Chapter 21: Sharpened Blades

 "You mean...Song Huiya?"

The young man, half-reclining on the couch, his cheeks flushed with wine and excess, said drunkenly, "Isn't she already dead? How could she climb up from the bottom of the Nameless Cliff?"

The middle-aged man in front of him, still shaken, his lips dry and chapped, looking haggard from a sleepless night, quickly replied with barely suppressed panic: "Most likely. In this world, besides her, who else would dare to single-handedly storm my Broken Goose Sect? Not only did she injure an elder and kill a disciple, but she also cleaved the bluestone in front of the mountain with a single sword strike. The disciples in the sect are now in a state of panic. We beg the young sect leader to return to the mountain and take charge of the situation."

The young man's eyes cleared a little, alcohol's haze dissipating under the weight of fear. He slowly sat up from the couch. A servant quickly brought him warm water and placed it in his hands with trembling deference.

The young man took a sip and found the water tasted bitter—or perhaps everything did now. He frowned and looked at it, then saw that it was indeed clear water. Frustrated, he angrily smashed the cup at the servant and yelled, "Get out!"

The servant quickly swept up the broken pieces of porcelain on the ground with the hem of his robe, not daring to raise his head, and crawled backward on his knees like a beaten dog.

The young man pressed his forehead, enduring the headache from his hangover, and cleared his mind—forced clarity through pain. He said, "It's not necessarily her. There aren't many people in the martial world who have actually seen Song Huiya, but there are plenty of covetous rats. Most likely, with Song Huiya dead, a few wandering vagabonds are eager to use her name to create a false impression, hoping to profit from the chaos."

As he spoke, he calmed down, straightened his clothes, and leaned back lazily, tapping the low table on the couch with one hand—rhythm of false confidence. He said with forced calm, "There are countless people who can't stand the power and wealth of my Duan Yan Sect, but Song Huiya is the least likely to come at this time. The example of Wumingya is still fresh in our minds; to dare to be so arrogant, she must be tired of living."

The middle-aged manager hesitated, as if he wanted to say something but then stopped—words dying on his tongue. Not understanding where his confidence came from, he helplessly said, "Young Master, it's not just that..."

Fearing the man's brutal nature, he hesitated repeatedly, unwilling to reveal the demands Song Huiya had left behind the day before. Just as he was about to bite the bullet and speak frankly, the door was pushed open from the outside, and a burly figure stormed in aggressively—authority made flesh.

The young man's eyes widened, still hazy with drowsiness. Only when he saw the person's face did he sit up straight and respectfully greet him, "Father."

Ye Wenmao looked at his son's decadent state, a result of his indulgence in pleasure, and felt an unconcealable disappointment that tasted like ash in his mouth. His lips moved as if he wanted to curse, and he opened his mouth several times, but restrained himself because of the presence of outsiders.

His beard trembled with suppressed fury, and finally he managed to squeeze out a sentence through gritted teeth: "Do you think only Song Huiya in the world can kill you? If it really were Song Huiya here, even Xie Zhongchu wouldn't dare to show her any disrespect. Your attitude now is simply courting death!"

This morning he had specifically gone up the mountain to examine that sword mark. It had penetrated three-tenths of an inch into the stone, with a smooth cut, already revealing the depth of the swordsman's skill—precision that spoke of decades of practice. He had also heard that the broken stone brick in front of the hall was caused by a single palm strike from a swordsman, yet the cross-section of the stone was completely different, with the crack filled with scattered sand and dust, enough to show that this person's internal strength was extraordinary, rare in this world.

Wealth can be passed down through generations, and power can also be inherited, but talent is the most sought-after and unattainable—the cruelest truth of existence.

His son, Ye Guanda, was like an insect that didn't know the bitterness of life, lacking talent, unwilling to work hard, and unaware of the dangers of the martial world. He had only scratched the surface of the family's martial arts, practicing them in a haphazard and incoherent way. If it weren't for being Ye Wenmao's son, he would only be a mediocre talent, long ago dead in some dark ditch or mountain hollow.

Ye Wenmao stood before the rocks for a long time, his sorrow mixed with intense jealousy that burned like poison.

First there was Song Huiya, then the Nameless Guest; so many talented people emerged in this martial world, why didn't they use them for their own purposes? Even if half of their talent had fallen into his son's hands, it wouldn't necessarily bring glory to the family, but at least it could have ensured the sect's safety for decades.

Seeing this, Ye Guanda became serious, poured his father a cup of water, and tentatively asked, "Father, if you say so, it seems that person really does have some skill?"

"Some skill is more than that. You've just not seen enough masters in the martial world." Ye Wenmao was angry at his son's lack of ambition, but after all, he was his son, so he patiently advised, "Go in person, or send someone with generous gifts to that swordsman's house to apologize. What's all this talk about wearing mourning clothes and kneeling three times and kowtowing nine times? That's just wishful thinking. Tell her that I can have my disciples attend the funeral. If we both compromise and let this matter drop, that would be best."

"Wearing mourning clothes?!" Ye Guanda only then realized the situation and roared, his face full of resentment, clearly unwilling to listen. "She humiliated me like this, and Father, you still want me to come and apologize?"

The young man's face flushed red with indignation, and he said sinisterly, "You should tell that woman to come kneeling before me and admit her mistake. Otherwise, I'll make sure she never leaves this Broken Goose City! She only has her fists and legs, while my Broken Goose Sect and my relatives in the city number at least tens of thousands. Can she fight them? I could drown her with a single spit!"

"You bastard!" Ye Wenmao was furious and raised his hand to slap him hard. He originally intended to slap his face, but in the end, he twisted his wrist and only struck his shoulder—even in anger, paternal love softening the blow.

