Chapter Eleven: The Blade!

The man in the green robe spoke with a calm tone, yet his entire presence was like a block of ice under the sun, exuding a chilling aura so intense that everyone could sense his stern, martial killing intent.

Shen Lian remained composed, beneath which lay a confidence the green-robed man could scarcely fathom. It was so profound that he found himself believing, perhaps Shen Lian truly could kill him.

The sensation was strange, as if a lion, intent on seizing a rabbit, suddenly realized the rabbit had turned into a tiger.

He could see Shen Lian’s health was not robust—he had never practiced internal martial arts, and though his fingers were long and slender, they bore no calluses. His figure was thin, features refined, his complexion pale and sickly. He was hardly a threat, not someone who would collapse at a gust of wind, but certainly not dangerous.

Yet Shen Lian was different. The difference lay in his eyes—the windows to the soul. His gaze was as tranquil as still water, yet it made the green-robed man inexplicably uneasy, even somewhat humbled.

Shen Lian’s mind was tranquil. The innate deity holding a ruyi appeared slowly within his spiritual sea—a mysterious legacy of the spirit: lonely yet eternal, powerful and fearless.

His hands hung naturally by his sides as he sat calmly. Across the table, the green-robed man failed to notice the two-inch-long throwing knife now resting in Shen Lian’s hand.

This tiny knife was Shen Lian’s last line of defense. With his formidable spiritual perception, he could manipulate his body to throw it from any angle within ten paces.

He didn’t know if it would be effective against the green-robed man; indeed, he had never tried to kill anyone with this little knife. It was merely a means of self-protection, not a tool for murder.

The green-robed man’s internal energy was well-cultivated, and his senses keen. Though he did not see Shen Lian’s blade, his eyes naturally lowered, focusing on Shen Lian’s shoulders, which were less broad than his own.

The great hall fell into a strange silence, broken only by the faint sound of footsteps.

Bathed in sunlight, a small beggar entered—not truly a beggar, perhaps, but his clothes were so tattered they barely covered him.

He looked to be about twelve or thirteen, though perhaps older; years of malnutrition had stunted his growth. Unlike Shen Lian’s delicate features, the boy’s face was honest and resolute; his brows and nose bore a resemblance to the green-robed man.

The green-robed man’s murderous intent receded like a tide, his expression softening.

The small beggar approached him, untying a cloth bundle from his body. He carefully unwrapped it, layer by layer, revealing a small pouch no bigger than his own childish fist. With great care, he poured out several fragments of silver, each the size of a soybean, and offered them to the green-robed man, whispering, “Benefactor, I used the money you gave me to arrange my father’s funeral with the help of the villagers. This is what’s left.”

The green-robed man took the silver, patted the boy’s head, and said, “I told you this silver was the price to buy you. From now on, remember to call me Master.”

The boy’s hair was yellowed and dirty, but the green-robed man minded not at all.

Tears welled in the beggar boy’s eyes. “Yes, Master,” he replied.

The green-robed man spoke gently, “You haven’t eaten yet, have you? Sit here and have some food. Once you’re done, we’ll leave.”

The small beggar glanced curiously at Shen Lian, thinking to himself how refined this young gentleman looked, almost like a little immortal. But he dared not speak much; staring at the table laden with food, he swallowed hard, not knowing where to begin.

The green-robed man, however, had no time to consider what the beggar boy wished to eat, for another person had appeared at the door.

The sun was climbing toward its zenith, its rays casting a long shadow—a testament to the newcomer’s stature. As the shadow entered, it was accompanied by slow, heavy footsteps.

It was as though a massive drum beat, each step thudding heavily upon the hearts of all in the hall.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

The diners in the hall all regretted coming here today to eat and lodge.

The newcomer unshouldered a long, golden blade from his back, its brilliance flashing as it dragged along the flagstone floor, sending up sparks.

He stopped five paces from the green-robed man.

The green-robed man spoke unhurriedly, “I gave the Green Bamboo Gang three days, and all they could do was send you, Golden Blade King, to your death? They must think very little of me.”

In the martial world, some men were better known by their nicknames. This tall, broad man, dragging his long blade, was known as the Golden Blade King.

It was said he was born with great strength, yet possessed dexterous hands. Once, on a block of tofu, he had carved a landscape with this very blade, justifying his title.

“I’ve heard of your reputation as the ‘Godslayer Sword.’ For the sake of a sword manual, you slaughtered your own master’s household. Rumor has it that your senior brother, Daoist Ling Chongxiao, hunted you for five years, forcing you to flee to the northern deserts. How dare you return now?” Golden Blade King arched his brows and sneered.

“I’ve returned to kill him as well.” As he spoke, his gaze lifted to a certain spot on the roof.

“I fear you won’t live to see that day.” The skylight suddenly shattered, tiles crashing to the floor, and a short, thin old man appeared, silver hooks in hand.

He landed as lightly as a feather drifting down.

The beggar boy was startled by the scene, but the green-robed man patted his shoulder and said, “Eat your food.”

In the face of all this, Shen Lian remained composed. Whether it was the Golden Blade King, the small old man, or the green-robed man, none were ordinary—they all exuded the same dangerous aura.

They all possessed power beyond the ordinary.

Yet Shen Lian was not afraid; on the contrary, he was delighted.

So this was no ordinary world. Not only were there techniques to cultivate the soul, but also methods to unleash the body’s strength.

From the way they spoke and the mention of the ‘sword manual,’ their actions resembled those of martial artists in the wuxia tales he once read.

Prompted by the green-robed man, the beggar boy began to eat. Whether due to a naturally hearty appetite or sheer hunger, the lad ate voraciously.

Shen Lian thought to himself that this boy was not only capable of eating, but also quite fortunate. The green-robed man could be considered a master, and he treated the boy well.

In the wuxia novels he remembered, this was the classic protagonist’s template.

Still, neither the Golden Blade King nor the small old man paid Shen Lian any heed. Their self-confidence was immense; in their world, everyone’s worth was proven through battle, but only if the opponent seemed worthy.

Shen Lian, in age and bearing, posed no threat to them. Only the green-robed man paid him a sliver of attention, but even so, most of his focus remained on the Golden Blade King and the small old man.

These were not men of empty reputation.

For all his pride, the green-robed man would not be careless.

Though seated and seemingly passive, he met force with stillness—such composure required not only profound skill, but also immense courage.

That was why the Golden Blade King had not yet struck.

This man was ruthless, his martial prowess formidable—a truly troublesome foe. Were it not for the item he had taken from the Green Bamboo Gang, the Golden Blade King would not have acted.

'The Green Bamboo Gang thinks their money and connections would make me risk my life for them—how laughable,' thought the Golden Blade King. He was over forty, long past the age of chasing after worldly riches; what truly attracted him was the pursuit of higher realms and longer life.