63: Chapter 63 The Summit of Mount Hua

Leaving the Tang Clan, Lu Mingyuan headed all the way north.

Leaving the Shu Road, entering Guanzhong, passing through Tong Pass, and traveling three hundred miles east, he reached Mount Hua.

He traveled for ten days, arriving at the foot of Mount Hua at the end of September.

From afar, the five peaks of Mount Hua looked like five giant fingers piercing the clouds. The mountain's peril was even greater than that of the Shu Road. Amidst the thousand-fathom cliffs, ten-thousand-fathom peaks, and swirling mists, winding mountain paths and suspended plank roads were faintly visible.

At the foot of the mountain was a small town called "Yuquan." The town was bustling with people, all of whom were members of the Jianghu—carrying swords, sabers, staffs, or whips. In tea houses and wine shops, everyone was talking about one thing:

The Sword Debate.

Lu Mingyuan found an inn to stay. The innkeeper was a capable man in his fifties. While registering him, he asked, "Is the guest here to watch the swords as well?"

Lu Mingyuan nodded.

The innkeeper smiled. "An especially large number of people have come this year. I heard that experts of the sword Dao from both the north and south have arrived; there are no fewer than a hundred famous ones. The inns on the mountain have long been full, and those at the foot are almost full too."

Lu Mingyuan asked, "Where is the Sword Debate being held?"

The innkeeper said, "At the summit. The martial arts field in front of the Zhenyue Palace. But not just anyone can go there. You need an invitation, or you must be specifically invited by name."

He sized Lu Mingyuan up.

"The guest is...?"

Lu Mingyuan thought for a moment. "This Junior is just here to take a look."

The innkeeper nodded and didn't ask further, leading him to the guest room.

The next morning, Lu Mingyuan ascended the mountain.

The peril of Mount Hua was well-deserved. The Thousand-Foot Precipice, Hundred-Foot Gorge, and Laojun's Furrow—every spot was extremely dangerous. In some places, the stone steps were almost vertical, requiring one to grip iron chains and climb up step by step. In others, it was so narrow that only one person could pass sideways, with a bottomless abyss right beneath their feet.

He walked carefully but was not in a hurry.

Along the way, he met many people from the Jianghu. There were young and old, those alone and those in groups. Some were in a rush, while others chatted as they walked, talking about sword techniques, sword moves, and the sword Dao.

He listened but did not speak.

After walking for four hours, he finally reached the North Peak.

The top of the North Peak was an open space where the Zhenwu Palace was built. Dozens of people had already gathered in front of the palace, in groups of three or five, either sitting or standing, all waiting.

Waiting for what?

Waiting for today's Sword Debate.

Lu Mingyuan asked a young swordsman and learned that the Sword Debate was not a single-day event. It was held in rotation at the North, East, South, and West Peaks every day, reaching the Middle Peak's Zhenyue Palace only on the final day. Today was the third day, and the Sword Debate was at the North Peak.

He found a corner and waited quietly.

At three quarters into the hour of chen, the Sword Debate began.

Two middle-aged swordsmen stepped into the field, cupped their fists in greeting, and then drew their swords.

One used a long sword, three feet seven inches long, with a narrow blade and a faint green glow. The other used a short sword, two feet one inch long, with a wide and thick blade, dark and devoid of light.

The two stared at each other for a moment and then struck simultaneously.

The long sword was fast, while the short sword was fierce. The long sword was like a snake, and the short sword was like a tiger. The snake coiled and the tiger pounced; the tiger pounced and the snake dodged. The sword light flashed and the sword wind whistled, dazzling the onlookers.

Lu Mingyuan watched intently.

He recognized the style of the long sword as the Mount Hua Sect's own sword technique, light and elegant, winning through speed. The style of the short sword belonged to a sect from the north called the "Duanshan Sect," which was fierce and heavy, winning through power.

Speed versus power—who would win?

After fifty moves, the short sword suddenly cleaved down, and the long sword blocked horizontally. The blades clashed, sparks flying everywhere. The blade of the long sword bent, nearly breaking. The long sword wielder retreated hastily, but the short sword wielder didn't let him, closing in and striking again.

The long sword wielder blocked again. This time the blade didn't bend, but he was shaken back three steps.

The short sword wielder sheathed his sword and cupped his fists. "Thank you for the match."

The long sword wielder gave a bitter smile and returned the gesture. "I am impressed."

The first round: the Duanshan Sect wins.

Watching this, Lu Mingyuan suddenly remembered something.

That day at Wudang Mountain, the Pavilion Keeper said, "All sword techniques in the world boil down to two words—Hard and Soft."

What he saw now was the hard overcoming the soft.

But did the hard really win? Or was the soft not soft enough?

He thought of those three forms of the Dragon Subduing Palm. Extreme hardness gives birth to softness, and extreme softness can also give birth to hardness. True hardness and softness are not opposites; they are one.

This long sword wielder's sword was only soft and not hard, so when it encountered the fierce short sword, it couldn't hold its ground. If there were hardness within his softness, even just a bit, he wouldn't have lost so quickly.

But was the short sword wielder's sword perfect?

