The Zhang family was an illustrious clan boasting hundreds of members in all.
The entire Zhang estate occupied the southeastern corner of Siming County, spanning twenty mu. It featured five successive courtyards from front to back, flanked by side courtyards on both wings.
The residents surrounding the estate were also surnamed Zhang. The thousands of people living in this area were all closely tied to the family.
Zhang Xinhu usually resided in a side courtyard beside the main residence. The main residence housed the reception hall and study, serving as a formal venue for entertaining guests.
The side courtyard was his private sanctum, serving as both training room and bedchamber. Dedicated guards watched over it day and night, and no one was permitted to enter without leave.
Built from blue bricks, the training room had walls a full two feet thick and was devoid of windows. The ceiling was sealed tight with layers of wooden planks, and the door was solid, heavy timber secured with an iron lock.
Inside this exceptionally sealed chamber, the floor was paved with blue bricks laid on edge. Three walls stood bare; only the far wall facing the entrance bore a scroll: the Painting of the Five Tigers.
Beneath the painting sat a table, upon which rested the Tiger Wing Saber and the Five Tigers Fist Scripture.
Set high into the walls on either side of the room were Sunlight Beads, which cast a pure, luminous glow, bathing the chamber in bright radiance.
Sunlight Beads—also known as True Yang Beads—radiated a spiritual brilliance as bright as daylight. Beyond providing illumination, they possessed the wondrous quality of tempering one's blood-qi and purifying spiritual qi.
Zhang Xinhu sat cross-legged before the Painting of the Five Tigers, his gaze fixed on it for a long while. Each of the five giant tigers bore distinct aspects, representing the five fist intents of the Five Tigers Fist.
The Iron Tiger tempered the body, the Black Tiger tempered power, the Flying Tiger tempered speed, the Mind Tiger tempered the spirit, and the White Tiger tempered qi.
His master had renamed him Xinhu—Mind Tiger—precisely because he was overly irascible and ferocious by nature, intending to remind him at all times to subdue the fierce tiger within his heart.
Only thus could stillness give rise to wisdom, wisdom to spirit, and spirit to qi.
Endowed with extraordinary physical talent, he had mastered Transforming Jin early on, yet he had never been able to condense a sea of qi within his dantian, failing to step into Rank 6.
Martial artists below Rank 6 remained confined to utilizing physical strength and jin. Only by condensing a sea of qi could one steer fists with the mind, surpassing mortal limits to wield transcendent might.
The more Zhang Xinhu dwelled on it, the more furious he became. If he were a Rank 6 martial artist, he would not even give face to the Branch Abbey Prior—he would have pummeled that little beast Zhou Wuji to death with a single strike!
Those fellows like Wu Di, Li Cheng'an, Yang Shuling, and Wuzheng—he would have hammered them all into paste.
Zhang Xinhu knew such fantasies served no purpose; they merely left his pent-up killing intent nowhere to vent, aggravating his frenzied agitation, which was immensely harmful to his cultivation.
The Five Tigers Fist was a direct lineage martial art passed down from the Eight Extremes Sect. Though simple and straightforward, it was authentic martial orthodoxy—a truly high-tier art.
Fierce and violent as it appeared on the surface, at its core it demanded strength without volatility, ferocity without impetuousness, placing supreme value on temperament.
A tremendous boom rumbled from outside. Zhang Xinhu knew it was autumn night thunder; rain was likely on its way.
Sure enough, a torrential downpour followed on the heels of the thunder.
Though the training room was tightly sealed, Zhang Xinhu could still hear the clatter of the deluge pelting the roof tiles.
Zhang Xinhu loved the rain, and even more so the hearty exhilaration of a raging storm.
Whenever this happened, he enjoyed sitting beneath the eaves and watching the storm in peace.
Yet for some reason, Zhang Xinhu felt something was amiss with this downpour. A heavy oppression settled over him, as though something dreadful was about to unfold.
"Is someone trying to kill me?"
Zhang Xinhu was no stranger to this sensation. He possessed an innate, keen intuition for danger.
Relying on this instinct, he had narrowly cheated death multiple times.
Yet he was somewhat baffled. No one in Siming County posed a threat to him. Where could an expert come from who dared attempt his life?
