Chapter Eighty-Five: The Flower-Washing Pavilion, Lu Yushuang

Here the river had grown immensely wide. The banks on either side stood seven or eight zhang apart, and the water plunged to depths of three or four zhang. The current rushed fiercely, its roar muffled like thunder, or the wild gallop of a herd of horses. On both sides, forests rose, lush and verdant.

Beneath the trees ahead stood two figures. The one on the right was only a young girl, clad in a dress of blue and white, her black hair and fair skin setting off exquisitely delicate features, her eyes limpid and pure as crystal. This was the same girl who had earlier been driven off by Qingyuan.

To her left stood a woman dressed all in white, as cold and pure as frost and snow. Qingyuan had crossed paths with her once before. Her hair was as black as a waterfall, her skin flawless as polished jade, her face so beautiful it defied description; yet between her brows, an unyielding chill lingered.

“It’s her...”

Qingyuan’s body stiffened abruptly, cold rising up his spine, seeping to the back of his skull and into his very bones. On the way to Gu County, he had passed through a small town where a little girl had stolen his silver, but he had not pursued the matter. Then, he and Gu Cang had seen a woman in white distributing food to orphaned children. She had glanced at them but once, and that single look had made both Qingyuan and Gu Cang feel as though plunged into an icy abyss, enveloped in bitter cold.

Men might vie for the attention of such an extraordinary woman, but Qingyuan was an exception. One glance had chilled him to the marrow; to meet her again now was surely no simple matter.

“She’s no ordinary cultivator,” Qingyuan thought. “This is serious trouble.”

Beneath the trees, the two figures stood in silence.

The woman in white gazed at the little girl and asked, “Yuling, is it him?”

The girl nodded, raised her hand—white and delicate as orchid petals—and pointed at Qingyuan. “Senior Sister, that’s the one who killed the little dog my mother gave me. He bullied me, too…”

“Very well.”

The woman in white nodded, her eyes turning to Qingyuan. He felt a chill rush through him; though his cultivation had advanced far beyond what it once was—reaching the consummate stage of Body Refinement—he still felt as though encased in frost.

Peak of the Third Heaven!

She had even touched that final barrier, nearly breaking through to become one above all others.

“Huanhua Pavilion… Lu Yushuang.”

The woman in white slowly drew her sword. Its blade gleamed, clear as a spring. As she channeled her power, the blade grew sheathed in a fine layer of white frost.

Qingyuan held his breath, his heart pounding in alarm.

Huanhua Pavilion was a mighty sect in the far south, the equivalent of the Orthodox Daoist Schools of the Central Lands, tracing its lineage to the Southern Heaven Sovereign of Colorless Mist. And the Southern Heaven Sovereign was himself a Dao Ancestor, a master whose power shaped creation itself.

The woman before him must be a true inheritor, not an ordinary disciple. Thus, every art and technique she wielded came straight from the Dao Ancestor.

Qingyuan would have liked to explain himself, but there seemed no way.

With no warning, Lu Yushuang struck—her temperament as frigid as her attack, the sword sweeping out, exuding bone-chilling cold.

Before Qingyuan could react, the sword was already upon him. Even before the blade arrived, the wind itself was sharp with cold.

“So fast…”

He had no time to dodge, only managed to thrust his iron staff forward.

The sword tip met the iron staff.

Qingyuan, though immensely strong, could barely hold his grip; his feet skidded back, nearly sinking into the ground. Alarmed, he used the momentum to leap away, soaring into the air.

Only then did the sound of sword and staff meeting ring in his ears.

A glimmer of surprise flickered in Lu Yushuang’s eyes, then her sword swept again.

A streak of white light shot from the blade.

Still midair, Qingyuan was startled, twisting his body with all his might. The white light grazed past him; the edge of his garment froze instantly, then shattered into frost.

The white light struck a rock behind him.

The rock turned to ice.

With a muffled crash, it burst into a spray of icy shards.

“So this is Third Heaven—wielding the power of law itself; a casual stroke is already a Daoist art…”

Flipping in midair, Qingyuan landed, only to see another streak of white light rushing toward him. Startled, he flung out a fire talisman; it burst into flames, hurtling toward the oncoming frost.

Fire melts ice—so it should counter it.

There was a dull explosion.

The flames died.

The white light only dimmed slightly, then continued toward Qingyuan.

He gasped, unable to dodge, and was forced to strike forward with his staff.

The end of the staff met the white light.

The light dispersed, leaving frost upon the ground, the grass crystalizing.

Suddenly, the staff turned icy to the touch.

Qingyuan felt as if he were gripping pure ice; in an instant, his palm went numb, sensation fading from his hand.

Yet, to his surprise, the woman in white abruptly ceased her attack.

Qingyuan had thought she would press her advantage, but she unexpectedly withdrew, forfeiting her overwhelming upper hand. On second thought, perhaps this was not so odd—the gap between their cultivation was so great, Lu Yushuang of Huanhua Pavilion had never truly relinquished her advantage.

He circulated his energy, rousing his blood, switched the staff to his other hand, then looked up at her with a wry smile. “Aren’t you being a bit unreasonable?”

As soon as he spoke, Qingyuan suddenly hurled something forward.

It was an iron sphere, about the size of a fist.

The Iron God Pellet!

Lu Yushuang flicked her sword; white light flashed.

Midair, the Iron God Pellet split in two, clattering to the ground, both halves encased in a film of ice.

Qingyuan felt a chill in his heart. He had hoped to catch her off guard and use the iron pellet’s hidden spikes, but with a single stroke, she’d sliced it in two before it could even reach her, rendering it utterly useless.

Lu Yushuang pointed her sword straight at Qingyuan. “Let my junior sister reason with you,” she said coolly, voice like a winter frost, then raised her sword.

“I’m afraid I’d lose that argument—so I’ll pass!”

Before her sword could fall, Qingyuan flung three more objects.

On either side, wooden carvings of tigers and wolves wrapped in talisman papers; in the center, another Iron God Pellet.

“Is this all you have?” Lu Yushuang spun her sword in the air.

Three streaks of swordlight flashed forth.

Swordlight like white frost.

The iron pellet in the center was instantly split in two. The carvings on either side hit the ground and transformed into tigers and wolves, fierce and menacing. But in the very instant they emerged, each was cleaved apart by swordlight, returning to two halves of wood.

At the very same moment, thick white smoke billowed forth.

Taking the opportunity, Qingyuan leapt backward, plunging into the swift river. As he did so, he tossed his last fire talisman into the water. The flames sputtered out, but the river water turned to steam.

Billows of white mist enveloped the river.

Lu Yushuang’s expression did not change. With a wave of her hand, the smoke dispersed.

The river ran clear once more.

But Qingyuan had vanished.

“Paper-cut horses?”

She looked down at the shattered wooden tigers and wolves. “Lacking in cultivation, so he used locust wood as the core?”