng knew the man was determined to detain him, most likely because, when he had been captured by the hunters, he had drawn Zhang Xiangzi’s attention. Presumably, his true target was An Youyu, whose immense fortune and latent dragon aura were evident to any cultivator. Although Wang Yuanfeng wished to avoid involvement, Zhang Xiangzi evidently saw him as an obstacle.

Without waiting for further explanation, Wang Yuanfeng let out a long, piercing cry and, in a sudden flash, launched a flying strike at Zhang Xiangzi’s waist.

Zhang Xiangzi, in the midst of speaking, was interrupted as a blade of sword energy shot straight for his waist. He stopped mid-sentence, but his reaction was swift: with a flick of his hand, a hunting spear appeared, which he swung to shatter the sword energy, then lunged with the steel spear at Wang Yuanfeng’s face.

Wang Yuanfeng blocked and leapt back, thinking, “Such strength!”

His arm tingled, nearly losing grip on his sword. It was clear he could not match force with force; he would have to rely on agility.

Bounding away, he darted at Zhang Xiangzi’s vital points from unexpected angles. Each time Zhang Xiangzi turned to strike, Wang Yuanfeng would shift positions, never confronting him head-on.

Relying on his agile footwork, he refused direct confrontation.

Meanwhile, in a snake-filled cave higher up the mountain, a pair of women—one older, one younger—were laughing and sharing wild fruits when a piercing cry echoed outside.

Both fell silent, glancing out.

“Second Sister, someone’s shouting. Maybe they were bitten by a snake—serves them right,” the younger, dressed in blue, remarked. She was Xiao Qing, who had come with Er Qing to collect stalactites.

The elder, also in blue, thought over the sound. Something about it was off; it seemed meant to carry far and was tinged with desperation, as if someone were fighting for their life.

“Something’s wrong. There may be trouble,” she said.

Xiao Qing was unconcerned. “What could it be? You’re just too softhearted, Second Sister. It’s probably just a snakebite—they won’t die right away. We can save them later and teach them a lesson.”

Er Qing gave her a look, knowing her younger sister meant no harm, only mischief. Still, this didn’t sound like a mere snakebite; it was more like a predator on the attack.

“It sounds like a fight. I wonder who it is. Let’s go take a look.”

At the mention of a fight, Xiao Qing’s eyes sparkled. She jumped up, tugging at Er Qing, “Then let’s hurry or they’ll be done before we get there!”

Er Qing shook her head with a sigh. “Come on, then.”

The two flew from the cave, Xiao Qing leading, Er Qing following, heading toward the source of the shout.

By now, Wang Yuanfeng had sustained some injuries—not from being stabbed by Zhang Xiangzi’s spear, but from the sheer force of his opponent’s attacks, which left his mouth bleeding and his movements unsteady. Still, he relied on exquisite swordsmanship and nimble movement, never letting Zhang Xiangzi land a direct hit.

His opponent, though marked by several wounds, managed to avoid any fatal blows thanks to his superior cultivation. They looked gruesome but were only flesh wounds.

Neither had managed to use spells or supernatural powers, so closely were they matched in their physical contest; a moment’s distraction would yield a fatal opening.

Wang Yuanfeng struck again at a vital point on Zhang Xiangzi’s leg, but Zhang Xiangzi’s steel spear intercepted. Wang Yuanfeng withdrew, then thrust again at his elbow. Zhang Xiangzi countered, and Wang Yuanfeng shrank back, leaping a yard away before circling to attack from the opposite side.

Zhang Xiangzi felt increasingly stifled. Each time he prepared to strike, Wang Yuanfeng forced him to withdraw by threatening a vital point. It was pure frustration—he had strength but nowhere to apply it.

He grew vexed but did not dare truly lose his temper, knowing that would give Wang Yuanfeng the opening he sought.

Wang Yuanfeng dared not lose focus either, nor could he waste energy with sword-qi attacks; though powerful, he could not sustain them, and exhausting his strength would leave him helpless.

He could only rely on the subtlety of his sword techniques, seeking an opportunity.

The sword style he used was the fundamental Nine Forms of the Sword Immortal. Each move was a complete method in itself—skills he had honed over twenty years across two lifetimes, ingrained in his soul and at the heart of sword cultivation.

Huashan swordsmanship was famed for its strangeness, danger, and deception, its attacks unpredictable. Wang Yuanfeng now combined it with flowing, serpentine footwork, continually threatening Zhang Xiangzi’s vital points from impossible angles.

His sword-qi could only gather three inches at the tip of his blade—a sign that his cultivation was inferior. Though Zhang Xiangzi, a demon who had attained the Human Immortal realm, was physically integrated and his qi harmonized, his cultivation clearly surpassed Wang Yuanfeng’s, roughly at the great elixir stage.

In truth, Zhang Xiangzi was frustrated as well. Despite his superior cultivation, he could not defeat Wang Yuanfeng, and felt as if he were being suppressed from start to finish. Each time he attacked, he was forced to withdraw. The frustration was enough to drive a lesser man mad.

Now Zhang Xiangzi gathered his vital energy and spat it upon his steel spear.

Wang Yuanfeng sensed danger—his opponent was about to unleash a deadly move. He sheathed his sword, took up his sword case, and instantly prepared his flying sword.

“Go!”

With a shout from Zhang Xiangzi, the steel spear grew to ten feet and flew at Wang Yuanfeng.

Wang Yuanfeng unleashed his flying sword to meet it.

There was a metallic clang—the flying sword was nimble but lacked force and was batted back by the spear.

Blood spurted from Wang Yuanfeng’s mouth as his flying sword, knocked away, was splattered with his blood, then, trailing crimson, flew straight into his mouth and lodged in his lungs.

A muffled groan escaped him; pain stabbed through his chest, and he realized the flying sword had injured his lung. As he tried to spit it out, he coughed up more blood, but the sword remained lodged, forcing him to stagger back and collapse against a stone.

Meanwhile, Zhang Xiangzi was also bleeding from the mouth; the last clash had damaged his weapon, carving a notch into the spear. He saw Wang Yuanfeng’s grave injuries and, though pained for his weapon, recognized the opportunity—if he could kill him now, all his plans would succeed.

Gripping his spear, he approached to finish the job.

Wang Yuanfeng knew that if Zhang Xiangzi reached him, he would die. With a trembling arm, he quietly readied a Thunderclap Bomb in his hand, eyes wary.

“There he is!”

A crisp, delighted voice rang out.

Zhang Xiangzi turned to see two women in blue flying toward them. He hesitated—one more step and he could kill Wang Yuanfeng, but seeing the youth watching him with a faint, knowing smile, he was suddenly overcome by a sense of foreboding, a certainty that moving closer meant danger.

He wavered. In that instant, the two figures were nearly upon them. Cursing inwardly, Zhang Xiangzi shot Wang Yuanfeng a venomous glare, transformed into a musk deer, and leapt into the underbrush, vanishing from sight.

Wang Yuanfeng breathed a sigh of relief and slowly sank to the ground. The flying sword, charged with sword-qi and razor-sharp, had damaged his not-yet-fully-tempered organs—he simply could not withstand its power.