Wang Yiran, his expression grave, turned and leaped onto the railing of the waterside pavilion. He had no time for his frightened female relatives within; he swiftly dashed towards the pool to retrieve his defeated daughter.

The young master of Sword Water Villa, unperturbed, and the young scholar, fanning himself, clicked his tongue in astonishment. “I never expected such hidden martial prowess.”

The young scholar snapped his folding fan shut, his gaze fixed on the receding figure of the young boy. This boy, sword case slung across his back, was undoubtedly a lesser grandmaster, fourth tier martial arts!

Perhaps he was the final disciple of the Colorful Garment Nation’s sword god? Yet, the cultivation world was perilous, his master violently slain in the mountains. He was forced to disguise himself as a traveling cultivator from another nation.

Had he fled far from danger? Or, who could have nurtured such a young martial prodigy? He had attained grandmaster status even before Song Fengshan.

Song Fengshan’s wife, a beautiful and virtuous young woman, couldn’t help but ask softly, “Will Shanhu be alright?”

Song Fengshan, almost imperceptibly, stroked the hilt of his sword, Vast Water, with his thumb. He smiled, remaining silent.

The young scholar smiled faintly. “Rest assured, milady. Lady Wang is unharmed, not seriously wounded. The young boy employed a clever technique, using only the external force of his fist aura to render Lady Wang unconscious.

“She sustained only superficial wounds, nothing that will affect her physique or soul. The boy restrained himself at the precise moment. I believe he was heeding Villa Master Wang’s words—one should not narrow their path in the cultivation world.”

Indeed, Shanhu slowly regained consciousness as Wang Yiran carried her back to the waterside pavilion, tapping several acupoints. Apart from being dishevelled, soaked, with exposed skin and a disfigured face, her condition and aura seemed remarkably stable.

She struggled to her feet, forehead red and swollen, her back to the others. She leaned against a pillar, hand pressed to her mouth. The soaked, slender young girl had tear-filled eyes, a charmingly pitiful contrast to her usual aloofness.

The young girl, oblivious to the seriousness of the situation, craned her neck, dazedly gazing at Chen Ping’an drinking on the mountain path. “Wow! He’s truly a powerful person!” she exclaimed in wonder.

The young scholar stole a glance at Shanhu’s slender figure, now more exposed by her drenched garments. A faint smile touched his lips. Her legs were long and shapely; the naive young boy was likely unfamiliar with such allure. But for experienced young masters of powerful clans like him, such legs were known to be a significant threat to a man’s health.

One issue resolved, another immediately arose.

There was a notion of subordinates sacrificing themselves when their master was humiliated in the cultivation world. The man with the ox-horn bow, seemingly sensing the reserved snickers of a few other guards and subordinates, stood among the trusted retainers in the waterside pavilion.

His anger ignited a surge of courage. He roared, seizing his precious bow, crafted by a master craftsman over ten years, and an arrow with white fletching from his quiver. “An evildoer like you dares injure the young mistress? Receive my arrow!”

Unexpected events unfolded one after another. Even Villa Master Wang of Unruly Saber Villa, renowned for his composure and steadfast techniques, felt a flicker of anger.

“Ma Lu! You cannot shoot from behind!” he roared.

Chen Ping’an was already a hundred paces away, about to turn back. But he paused, catching sight of a figure perched on a branch high in a towering tree, hands clasped behind their back. The mountain wind whipped past, the branch beneath the old man in black’s feet swaying gently. He stood there, an imposing presence.

The two exchanged a brief glance; the old man nodded curtly. Seeing this, Chen Ping’an abandoned his impulse to retaliate. He turned back towards the waterside pavilion.

The old man vanished, reappearing on the narrow mountain path moments later. He moved like a wisp of smoke, brushing past Chen Ping’an. He raised his arm, a finger pointing upwards.

An arrow sliced through the air, stopped by the old man’s fingertip. The arrow shaft shattered under the immense force, yet the old man’s finger remained unmoved, uninjured.