Even so, Ye Guanda still looked surprised and hurt, betrayal written across his features.

Ye Wenmao's anger had not subsided, and seeing his unruly appearance, it was clear that further words were useless. "Do as I say!" Ye Wenmao said firmly.

He saw the sorrow in Ye Guanda's eyes. After keeping a straight face for a long time, he couldn't help but feel a little sorry for him and softened his tone to persuade him, "My son, in the martial world, you have to bow your head. What kind of person is Xie Zhongchu? Didn't he also have to bow his head? If you can avoid a disaster with just two coffins, why not? Go and test that swordsman's words first. If she really doesn't know what's good for her, my Duan Yan Sect is not afraid of her. We will definitely help you get justice."

Ye Wenmao gently patted the spot where he had just hit him and said kindly, "Did you hear that?"

Ye Guanda's expression was inscrutable, emotions warring beneath the surface. His Adam's apple bobbed, and he lowered his head and said, "I heard that."

---

After the others left, Ye Guanda covered the painful spot and slowly sat back on the couch, staring intently at a certain spot in the void. A ruthless look slowly emerged from his eyes—poison crystallizing into intent.

"Father is getting old after all," Ye Guanda said in a deep voice, the words like stones dropping into still water. "Ever since Song Huiya sent him the threatening letter, he hasn't even seen her face, yet he lives in constant fear, unable to eat or sleep, becoming a laughingstock. He finally received news of Song Huiya's death, but now, hearing only a rumor, he's already anxious again. Song Huiya may not be a real tiger, but my father is… he should rest."

The middle-aged man, who had been silent all along, felt a chill run down his spine from those few words—understanding arriving like frost. He looked up and unexpectedly met Ye Guanda's gaze.

After a moment of eye contact, the man's fear quickly subsided. After a moment of thought, his gaze hardened, and he flicked his long sleeves, bowing deeply to Ye Guanda to show his loyalty—allegiance transferring like currency.

The Broken Goose Gate, in the end, would belong to Ye Guanda.

Ye Guanda smiled with satisfaction. "Uncle Qin, then I'll trouble you to listen to my father, bring generous gifts, and go meet that..."

His smile vanished instantly, and he said each word with ruthless cruelty, "Bastard!"

---

Kite Alley, south of Broken Goose City, is a narrow alley barely wide enough for two arms to pass through. The ground is perpetually covered in filthy, foul-smelling sewage; every step leaves a splash of mud and grime—poverty made visible. No high-ranking official or noble in the city ever sets foot here. Many mountain legends about it are as distant as clouds.

But today, a rumor has spread like wildfire throughout the city, and the fastest-spreading one is in this half-dead Kite Alley.

The story isn't very clear; it only says that Song Huiya, an outsider from the martial arts world, instigated by the vixen Second Sister, wants to sever the hand of the young master of the Goose Clan just to vent her anger.

This is no small matter.

The old man's house was already deserted, and after the news spread, no one dared to set foot there. The local people preferred to take a long detour rather than pass by his house—fear drawing new maps of the city.

When Song Huiya went out that morning, she found that someone had dumped excrement all over the ground in front of the second wife's house—cowardice expressing itself in filth.

Some people, wanting to avenge the mountain people and pledge allegiance to the Broken Goose Gate, dared not provoke the fierce and ruthless Song Huiya, and only dared to bully the helpless, sick woman.

Song Huiya simply moved a chair and sat down on the street to keep watch—patience as threat.

Song Zhiqie, furious, stomped her feet and cursed at the figure lingering at the end of the street, her voice sharp with righteous indignation: "Who is it! Who is it! Even those headless geese didn't say they were coming to bother my master, which wretched person couldn't resist first! The last time I saw something like this, it was a rich, pregnant man who threw a piece of meat into a pack of stray dogs. A pack of dogs rushed over barking! The dogs were fighting for the meat, what meat could you possibly get!"

A pair of tired eyes emerged from behind the earthen wall next door. A emaciated man stood on the stones, looking at her with a slightly numb expression—life having beaten curiosity nearly to death. Seeing Song Huiya looking at him as well, he hurriedly hid back.

Song Huiya could sense many similar gazes around her, most of them thinking she was already dead. There was a slight pity, not much, because the weariness of life had left no room for sympathy—survival taking all available energy.

Song Zhiqie's cursing suddenly stopped. The little devil, baring his teeth, rushed towards her, nimbly darting behind her and hiding himself completely.

Song Huiya turned her head in the direction he was looking and saw a middle-aged man with fifteen or sixteen masked disciples walking towards them—inevitability approaching.

"Bang, bang, bang!"

The street fell silent, save for the sounds of neighbors tightly shutting their doors and windows—the music of fear.

The disciples suddenly quickened their pace, their toes barely touching the ground, rushing towards them like tigers devouring their prey—violence unleashed.

"Go inside," Song Huiya said calmly, her voice carrying no trace of concern. "Go get my sword."

Song Zhiqie dashed towards her house.

Old Qian, sitting on the wall, had already prepared the weapon for her and casually tossed it over—anticipation rewarded.

Song Huiya slowly rose, stretched her limbs like a cat waking from sleep, and said regretfully, "I thought that the two swords I left behind last night would at least allow for a polite but ultimately forceful conversation."

Old Qian said sarcastically, "It seems your swordsmanship has declined."

His pupils were momentarily blinded by the rainbow-like sword light in the daylight—beauty preceding violence. He turned his head slightly and pointed to a spot with casual certainty: "The main city is over there."

Song Huiya smiled—not with warmth, but with the anticipation of someone about to correct a mistake.

The disciples came like a tide.

She met them like a breaking wave.

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