Chapter Forty-Eight: Yin Yi

The obsidian pearl collided with that dazzling “First Blade,” a clash as sharp as needle meeting wheat awn. The blade that Yin Yi had nurtured for years, and the sword technique Li Ruoyu unleashed, together erupted with world-shattering power within the Dao Body realm. In the end, Yin Yi’s blade proved superior; Li Ruoyu’s body gained yet another scar. Though not fatal, it was clear he had fallen behind.

Yin Yi seized this hard-won advantage and launched another strike at Li Ruoyu.

“Second Blade: Twin Flowers.”

The surging blade aura formed two twin blossoms, infused with Dao intent, spinning toward Li Ruoyu. As these twin flowers approached, a rare hesitation flickered in Li Ruoyu’s eyes, soon replaced by resolve.

Li Ruoyu gripped his sword in his right hand, pointed it at the twin flowers, and slashed downward. This stroke was slow—so slow—but carried an ineffable profundity. It seemed ordinary, yet if a cultivator perceived it with spiritual sense, they would realize this strike embodied a certain will: a will that, regardless of what lies ahead, one sword is enough to cut through all. The strike was imbued with masculine strength, like the blazing sun hanging in the sky, radiating pure yang energy.

As the twin flowers neared, Li Ruoyu felt a sense of impending annihilation—a despair that threatened to reduce him to ash. This was the terror between life and death. Yet Li Ruoyu relied on his will, elevating his Dao, and delivered a sword that shattered the twin flowers.

Among Dao practitioners, strength varies. Their power is not merely a matter of cultivation. Cultivation is one aspect, heart is another, and Dao is the core. Cultivation is the realm; heart is the will above the soul; Dao is the essence, the principle the practitioner cherishes.

With this sword, Li Ruoyu sensed the world differently. He had always viewed it through his eyes, but now he tried to perceive it with his own will—the tremors of trees, the murmur of flowing water, the rhythm of the earth, the caress of the wind—all whispered softly in his ears.

At this moment, Li Ruoyu glimpsed the realm of Dao Foundation. Dao Foundation—a mysterious beginning for any cultivator—means understanding one’s will, knowing one’s pursuit, and using will to shape the Dao diagram. Cultivators value Dao heart, which is in truth the will of the soul. Some possess hearts as pure as a child, others as free as the wind; these differences in heart shape the cultivator’s character, whether righteous or cunning.

“Dao Transmutation.”

Li Ruoyu, sword in hand, repeated his earlier posture, slashing toward Yin Yi. Only the words “Dao Transmutation” could capture this strike—it was an attack from the soul, empowered by will, as if existing in two separate times and spaces, immune to ordinary assaults.

The stars in the sky seemed poised to vanish, the towering peaks threatened to dissolve; subtle signs appeared. For Li Ruoyu, this was good news. Yet for the young man, it carried an ominous undertone.

Though the sword could not be seen, its overwhelming presence swept forth like a cold winter wind. Yin Yi’s gaze grew heavier, but he remained calm, utterly different from the flustered demeanor he had shown when first meeting Li Ruoyu—clearly a mask. Now, his true nature emerged.

Strategy, courage, composure—all possessed.

Steadfast as a mountain, swift as a rabbit, still as a pine atop a peak; if one word were to describe him, it would be “bin”—proficient in both civil and martial arts, brave and wise.

Such qualities would be expected of a millennium-old monster, but in a youth barely past twenty, they marked him as extraordinary.

“The greatest hermit hides among the common folk.” The mundane world is the best training ground for cultivators—not for improving cultivation, but for refining the heart. Yin Yi had roamed the martial world, seen much, and naturally understood much—knowing, but not saying; understanding, yet feigning ignorance.

If the heart is unmoved, the wind is still; if the heart stirs, the wind rises. Facing Li Ruoyu’s sword, Yin Yi was eerily calm, like the silence before a storm, voiceless and breathless, but the rolling clouds above foretold that when he did strike, it would be all the more terrifying.

As the sword approached, Yin Yi tightened his grip on his treasured blade, just as he had for eighteen springs, carrying a wild vigor and a unique arrogance, infused with the aged aroma of long-sealed wine.

“Sealed Blade.”

Yin Yi loved to drink. After his parents and the wife, dear as a sister, were reduced to ashes in a fire fueled by peach branches, he took to drinking. While wandering the martial world, he abstained, finding it didn’t suit his taste. But as ash rained from the sky, he drank his first mouthful. It was spirits, gifted by his grandfather, who said, “Drink when it hurts. Two sips can ease your pain.” Yin Yi took the flask, drank, and felt it burn like fire across grass, leaving only scorched traces. From then on, he gained a passion for the wine in his flask. At that moment, he comprehended the “Sealed Blade” technique.

Like aging wine, the longer it is sealed, the richer its fragrance. Yin Yi sealed away the pain that wounded his spirit and grieved his soul, rarely wielding the blade he once gripped for eighteen years. By not using it, his progress accelerated, and his understanding deepened.

This blade was nothing special—except it carried pain, a pain so deep it wounded the spirit and soul, the agony of will.

Like Li Ruoyu, Yin Yi’s “Sealed Blade” embodied the sorrow and grief within his soul.

Blade and sword intertwined, sparking a contest not just of skill, but of Dao. Different lives birth different springs, summers, autumns, and winters, forging unique paths. In terms of cultivation, Yin Yi trailed Li Ruoyu by two realms; in talent, Yin Yi was a rare prodigy, far surpassing Li Ruoyu. Yet two utterly different men, with completely divergent destinies—Yin Yi’s will buried deep within, Li Ruoyu’s will, like black and white, yin and yang, formed two extremes.

After the exchange, they crossed paths, standing fifteen paces apart. Li Ruoyu held his bone sword, the tiger’s mouth split, a wound running from shoulder to abdomen. Yin Yi’s treasured blade cracked, and sword energy had struck his chest, leaving a gash eighteen inches long, soaking his clothes with blood.

After that exchange, Yin Yi and Li Ruoyu locked eyes—two ruthless men, two Dao practitioners. Both slowly retreated in opposite directions, remaining vigilant, leaving each other’s range of attack.

At this point, both knew that if they continued to fight to the death, they would likely perish together. Whatever the reason, bloodshed could no longer continue. Li Ruoyu still hesitated, unsure whether letting Yin Yi go was right or wrong, but things had come to this. He could only take it one step at a time.