The old man gently pinched the arrowhead with two fingers. With a casual toss, the arrowhead whistled back, piercing the archer’s hand.

The man, fearless, refused to drop his ox-horn bow. His wounded hand hung limp, but he held the bow aloft with his other hand. His eyes blazed with anger and ferocity, fixed on the uninvited guest.

“In the cultivation world, one is responsible for their own life and death!” the old man in black stated coldly. “Have your elders not taught you this simple principle? You may disregard the rules of the cultivation world in Water Combing Nation. But this is Sword Water Villa.”

Song Fengshan’s wife bowed gracefully. “Patriarch,” she greeted respectfully.

Wang Yiran’s expression shifted; he quickly cupped his fists, lowering his head. “Wang Yiran of Unruly Saber Villa pays his respects to Sword Saint Song!”

The young scholar immediately nudged the young girl, signaling her to stand. He bowed, “Han Yuanshan, disciple of the Han Clan of Mount Xiaochong, pays his respects to the Old Villa Master.”

The young girl, spirited and unfazed, mimicked her older brother’s bow, but held her head high. She looked directly at the renowned immortal, her voice childish. “Han Yuanxue, disciple of the Han Clan of Mount Xiaochong, pays her respects to the Old Villa Master.”

After Sword Saint Song Yushao revealed himself, his grandson, Song Fengshan, was the last to rise. His voice emotionless, he slowly said, “Grandfather, your trip outside was brief. I thought you would only return when the guests departed, the villa quiet and peaceful.”

The old man simply remarked, “A foul atmosphere.”

He turned and departed with Chen Ping’an. The influential Han Clan of Water Combing Nation’s Mount Xiaochong? The villa master of Unruly Saber Villa? He dismissed them all, as if beneath his notice. The old villa master showed no further interest.

Song Yushao walked alongside Chen Ping’an. His expression only subtly clouded as he turned away from the others. After half a kilometer, he said with self-deprecation, “My clan has strayed, even fallen below the level of a waterfall. Apologies for the embarrassing spectacle.”

Chen Ping’an, unsure how to respond, offered polite, generic words. “The villa’s occupants are quite well-behaved, Senior. Not as bad as you portray them.”

Every family had its hardships. Regardless of his magnanimity, the old man was unwilling to discuss his clan’s shortcomings before outsiders. He changed the subject. “Why did you suddenly restrain yourself in your punch? Why only use thirty or forty percent of your strength?”

“The future villa master of Unruly Saber Villa is a stubborn individual. She might not appreciate your mercy, and might cause you trouble in the future. These days, people in the cultivation world only care for their own feelings and happiness. I dislike this, but I also cannot appreciate your lack of decisiveness.”

Chen Ping’an sipped wine, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He smiled. “Killing someone simply because I’m unhappy is excessive. In any case, I’m leaving Water Combing Nation soon. Unruly Saber Villa won’t easily cause me trouble, even if they wish to. What can she do, curse me behind my back? I can’t hear her curses anyway.”

Song Yushao turned to glance at Chen Ping’an, his expression sincere. His attitude was unexpected, yet understandable. He smiled. “An old man like me can say such things—one foot in the grave. Nothing matters. But you are only fifteen or sixteen, right? It’s rather dull to hear such mature pronouncements.”

Chen Ping’an did not reply. The gloom had lifted significantly after his punch, and that was enough.

He recalled something, warning quietly, “The woman from the old temple, claiming to be one of Water Combing Nation’s four evil spirits, has arrived at your villa with a large man. Be cautious, Senior.”

Song Yushao laughed heartily. “This is nothing. Counting the young master of the Han Clan in the waterside pavilion, the infamous four evil spirits of Water Combing Nation have all gathered at my villa.”

“Who is the final evil spirit?” Chen Ping’an asked in confusion.

“Let’s not discuss them,” Song Yushao replied with a bitter smile, shaking his head.

Chen Ping’an took a sip of wine, pondering.

