Chapter Forty-Seven: A Meeting of Equals

As murderous intent flickered in the young man's eyes, an inexplicable wind swept around him and Li Ruoyu. Gradually, a phantom mountain appeared before Li Ruoyu, its snow-capped peak drifting with the wind. The sharp tip pierced deep into the clouds and soared to the heavens; the world changed color, and countless stars floated overhead, as if the very day and night had been replaced.

“The image of the Dao of Solitary Peak,” Li Ruoyu’s calm face could not hide the shock in his eyes.

Solitary Peak—a deity of the primeval era, undefeated throughout his life, ever advancing to the ultimate heights. “Do not say the road ahead continues; atop Solitary Peak, there stands but one mountain.” This became the swan song of that age. No one knew Solitary Peak’s true name; he came from the unknown and departed for the mysterious. It was only known that he was utterly alone, a single person severing an entire epoch. The primeval era was truly extraordinary, with countless prodigies and monstrous talents vying for supremacy. It was an age of unparalleled splendor, yet also one where the future seemed veiled in darkness. Solitary Peak, alone, stood at the end of a path with no visible way forward, blocking the prodigies and monsters of that era. The end of hope was only a deeper abyss. Whether in duels, besieged by powerful enemies, faced with ancient survivors, or the long-standing rulers of prehistory, all fell into the abyss at his hands.

In that era, cultivator conflicts were rare, for the path ahead was blocked by the age of Solitary Peak.

The youth before Li Ruoyu was now wielding an image of the Dao once possessed by Solitary Peak—a manifestation thought extinct since his time. To witness it again here was unthinkable.

It was said that this Dao image was uniquely created by Solitary Peak, and only those who had trained in his scriptures or inherited his bloodline could wield it. Whether the youth had acquired the scriptures or possessed the bloodline, it meant his strength was capable of overcoming those above his station.

This was the youth’s first time unleashing his own innate power. He ascended, standing atop the snowy peak, bathed in starlight, seeming no longer of this world—like an exile from the heavens, his murderous intent now subdued, replaced by calm and reason. This made Li Ruoyu realize the youth’s true terror.

The wind intensified, carrying snow from the mountain’s peak, its chill burrowing into the bones, clashing with Li Ruoyu’s own Dao image. Black and white snow intermingled—not cold upon cold, but like spring sun meeting winter snow, as the energies within each Dao image clashed, sending up white vapors. Li Ruoyu’s black snow contained the wild power of years, while the youth’s soft, willow-like snow held an unknown, terrifying force, capable of contending with the forbidden power of time itself.

Li Ruoyu dared not be careless. He wrapped himself in wild energy, drew his sword, and channeled the Dao, launching a relentless attack, unconcerned with technique—his sole aim was to slay the youth.

The youth, too, was surrounded by swirling white snow, wary of giving Li Ruoyu any opening. As Li Ruoyu’s sword struck, the youth drew a treasured blade from his spatial pouch—a slender sword, four feet two inches long, one inch wide, with a pale blue hue. Amid the swirling snow, his aura became ethereal.

Blade and sword clashed—neither gained the upper hand.

“One who has entered the Dao,”

Li Ruoyu instantly understood: this was another who had reached the Dao.

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In combat with the youth, Li Ruoyu sensed his iron-willed resolve, tempered through countless trials, now hardened into an unyielding obsession—a sense of absolute supremacy.

The domineering force radiated around Li Ruoyu, who held his breath, focused.

One sword. Two swords. Hundreds, thousands of swords.

They fought with wild abandon. Such was the nature of those who had entered the Dao—each with reasons that forbade defeat. The youth, clad in snowy white, wielded his pale blue blade with an ethereal grace. Yet the fierce blade, paired with such temperament, disrupted the harmony—a savage weapon for a ruthless man. Li Ruoyu had never seen its like, nor the man himself—refined as a noble, yet every move deadly, his blade meant for mortal combat, wielded by one unafraid of mutual destruction.

The blade was fierce; the man, ruthless.

When the ruthless meet, waves must surely surge. Facing such a foe, Li Ruoyu felt no fear. By now, both he and the youth were covered in wounds.

Li Ruoyu had sustained fifty-three blade wounds—forty-eight minor cuts, five deep gashes showing bone.

The youth bore forty-seven sword wounds—forty-one small bleeding cuts, six gaping holes.

Yet in their eyes shone unwavering determination: regardless of their injuries, they were resolved to kill each other, not retreating an inch.

The youth’s name was Yin Yi. He hailed from the Yin family, a renowned cultivator clan of Yan Kingdom. True to his name, he was the sole heir of his generation, endowed with extraordinary talent and understanding of the Dao—his insight and progress far surpassed his peers. His patriarch placed immense hope in him, crafting the pale blue blade from divine materials while Yin Yi was still a child. Were it not for its remarkable nature, it could not have withstood Li Ruoyu’s bone sword for so long.

Moreover, to ensure his safety, even the family’s ancient servant was tasked with protecting him.

Yin Yi did not disappoint his grandfather’s expectations; though an only child, he was not a hothouse flower. At a young age, he received the treasured blade, which he grasped in his hand.

That grip lasted eighteen springs and autumns. In his youth, he slew bandits—sixty-three wounds from that campaign. He wielded a blade taller than himself, living as a wandering hero for two years, walking the martial world.

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In his youth, he slaughtered an enemy clan—over fifty-three souls, with ruthless methods, his white robe stained with blood, his gaze silent.

At nineteen, his parents and his childhood betrothed, a wife as close as a sister, were slain on Chu Kingdom soil by unknown hands. He sought the guidance of fate masters, who, after divining, coughed up blood thrice. Watching his parents and wife, wrapped in white, lying quietly on the ground, tears fell from his eyes—silent, but the echoes of each drop sounded like a mournful dirge. Yin Yi knelt for more than three days, tears dried, his body collapsing to the left, thus entering the Dao.

After that, Yin Yi rarely touched his treasured blade.

“I have a blade, nurtured until now, yet unused. Will you face it?” Yin Yi spoke for the first time, his gaze filled with respect as he looked at Li Ruoyu.

Li Ruoyu did not reply, only tightened his grip on the sword, then relaxed.

“Blade One.”

The sky, filled with stars, suddenly revealed a streak of silver, like a celestial sash, surging toward Li Ruoyu. The blade’s aura was overwhelming, a force that could not be avoided, only met head-on.

Li Ruoyu’s black snow Dao image contracted, the snow coalescing into a black pearl, glossy and dark, resting at the tip of his sword.

“Cinder Point.”

This was a technique Li Ruoyu had grasped—a novel application of the Dao image. It related to the copious divine materials and treasures he had used to refine his Dao image, as well as his own insight. Most importantly, it was his entry into the Dao that gave birth to this move.