Or had his excessive agitation spawned an illusion?
Before Zhang Xinhu could puzzle it out, the thick timber door of the training room was pushed open from outside with an ear-piercing creak.
The door had been intentionally designed to be remarkably heavy, producing a grating sound whenever opened or closed.
As the door swung open, Zhang Xinhu caught sight of the intruder: wearing a bamboo conical hat, a mask patterned with a black-and-white lotus, and robes of alternating black and white.
This attire belonged unmistakably to a heretic of the Yin-Yang Dao!
In the next breath, Zhang Xinhu realized something was wrong. The eyes behind the black-and-white lotus mask were too bright, too razor-sharp. He remembered those eyes—it was Zhou Wuji, the cold-blooded swordsman who never left survivors under his blade!
Zhang Xinhu was both startled and enraged. He was startled by Zhou Wuji's sheer audacity: clearly heavily injured, he still dared to disguise himself as a Yin-Yang Dao fiend to come assassinate him.
He was enraged by Zhou Wuji's utter arrogance: did the boy truly believe that killing a few bandit soldiers meant he could kill him as well?!
Though surging with fierce emotions, Zhang Xinhu's countenance remained grim and dark, his eyes filled with nothing but frigid murderous intent.
Through his Six Yang Dharma Eyes, however, Zhou Wuji observed the shifts in Zhang Xinhu's aura, watching his baleful energy steam upward like raging flames.
It was precisely through his Six Yang Dharma Eyes at the Perfection realm that he had been able to lock onto Zhang Xinhu's dense blood-qi among the many rooms and locate him with pin-point accuracy.
Zhou Wuji actually had much he wished to say to Zhang Xinhu, but the timing was wrong, the location was wrong, and getting the job done mattered most. Better to leave those words unsaid.
Having recognized Zhou Wuji, Zhang Xinhu's first reaction was not to strike, but to reach for the Tiger Wing Saber on the table.
Forged from dark steel and gold essence by a master craftsman, this five-foot goose-feather saber weighed seventeen jin and had cost two thousand liang of gold.
He had commissioned it to temper his fist intent, and intended it as an heirloom.
For years, the Tiger Wing Saber had rested in the training room; Zhang Xinhu could rarely bear to take it outside for use.
Blades were prone to wear and tear; no matter how precious a saber or sword, heavy use inevitably brought damage.
Confronted with Zhou Wuji's sudden appearance, though startled and furious, Zhang Xinhu by no means underestimated him.
Battle was fraught with peril, and Zhou Wuji's swordplay was notoriously vicious—carelessness was out of the question.
With the Tiger Wing Saber in hand, his combat strength would at least double!
The moment Zhang Xinhu moved, Zhou Wuji divined his intention.
Hate Zhang Xinhu as he might, he still had to admire the man's seasoned decisiveness.
Yet how could he let Zhang Xinhu reach the long saber? Even with victory assured, there was no reason to take unnecessary risks.
With a sweep of his left sleeve, Zhou Wuji unleashed his Great Accomplishment Five Yin Pouch, which transformed into a vast sheet of black gauze descending over Zhang Xinhu.
Composed of five yin spirits, the Five Yin Pouch seemed to drift languidly, yet moved with blistering speed.
In a flash, the black gauze enveloped Zhang Xinhu.
Zhang Xinhu did not know what it was, but he knew it had to be a spell.
The deceptively gossamer-thin black veil severed his connection to the outside world along with his six senses. All he could see was abyssal black vapor, all sound was cut off, and an unnatural, piercing chill clamped around his body.
The dark mist felt like a swarm of malicious ghosts, lunging onto him to feast upon his yang qi.
"Zhou Wuji can cast spells this quickly?!"
Surprised as he was, Zhang Xinhu felt no fear. A martial artist's blood-qi burned like fire; as long as he channeled that vitality, he could tear through all manner of sorcery and sinister spirits.
He suddenly expanded his lungs, about to unleash the Tiger Roar Thunder Sound. But just as he was poised to exhale and roar, a resonant sword chime rang out beside his ears.
The chime was not shrill, yet it was profound and lingering, striking straight at Zhang Xinhu's mind.
Fierce and ferocious as Zhang Xinhu was, his mind could not help but be shaken by that chime.