The old man understood his intent, explaining honestly, “My invitation to you and your companions has no hidden agenda. I simply hope the villa is not filled with dogs and pigs in human form. This Sword Water Villa is my creation. I do not want dog droppings everywhere. Your presence as guests pleases me.”

Chen Ping’an was unsure whether to laugh or cry. This senior was far too straightforward.

However, Chen Ping’an was unaware that Song Yushao, while becoming increasingly renowned as a sword saint, was also nicknamed “Iron Knob” by his peers. This referred to his unsmiling nature, both at home and in the cultivation world.

To suggest Song Fengshan had a completely different personality from his grandfather was a misjudgment. Song Yushao simply embodied the stubbornness and restraint of past generations of cultivators. Song Fengshan, in his pursuit of the pinnacle of the Sword Dao, was unwilling to adhere to these principles.

Song Yushao, past seventy, had weathered countless storms and encountered numerous sinister individuals during his travels. He was increasingly certain of one thing: one should only reason with those who are reasonable. Otherwise, his rusty iron sword was his only argument, his only necessity.

Song Yushao preferred the company of his sword. He had observed many impressive young prodigies in recent years. Talented, yes, but their martial virtue was lacking. Yet, they were successful, admired by many in the cultivation world.

Something puzzled Song Yushao. The cultivation world would be in the hands of these people in fifty years. What was there to look forward to?

No matter how skilled a swordsman he was, Song Yushao was only one person. His peers were passing away, taking with them the old principles the youth no longer valued. These principles were buried with them. Now that his half-friend, half-enemy, the old sword god of Colorful Garment Nation, was gone, Song Yushao felt even more disheartened.

The current cultivation world felt bland, tasteless. The wine had lost its flavour.

The old man and the young boy strolled aimlessly. After a while, Song Yushao said, “Those in the pavilion misjudged your fist intent. But I saw it clearly. Let me be nosy. Your mental state is unsettled. The barrier between the third and fourth tiers is a major hurdle for martial artists. The stronger your foundation, the more susceptible you are to accidents if you advance with a troubled heart. An avalanche on a large mountain is far more terrifying than a landslide on a small one. Be careful, young lad!”

Chen Ping’an was jolted back to reality. He wiped the cold sweat from his brow, pondered, then turned. “Thank you for your warning, Senior.”

Song Yushao considered, then said something seemingly unrelated. “Your restraint was a sign of kindness, but also a blemish on your advancement. Had you unleashed your full power, you might have killed her, or crippled her. It could have escalated into a life-or-death battle, an opportunity to break through. This is what mountain immortals call a fated opportunity.”

Chen Ping’an smiled, but felt no regret. His response was mature. “It doesn’t matter. What is mine will not escape, what is not mine cannot be taken.”

Song Yushao carefully observed the subtle shifts in Chen Ping’an’s expression. He nodded imperceptibly.

The Sword Dao of this young boy and his grandson, Song Fengshan, were vastly different. The gulf between them was like the chasm between heaven and earth. It was too early to judge who would advance further. Yet, Song Yushao found this boy from another nation, with poor sword skills yet carrying a sword case, more appealing than his own prodigy of a grandson.

Scholarly clans were better at educating future generations than cultivation forces. Song Yushao wholeheartedly agreed. His focus on swordsmanship had led him to neglect his clan’s development.

Perhaps he had few tools, only scolding or beating his descendants. Now, he felt guilt and regret.

In truth, Song Yushao felt his situation was no different from Wang Yiran’s.

Etiquette stemmed from aristocratic clans, immortal power from martial sects.

Genuine aristocratic descendants were raised with etiquette and rules. Immortal techniques were systematically passed down in mountain forces.

Song Yushao knew this. His travels to Southern Stream Nation had exposed him to various individuals. Even the weak scholars there could be embarrassing.

On the mountain path connecting the waterfall to Sword Water Villa, a charming resting pavilion with upturned eaves stood. A plaque read “Mountain and Water,” couplets on the doorway read “Jagged White Stones” and “Murmuring Limpid Water.” Simple, yet unique.

