Why do I have so many masters?

Blood blossomed across the forest floor.

With a heavy thump, the right foot of twenty men stamped forcefully onto the ground.

The friction of their battle armor produced a harsh, murderous noise. The sudden stop exerted pressure on muscles and organs, which the Qing Taoqi endured expressionlessly. The gust of wind from their rapid charge had not yet dissipated when they violently turned around with their sabers drawn.

It was as if cold plums suddenly burst into bloom.

The twenty frigid blades of the waist sabers twirled in coordination, protecting their comrades' backs while attacking the enemy. In just an instant, four or five martial artists from the Liu Sword Sect lay dead on the ground.

Lan Hongyi silently recited the Bagua positions in his heart and followed through with his saber strike, stepping forward forcefully. Then, like a machine, he performed an action so ingrained in his muscle memory from training that it could almost be considered instinctive, and he struck down again.

The twenty men executed corresponding movements, and the formation shifted once more.

The glint of their sabers was like a glacial river sloping down from the highest source of the mountains and rivers.

It resembled the gears of Mo Family mechanisms, mechanically rotating; when combined, they became the world's top siege weapon, unstoppable by any who stood in their path.

Hang Yong only felt three blades of light attacking him at once; he barely managed to raise his longsword when he suddenly felt severe pain in his body, with cuts on his arm and abdomen.

In the next moment, several more cuts were added to his body, blood pouring out.

And the blades in front of him showed no signs of stopping, coming in like waves, one after another.

They seemed endless.

Almost instantly, he had become a bloodied man, shouting furiously as he swung his longsword with all his might, only for several longswords to collide with his, neutralizing the force of his strike.

In his final moments of consciousness, Hang Yong heard the desperate cry of his master, a ruthless swordsman who, in his younger years, had roamed alone with his sword, taking countless lives under his blade – scores, if not hundreds – now cornered like a wild beast, he roared:

"We surrender!"

"I know who's after you... we surrender!"

Along with a short, forceful command to stop, the relentless tide of blades that seemed it would never cease, suddenly halted. The cold gleaming like water, it dazzled the eyes.

The wind raised by the swinging waist sabers brushed over the blades.

The sound of the swords rang clear and continuously.

Relief washed over Hang Yong, and his last bit of consciousness faded away. The stabbing pain throughout his body became unbearable, like a flood breaking through a dam, overwhelming him until he passed out and collapsed heavily to the ground.

The blades neatly and uniformly retracted.

Like undulating waves of azure blue, unceasing.

......

Jiangnan Road's thirteen districts are well known for their grand rivers and streams; the mountains in comparison are elegant rather than grand. A hundred miles north of Zhenjiang, however, there lies a mountain range famous throughout the world, standing tall on the north bank of the river.

Over a thousand years ago, the previous Emperor of Martial Arts had inscribed the words "The Greatest Scenery under Heaven" on these mountains, and later a great Confucian scholar from the Confucian Sect had the inscription carved into rock. The writing has lasted a thousand years, still clearly visible today.

Behind the mountain, there is a pavilion called Lingyun, meaning "to tower over the clouds," a place for dragons to soar and phoenixes to gather. Many notables from Jiangnan Road hold their salons there. Prestige is paramount among scholars, so naturally, they sought a place of adequate distinction. The Lingyun Pavilion behind Yonggu Mountain was considered an ideal location.

Twice a year, in March and September, a grand salon is held inviting famous scholars from Jiangnan Road for lofty discussions. Their perspectives are exceptionally broad; not every commoner, or even those of lower stature from noble clans, had the privilege of being present, making it a highly esteemed event of the time.

On ordinary days, Lingyun Pavilion is a spot reserved for officials and nobles to appreciate the scenery, rarely visited by scholars of modest means. Occasionally, women from noble clans, beautiful and full of grace, would point to a corner and recount with pride how this place was once frequented by a certain eminent scholar, who commanded such poise and elegance while discussing state affairs.

Atop the mountain, a rock extends several meters out from a cliff, resembling the outstretched palm of an Immortal, on which a pavilion has been built that has withstood hundreds of years of wind and rain. Through countless changes in fortune among nobles and high officials in the mortal world, this pavilion has remained unchanged.

A man in plain clothes stood in the pavilion, leaning on the railing with his right hand and gazing out into the distance. To his left was a man with a withered and skeletal appearance, exuding a coldness as if he were an ancient corpse buried for eight hundred years.

To his right was a towering burly man with tight lips and squinting eyes conveying a trace of arrogance.

The longsword in his hand remained sheathed, with the Sword Intent vibrating only within the scabbard.

Yet observing this man's towering stature, standing there he seemed like an unsheathed sharp sword, infusing the pavilion, and even the extended mass of the mountain with the essence of a heavy, solid longsword.

There may be thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of martial artists in the world who wield swords, but the number of names that could be counted from the past three generations that have managed to refine their swordsmanship to this degree were few.

This man must certainly be a Great Swordsman listed on the Sword List.

The man flanked by the two others watched as several white cranes soared into the sky, then withdrew his gaze and muttered:

"Wang Tiance's son has been in the mountains for almost two months now, yet his whereabouts remain undiscovered. To elude capture with some three hundred men, he must be quite adept at hiding."

The man resembling an ancient corpse stroked his beard and laughed.

His laugh was supposed to carry flattery and appeasement, but due to his countenance, acquired a somewhat eerie and cold aspect. Aware his laughter was unsettling, he allowed himself only a couple of chuckles before stopping, saying: