Chapter 129: Eight Trigrams Howling at the Heavens

If other words had failed to shake Shen Chengbi, the mention of "Dongfang Mingyue" caused even his composed frame to tremble slightly. The previous statements suddenly snapped into focus. In the world of martial arts, one inevitably encounters the unexpected; the more mature one becomes, the more calmly one faces such twists. Shen Chengbi prided himself on this capacity, yet at this moment, he felt a flicker of panic. "You died three years ago. The Manor Lord himself examined your corpse—he had been your close friend for years, he could not have been mistaken. Who are you? What is your scheme in posing as the Master of Hanshan Valley? Do you think you can frighten me by merely invoking the name of Dongfang Mingyue?"

"When lies become habit, the truth is no longer believed. Is that not a tragedy? I, Dongfang Mingyue, am a figure of some renown, after all. Or perhaps, lying to a young junior like you... Palace Master Ronghua, you are still far too young. If I were you, I would not waste time wondering who the other party is; finding a way to escape would be the superior strategy!" Dongfang Mingyue moved slowly toward Shen Chengbi. Though the pace was unhurried, the implication was clear. Indeed, regardless of the man's identity, it no longer mattered to Shen Chengbi. Once the intent to kill was set, survival was the only true path. He knew well that the Master of Zhaoyang Palace was the leader of the six halls, and in both martial prowess and experience, he far surpassed him. Yet, Shen Chengbi remained arrogant. He had always viewed this man as a rival, and he craved this duel. Ever since he had mastered the true teachings of Shen Wansan, his martial arts had advanced to a level even he could not fully gauge. If he fought with all his might, the outcome was not for anyone to declare. "Flee? Is that something a hall master of Mingyue Manor would do? Putting aside whether you are truly the legendary Master of Hanshan Valley, even if you are, I, a mere youth, wish to see exactly what kind of ability a man who stands equal to our Manor Lord truly possesses."

With these words, there was no hesitation. Shen Chengbi’s hand tightened around the folding fan at his waist. Having been born a scholar, he found long swords cumbersome; even after joining Mingyue Manor, his attire remained that of a scholar. The most prominent feature was the folding fan, though its material had shifted from wood and paper to refined steel, fundamentally altering its purpose. With the fan in hand, his heart grew calm, as if he had gained a measure of security. His arrogant confidence reached a new peak.

"Why are young people today like this? Refusing to listen to their elders? Don't you know the old saying: 'He who ignores the elder's advice will soon suffer the consequences'?" Dongfang Mingyue spoke these words lightly, as if muttering to himself in complaint, yet there was a subtle edge of mockery. As the words fell, his slow pace suddenly surged, driven by some external force. He swept his hands, launching a palm strike. Hanshan Valley was renowned for its swordplay, and its techniques were profoundly mysterious. Though Dongfang Mingyue had not drawn a blade, the sword intent within his palm wind was unmistakable. Even from two or three yards away, Shen Chengbi felt the fierce wind rushing toward him, slicing against his skin with a faint, stinging pain.

With this single move, Shen Chengbi felt a pang of regret. He realized clearly that his opponent’s strength far exceeded his expectations. The chances of him emerging victorious were likely less than half, yet this was not the time to concede. Miracles could happen, and he held the greatest advantage of all: youth. It was a truth that the fist fears the vigorous. Furthermore, to cross blades with such a master was the ultimate pursuit of a martial artist. The very thought ignited an irrepressible excitement within him.

The leaf-blades cut through the air. With Shen Wansan’s cultivation, he easily sensed the incoming assault. Though he could not evade it as he had before, he had his own methods. As he spoke, his body began to dance. His limbs shifted into the shape of a massive "eight," and his internal energy flowed with his gestures. The essence of the Yin-Yang Bagua became strikingly apparent. The leaf-blades, which had been flying in straight lines, suddenly seemed caught in a powerful attraction, circling endlessly around Shen Wansan’s body.

"The Bagua Roaring Heaven Technique?" Shen Wansan did not speak, but the tremor in Flower Butterfly’s eyes was evident. As she ceased her movements, she muttered in disbelief, as if unable to accept what she was seeing. "So this martial art truly exists. I thought it was merely a legend—all that talk of Master Zhang, the peaks of Yingzhou and Fusang—I assumed it was just idle speculation by the world. I never imagined you, Manor Lord Shen, would... Fine. Even if I don't last ten moves today, to witness this technique is enough for me!"

Though she said this, the idea of her willingly admitting defeat was impossible. The Bagua was rooted in the interplay of Yin and Yang, favoring defense over offense. It was said to have been created by a mysterious man surnamed Zhang on the immortal mountains across the sea. The world knew of his existence but not his name, eventually bestowing upon him the title of "Master." Later, practitioners who felt the technique lacked sufficient offensive bite added lethal moves to it, naming it "Roaring Heaven." As time passed, these secrets were lost to the Central Plains, and later generations regarded it as nothing more than a myth.

"The little girl has a sharp eye to recognize this move. When I was young, guided by the mirages of the eastern seas, I traveled to Fusang and mastered this technique. I have never had cause to use it, but to think you could discern it at a glance! Very well, today you shall witness its true power!" As he spoke, Shen Wansan’s internal energy shifted violently. If the previous barrier had been purely defensive, the offensive power of the "Roaring Heaven" now exploded. Amidst the surging energy, the leaf-blades circling him rose rapidly toward the space above his head. In an instant, they coalesced into a giant blade, its surface shimmering with moonlight and refracting into a seven-colored brilliance. It was a beautiful sight, but to dismiss it as merely decorative would be a fatal error.

They say women love beauty, and this was no exception, but Flower Butterfly was not an ordinary woman. Her gaze remained fixed on her opponent while her own hands began to move. In this mountain forest, the most readily available weapons were the fallen leaves. In truth, she had been using them from the start, but this time was different. Instead of launching them at her opponent, the leaf-blades rapidly attached themselves to her back, forming two massive, fluttering wings. As they beat the air, the sand and stones around her were stirred into a frenzy.

"Feathers into Butterflies! You have practiced the Flying Flower Hands of the Master of Nanhai Wuji to quite a high level. But if you think you can counter my Bagua Roaring Heaven with that, you are gravely mistaken!" As he spoke, the giant blade hovering above Shen Wansan’s head slashed down toward Flower Butterfly with the force to cleave everything in its path. "Oh, and let me tell you one more thing. Your teacher was once a member of the Blue Lotus Sect. After the sect retreated, she hid in the South Sea, thinking a desolate island would save her. But in the end, she died at the hands of the Central Plains martial artists. The one who killed her was me. She lasted exactly nine moves against me. I wonder if you, her disciple, can surpass her?"

The words were a provocation—a strategy to shatter her composure. It was effective, for there were truths one could not simply ignore. Flower Butterfly did not doubt him, for these were facts. Though Master Wuji had fallen in the South Sea, her soul had returned to Mingyue Manor. This was the reason Flower Butterfly had left her seclusion in the Qilian Mountains. While their emotional bond had been thin, she had called the woman "Master," and there was a debt of memory to be paid. Yet, nostalgia was secondary; the priority was to avoid repeating the nine-move defeat. The opponent’s strike was already upon her, leaving no time for contemplation.