Song Yushao liked this pavilion. He dragged Chen Ping’an to sit on a long bench inside. They sat opposite each other, the old man resting his sword across his knees, the young boy keeping his swords on his back. One a revered sword saint, the other lacking confidence in swordsmanship.

Their view was expansive, the distant mountains like the dark eyebrows of a beautiful woman.

The mountain wind was refreshing, carefree.

Song Yushao sat quietly, not engaging in small talk. He pondered personal matters.

His grandson, Song Fengshan, was not ambitious in the cultivation world. His wife, however, was the driving force behind the scenes. She had convinced him of the convenience of minor actions, leading him towards becoming the alliance leader of the martial arts world, even extending his influence into the imperial court. Otherwise, why would Song Fengshan have cared about the Water Combing Nation princess? His restraint was remarkable.

The “Four Evil Spirits of Water Combing Nation” was a recent title, unknown outside the cultivation grandmaster circles. The most powerful was the burly man with the silver halberd, founder of a demonic force.

Second was the demonic young girl from the old temple. Third, the seemingly unremarkable young master from the Han Clan, cultivating demonic techniques, controlling high-ranking officials.

The weakest, seemingly distant, was right in front of them—Song Yushao’s granddaughter-in-law.

She had “coincidentally” met Song Fengshan during his travels. They married without his knowledge or consent, announcing their union to the world. When Song Yushao returned, it was too late.

Most infuriating was Song Fengshan’s admission of his wife’s demonic identity. Song Yushao had drawn his sword, shattering his eldest grandson’s sword, piercing the woman’s heart.

She survived, but her immortality was shattered. She became frail, prone to illness.

Song Yushao had tried reason and emotion to persuade his grandson, but failed. Things had become strained.

Song Yushao sighed.

The Mountain and Water Pavilion, surrounded by jagged white stones and murmuring water, was beautiful, but worldly affairs were disappointing.

“Senior Song, may I practice fist techniques at the waterfall for a few days?” Chen Ping’an asked.

Song Yushao agreed without question. “Certainly. I will immediately declare the area from the Mountain and Water Pavilion to the waterfall a restricted zone of Sword Water Villa. Unauthorized entry will be met with death.”

Chen Ping’an scratched his head. “I can practice at night, when the waterfall is less crowded. No need to seal it in the morning. Unreasonable.”

Song Yushao chuckled. “Must I reason with others when sealing off my territory?”

Chen Ping’an accepted. “If the villa needs assistance, please let me know, Senior.”

The old man tapped his sword. “My sword differs from the two on your back.”

Chen Ping’an, slightly awkward, grabbed his Sword Nurturing Gourd and focused on drinking.

Song Yushao suppressed a chuckle, re-sheathing his sword. “Practice as you please. Stay as long as you wish. Oh, your wine is dreadful. I’ll send someone to bring you some flower carving brew, buried underground twenty years. What are you drinking now? It’s like water. And you always sip regardless of company. Embarrassing.”

With a tap of his foot, the old man vanished, reappearing on a distant branch.

Chen Ping’an sat alone in the Mountain and Water Pavilion.

He had encountered this senior twice. He recalled City God Shen Wen, the scholarly deity, and the Qi refiner. A feeling persisted that they were similar, but he couldn’t place it. Chen Ping’an felt he couldn’t buy the cheapest liquor anymore.

This didn’t matter. He was about to receive the best wine in Sword Water Villa. Free.

Chen Ping’an left the pavilion, a good mood.

Xu Yuanxia and Zhang Shanfeng exchanged glances. What had happened at the waterfall?

Chen Ping’an sat beside the stone table, chuckling. “I’m practicing fist techniques at the waterfall tonight. Who wants to join?”

“Perhaps you saw a beautiful woman bathing?” the big-bearded martial artist grinned. “If so, count me in!”

Zhang Shanfeng added, “I’ll keep watch.”

Chen Ping’an sighed. “Impossible. I had a conflict with someone from Unruly Saber Villa. Fortunately, Senior Song intervened, blocking an arrow from one of their subordinates. Otherwise, I might have dragged you into