The blazing blood-qi churning through his body fluctuated wildly in resonance with the hum, inevitably interrupting the thunderous roar he was about to unleash.
Zhang Xinhu was horrified. The timing of the sword chime was consummate; seizing upon the barest rift as he exerted his strength, it penetrated straight into his mind and blood-qi, disrupting the internal circulation of his jin.
Even his Transforming Jin, normally unified inside and out, fragmented into discordant layers under the chime's vibrations.
What demonic art was this?
Before Zhang Xinhu could make sense of it, he saw a streak of icy sword light pierce through the black mist, stabbing straight at him.
Relying on sheer instinct, he formed tiger claws with both hands and snapped directly at the blade.
In an instant, the blade fragmented into multiple streams of light. Like rain drifting through the night sky, ethereal yet endless, it enveloped heaven and earth, soaking through mountains and rivers.
Fierce as Zhang Xinhu's tiger claws were, they could not seize the storm that filled the sky.
The gleaming light struck first at Zhang Xinhu's chest. The tip of the blade merely tapped him lightly, yet sword qi had already coursed along the steel straight into his heart.
The dense, all-permeating sword intent poured into Zhang Xinhu's body alongside it, throwing the power gathered within his internal organs into chaos.
Zhang Xinhu's movement inevitably seized up. The blade flashed again, thrusting into his throat, severing his windpipe and blood vessels instantly.
Before Zhang Xinhu could react, the blade shifted into a gleam once more, plunging deep into his left eye and piercing straight through his head from front to back.
The sword light that had instantly divided was none other than the Night Rain Sword, the paramount and most formidable technique of the Xiaoxiang Sword.
Only after his swordsmanship had reached the Realm of Transformation had Zhou Wuji grasped the true essence of the Night Rain Sword, thereby condensing his sword intent.
When he killed Zhang Wuding, he had experienced the might of thunder sound firsthand. He had come thoroughly prepared.
Through learning to play the flute, he had also come to comprehend the shifts of cadence and rhythm.
In combat, he had accurately captured the cadence of Zhang Xinhu's shifts. The Evening Bell Sword he unleashed was like a custom-cut key, fitting seamlessly into the lock that was Zhang Xinhu.
The two clicked together flawlessly!
First, the sword intent of the Evening Bell Sword had shattered Zhang Xinhu's thunder sound, causing his momentum to wane; then he tried to counter the sword with tiger claws, blind to the arcane subtleties of the Night Rain Sword, which held boundless depth between presence and void.
The moment his tiger claws struck out, they committed completely, leaving no room for variation. Seizing the opening, Zhou Wuji shifted the Night Rain Sword repeatedly, driving three consecutive strikes into Zhang Xinhu's vitals in the blink of an eye.
Above all, with that final sword running through his skull, no matter how robust Zhang Xinhu's vitality, he could not withstand such fatal trauma.
Zhou Wuji did not pull the sword free; instead, he let go and stepped back. Looking at Zhang Xinhu shrouded in the Five Yin Pouch, he said softly, "Old Zhang, our past grievances are wiped clean from this moment on."
He sighed softly in turn: "Master always said I was petty. Now that I've let bygones be bygones with you, surely this counts as magnanimous..."
Enveloped in the Five Yin Pouch, Zhang Xinhu heard these words. He wanted desperately to curse him to high heaven, but could manage only two choked gasps before all strength left him.
"Today, you and your son are reunited, and my great grudge is avenged. These are both joyous occasions. A poem is called for to mark the celebration!"
Looking at Zhang Xinhu hanging his head on the verge of death, Zhou Wuji was filled with emotion. A formidable enemy who once seemed terrifying had now been slain by his hand with utter ease, truly calm, unhurried, and in complete command.
In just a few short months, his progress had truly been astonishing!
In this moment, Zhou Wuji could not help but feel a surge of heroic exhilaration.
As Zhang Xinhu's consciousness plunged into endless darkness, Zhou Wuji's voice seemed to drift from the horizon—distant and ethereal, yet crystal clear:
"Dark clouds press the city, murder rampant in the air;
Night rain pours murmuring, ringing like a sword.
A feathered traveler subdues the tiger, concealing name and fame;
Coming and going alone, riding upon the midnight wind..."
Chapter 60