What pierced through Fantian’s abdomen was, of course, the wooden spear that Qinglong had been holding just moments before. The spear went straight through his belly, leaving behind a pitch-black bloody hole. Blood kept pouring out of the wound, gushing again and again, quickly staining Fantian’s clothes bright red. The ground was soon covered in a pool of blood as well.
An injury this severe was naturally fatal.
Even for a Xiantian-level expert, an injury like this was basically beyond saving. All one could do was wait for death.
So Fantian immediately fell to his knees. In less than two minutes, he collapsed onto the ground, his limbs sprawled flat, his eyes staring up at the sky. Even now, his eyes were still filled with disbelief, as if he were still replaying the exchange just now in his mind. He still hadn’t figured out how Qinglong had managed to kill him.
He was a genuine, legitimate Xiantian expert—his cultivation was real, not the slightest bit fake. And he had even fought Tsukahara Bokuden before, and Tsukahara Bokuden hadn’t been able to do anything to him either.
So how was it that when it came to Qinglong, he was defeated so completely?
He had unleashed the strongest, most exquisite martial arts move in the Ashoka Sect—he had even manifested three heads and six arms—yet every single one of his techniques turned out to be nothing but a paper tiger in front of Qinglong. This seemingly plain and unremarkable wild Daoist had run him clean through with nothing but a fire poker!
“Why? Why? Why?!” Fantian kept muttering these words, truly unable to understand, and unwilling to believe that he was going to die here today.
He had still wanted to turn defeat into victory, to wipe away the shame from all those years ago.
His attack just now hadn’t been completely useless—it had also wounded Qinglong. He had even come within just a tiny bit of being able to snap Qinglong’s neck with his bare hands.
But that tiny bit—it was still just that tiny bit.
As the saying goes, a hair’s breadth can make all the difference. This saying couldn’t be more fitting when applied to martial arts. He seemed to be just a tiny bit short of killing Qinglong, yet Qinglong had successfully killed him. The gap in strength between the two of them was just that tiny bit.
But in truth, that wasn’t the case at all. He knew very well just how big the gap in strength was between him and Qinglong. That gap was no smaller than it had been back when Qinglong defeated him years ago.
“In the end… you still won.” His abdomen had been pierced through, and eventually the blood inside his body began to rise up into Fantian’s mouth with every breath. Soon his mouth was filled with blood.
He said this in broken, halting words, his eyes burning with unwilling rage. This strongest expert of the Ashoka Kingdom, Fantian, who had chased the Lion King and Olivia all the way to the island nation for over half a month, died just like that.
When the Lion King saw Fantian die, he finally let out a breath of relief—and so did Olivia, the Church’s ascetic who had been so badly wounded that she had lost all combat ability.
For the past half month, Fantian had been like a soul-chasing lock, relentlessly pursuing the two of them, never giving them a moment’s peace, with death lurking at every turn.
Now, that danger was finally gone.
Looking at the mangled, bloody wound on Qinglong’s left shoulder, the Lion King walked over and asked, “Your injury—is it serious?”
Qinglong’s expression didn’t change as he shook his head, not taking it to heart at all. “What’s a little wound like this? It’s nothing.”
The Lion King looked carefully and realized that although Qinglong’s injury looked quite severe, it actually wasn’t very deep—just a flesh wound. So he set his mind at ease.
“I see that after all these years, your personality hasn’t changed much. I thought that after being a wild grass Daoist for so many years, you’d have turned into a real old cow-nosed Daoist priest by now.” The Lion King couldn’t help but tease. “Also, how are you this powerful? From what I heard, it’s only been two or three years since you stepped into the Xiantian expert level. Your cultivation at the Gangjin level isn’t considered high, so how were you able to skewer Fantian to death with a single staff strike?”
“You’ll understand once you step into the Xiantian level yourself someday,” Qinglong said.
“Why does that sound like something an elder would say when instructing a junior in cultivation?” The Lion King said, somewhat annoyed.
But Qinglong was no longer joking around and reminiscing with the Lion King. Instead, his expression turned more serious than ever before—even more serious than when he had killed Fantian.
His gaze first fell on Tsukahara Bokuden, whose face had already turned gloomy in the distance, not knowing what to think now that he realized the situation had turned greatly against him. Then his gaze shifted to Yagyuu Munenori, his old acquaintance and former romantic rival.
Toward Yagyuu Munenori, Qinglong didn’t hold the same deep hatred he had for Fantian. Although the two could be considered romantic rivals back then, there had never been a moment when their conflict truly ignited. It had never escalated to a fight to the death.
“You seemed to be asking just now… whether Youxue actually died or not?” Qinglong’s gaze rested on Yagyuu Munenori for a few seconds before he finally spoke.
“Yes.”
“What do you mean by that? Youxue died years ago—that’s something everyone knows. You saw with your own eyes back then that Youxue died at Tsukahara Bokuden’s hands. How could you still ask such an absurd question?” Qinglong asked with a frown.
His eyes were full of disdain and disbelief. But deep in the very depths of his gaze, there was a surge of excitement and hope.
It seemed he was hoping that what Yagyuu Munenori said was true, not false.
Aoki Youxue really hadn’t died. What they saw back then was just an illusion, or perhaps something miraculous had happened afterward that brought Aoki Youxue back from death to life.
For all these years, Qinglong had never contacted the outside world. He had stayed at the foot of Mount Mao, being his wild grass Daoist. Even though the Tiger King had brewed countless fine wines and stored them away, he had never gone to see them. Wasn’t the fundamental reason simply that he still hadn’t been able to let go of Aoki Youxue in his heart?
“At first, I thought the same. But later, someone saw Youxue’s whereabouts on Mount Fuji—they truly saw a living person. Of course, judging from her figure and bearing, there’s an eighty or ninety percent chance it was her,” Yagyuu Munenori said.
Qinglong suppressed the emotion deep in his eyes and asked with a frown, “There are many people in this world who look alike. Could it have been a mistake?”
“True, there are many people in this world who look similar. There might even be people who look exactly alike. But…”
Yagyuu Munenori paused here, then turned his head to look at Tsukahara Bokuden before continuing, “But someone who is also a martial artist, who possesses cultivation, and who was even traveling together with Tsukahara Bokuden—there aren’t many of those, are there?”
Tsukahara Bokuden’s body trembled imperceptibly, but he still kept his eyes half-lidded, only sneering to show his disdain. He said nothing.
But at this moment, the excitement Qinglong had been suppressing in his heart finally broke free. He let out a low shout, beckoned with his hand, and the wooden spear that had been stuck in the tree trunk flew back into his grasp.
Holding the blood-stained wooden spear, he looked at Yagyuu Munenori and said coldly, “I’m asking you—where is Youxue right now?!”
