Chapter 85: Sharpening The Saber

Chapter 85: Sharpening the Blade

Leaving the tavern, the rain had just stopped, and Zhao Changhe’s mood lifted somewhat. Seeing his beloved horse fed and content, with no petty theft or such troubles, his spirits rose further.

On second thought, of course no one dared steal the horse—not with the terrifying blade strapped to his back.

Zhao Changhe tossed the waiter a piece of silver, about to mount the stirrup, when something struck him. He lowered his foot and bent down to carefully inspect the stirrups and saddle for any foreign objects.

Life in the Cui household had made him too comfortable; he’d nearly forgotten these tricks.

Finding nothing amiss, he exhaled and swung himself onto the horse.

The middle-aged man from the Demon Suppression Bureau stood watching at the door, a look of approval on his face as he handed over a sheet of paper: “This is Han Wubing’s file.”

Zhao Changhe took it without ceremony: “Thanks.”

The man said, “I am Wu Weiyang of the Demon Suppression Bureau. Perhaps we’ll meet again. As for the storm ahead, the Bureau will not intervene. Travel safely.”

With that, his figure flickered and vanished.

That speed—at least the seventh or eighth level of the Mystic Gate. The Demon Suppression Bureau had some skill. But Zhao Changhe felt little awe; he’d shared tea with the ninth-ranked on the Heavenly List, so this was nothing.

He sensed a hint in Wu Weiyang’s words: the Bureau would not act during the journey, but what about after? Could he seek help from the local Bureau if needed?

Zhao Changhe set the thought aside for now, riding the Snow-Treading Black Stallion slowly along the official road, unfolding the file Wu Weiyang had given him.

Han Wubing, nineteen years old—younger than himself. He hadn’t noticed in the ruined temple, with that cold demeanor.

Originally an ordinary disciple of the Bashan Sword Hut, his talent unremarkable, but his diligent practice placed him mid-tier among the disciples. Taciturn and devoted only to swordsmanship, he had few friends and little presence.

Three years ago, the Sword Hut members came to the Ancient Sword Lake seeking fortune, hunting for a legendary sword from the previous era. Han Wubing, then at the third level of the Mystic Gate, accompanied the group.

The legend of the divine sword at Ancient Sword Lake persisted not just through old tales, but because of its eerie phenomena—startling sword qi would rise from the lake, often killing seekers without explanation. Yet subsequent investigations found nothing, leaving everyone baffled as to the qi’s origin.

Thus, while all believed in the mystery, no faction dared to station themselves there permanently, fearing inexplicable death. The lake was never monopolized, but fortune-seekers had flocked there for years without cease.

Yet after so long, nothing was found. Cui Yuanyang had mentioned that the Cui family had searched many times in vain. Cui Wenjing, with intellect, martial prowess, and influence among the world’s best, had failed—so others had no chance. Major factions gradually abandoned the search as a waste of time.

The great powers were gone, but the tide of hopeful wanderers never stopped. No one dared live by the lake, but the town of Sword Lake City, a dozen li away, was bustling with activity. Its inns, brothels, taverns, and gambling dens likely outnumbered even the capital’s, thanks to the endless influx of outsiders.

This created a place of tangled factions and mixed company, far too dangerous for a novice at the third or fourth level of the Mystic Gate.

Han Wubing, following the group, was merely there to gain experience under his elders and fellow disciples—a training expedition organized by the Sword Hut. Unpopular, he didn’t stick with his peers but searched the lakeshore alone, where he unexpectedly befriended a kindred spirit. They hit it off instantly and searched together.

Whether there was some deeper reason behind this instant bond between a loner and a stranger, the Demon Suppression Bureau’s intelligence couldn’t detail—after all, Han Wubing wouldn’t grant an interview. So it was glossed over.

They didn’t find the ancient sword, but Han Wubing and his friend struck luck, discovering the remains of a fallen predecessor. They obtained sword techniques and a fine blade. The friend took the sword, Han Wubing the manual—a happy outcome.

Then the Sword Hut disciples appeared, bullying them, claiming both sword and manual belonged to the sect.

In the end, the friend was killed, the sword seized. Han Wubing, in fury, tore the manual and left the Sword Hut. He wandered the world, growing even more taciturn, making a living as a bounty hunter.

The story was simple, the Bureau’s record dry and unembellished. Zhao Changhe felt no stir of emotion, realizing that the tale he’d been curious about was just another common Jianghu yarn—power seizing treasure, murder, a disciple’s defiant departure. On Qidian, it would be a template from a decade ago.

Still, Han Wubing was a man of honor. Three years of trial, reaching the fifth level of the Mystic Gate, visiting the grave at Qingming, slaying all his enemies—what a satisfying tale.

Zhao Changhe couldn’t help but take a swig from his gourd: “Excellent! A duel with such an opponent sparks anticipation—unlike those lurking demons, who, even if they line the road, are but flies, a nuisance.”

With that, he stowed the gourd, and with a flick of his wrist, a copper coin whistled through the air.

From a treetop by the roadside, a cry rang out as a figure tumbled down.

“Did you really think I was so absorbed in reading that I wouldn’t notice someone coming?” Zhao Changhe laughed, spurring his horse onward. “Swords falling from the sky? They’re just whetstones!”

“Swoosh!” Several sword beams erupted ahead, their qi shrieking straight for his face.

Zhao Changhe, mid-charge, reached back and grasped the hilt protruding over his shoulder.

The swords arrived. The horse was upon them.

“Clang!” The Dragon Sparrow unsheathed, the wild blade swept in fury.

The assassins recoiled in terror, but mid-air, how could they dodge such a wide arc?

Several swords clashed against the blade’s path, followed by a sound of shattering—steel broke, blood rained.

The Snow-Treading Black Stallion charged through severed limbs and torsos, the rain of blood trailing behind, the Great Xia Dragon Sparrow crying out in exhilaration.

Ahead, another assassin hesitated, frozen by the sight, daring not to move.

Further off, someone lay in ambush, ready to pull a tripwire.

Zhao Changhe spotted it, veered his horse, and charged straight off the road.

Before the man could yank the rope, the stallion’s speed outpaced his reaction. His hand hadn’t even lifted when the horse was upon him.

Even more unexpected was the blade’s length and reach. Those behind watched a dark red arc slice through—*crack*—a single cut, severing him in two.

Only half a corpse remained, hand still clutching one end of the tripwire, standing dumbly. The Snow-Treading Black Stallion had already bolted dozens of yards away.

“Whether you’re Blood God Sect or Listening Snow Pavilion, or petty thieves after my horse and blade…” Zhao Changhe sheathed his sword, leaping on his horse, laughing as he rode off. “I’ve hidden nothing along this road—come if you dare!”

Wu Weiyang watched from afar, clicking his tongue: “Such valor, and the Chief worried he’d be in danger on the road. He says he doesn’t need our help, but inside, he’s already raring to go, only afraid his foes aren’t strong enough.”

Beside him, a subordinate sighed: “A man like this—if he doesn’t fall early in the Jianghu, he’s bound to roam the world unchallenged.”

Wu Weiyang said nothing, knowing the unspoken thought.

Such men had a high chance of falling… but recalling how Zhao Changhe had carefully checked his gear before mounting, Wu Weiyang felt this one wouldn’t die.

Bold as he seemed, he was sharp inside. Anyone who took him for a brute would have grass three feet tall over their grave by now.

“Let’s report back to the Chief. Wonder if she’ll really come in person.” Wu Weiyang muttered, puzzled. “Strange—her interest in this man is beyond the ordinary.”