He saw that the short sword wielder's sword was more than fierce enough but lacked variation. Every strike was direct, with no feints or lures. If he encountered a swordsman who won through cleverness, this fierce sword might become a weakness.

Hardness with softness within is true hardness.

Softness with hardness within is true softness.

The combination of hardness and softness is the true sword Dao.

The second round, the third, the fourth...

As he watched round after round, the world in Lu Mingyuan's eyes gradually changed.

He no longer just looked at who won or lost, but at what lay behind every sword strike—

That strike was a fast sword. Fast as lightning, making it impossible to defend against. But the weakness of a fast sword is that it easily loses precision. Being too fast makes it impossible to adjust in time.

That strike was a slow sword. Slow as a turtle's crawl, every strike heavy as a mountain. But the weakness of a slow sword is that it is easily dodged. Being too slow means the opponent has already moved away.

That strike was a heavy sword. Heavy as a thousand catties, one strike could split monuments and stones. But the weakness of a heavy sword is its great consumption. One or two strikes are fine, but after ten or twenty, strength is exhausted.

That strike was a light sword. Light as a feather, taking unusual paths and specializing in attacking vital points. But the weakness of a light sword is its lack of deterrence. Being so light, the opponent isn't afraid at all.

That strike was an orthodox sword. Upright and honorable. But the weakness of an orthodox sword is that it's easy to predict. Being orthodox means there are no variations.

That strike was an unorthodox sword. Deceptive and unpredictable, catching one off guard. But the weakness of an unorthodox sword is that it cannot be used often. Once used, others will remember it.

He saw that every kind of sword had its own strengths and its own weaknesses.

No single sword was perfect.

Yet every kind of sword was in pursuit of perfection.

This was the sword Dao.

As the sun slanted westward, the Sword Debate ended.

The crowd gradually dispersed; some went down the mountain, some went to other peaks, and some stayed at the North Peak to continue sparring. Lu Mingyuan did not leave; he sat on the stone steps in front of the Zhenwu Palace, gazing at the distant mountains.

The setting sun dyed the West Peak golden-red; the South Peak appeared and disappeared in the mist, and the East Peak had already faded into the twilight. The five peaks were like five giant swords pointing toward the firmament.

He suddenly remembered a sentence.

It was said by the Pavilion Keeper of Mount Qingcheng: "The sword Dao has ten thousand variations, but they all return to one origin."

The ten thousand variations were the millions of sword techniques in this world.

Returning to the origin was that one unchanging thing.

What was that thing?

He didn't know.

But he knew that he was getting closer and closer to the day he would find out.

The next day, the Sword Debate was at the East Peak.

The East Peak was steep, with the danger of the "Sparrowhawk's Flip." But despite the danger, the number of people who came to watch the swords was no less than at the North Peak.

Lu Mingyuan watched for another day.

On this day, the swords he saw were different from yesterday.

Yesterday was a duel of speed and slowness, hardness and softness, weight and lightness, orthodox and unorthodox. Today was a duel of Concepts.

In one match, an Old Taoist faced a middle-aged swordsman. The Old Taoist's sword was extremely slow, as if he weren't using a sword but painting. Every strike was like flowing water and moving clouds, natural and effortless. The middle-aged swordsman's sword was extremely fast, so fast that only the sword light could be seen, not the person. Yet no matter how fast he was, the Old Taoist's sword was always there waiting for him.

Watching this, Lu Mingyuan suddenly remembered the boxing Hui Ke practiced that day at Shaolin.

Extreme slowness is true speed.

The Old Taoist's sword was just like that.

In another match, a young female swordsman faced a burly man. The female swordsman's sword was extremely light, as if it had no weight. The burly man's sword was extremely heavy; with one strike, a pit would appear in the ground. But the female swordsman never met the burly man head-on; she only dodged, moved around, and waited for an opportunity to counterattack. The burly man fought for a long time but couldn't even touch the corner of her clothes.

Watching this, Lu Mingyuan suddenly remembered the cleverness he learned at the Tang Clan.

Using cleverness to overcome power, not meeting force with force.

The female swordsman's sword was just like that.

On the third day, the Sword Debate was at the South Peak.

The South Peak was the highest, featuring the "number one peril of Mount Hua," the Changkong Plank Road. Even more people came to watch the swords, surrounding the martial arts field so tightly that not a drop of water could leak through.

On this day, the swords he saw were different from the previous two days.

In one match, two old men were competing. Their combined age exceeded one hundred and fifty years, but when they struck, the entire field was shocked.

Their swords had no speed or slowness, no weight or lightness, no hardness or softness, no orthodox or unorthodox.

There was only—the sword.

The sword was the sword, the sword was them, and they were the sword.

Lu Mingyuan was mesmerized.

He suddenly remembered what the Pavilion Keeper of Wudang Mountain said: "True sword Dao is not about using the sword, but about living as the sword."

These two old men had lived as the sword.

They were not competing with swords; they were displaying their entire lives.

In every sword strike, there were the paths they had walked, the people they had met, and the events they had experienced.

The sword Dao is the human Dao.

On the fourth day, the Sword Debate was at the West Peak.

The West Peak was steep, with the legend of "Chenxiang Cleaving the Mountain to Save His Mother." The martial arts field was right next to the Axe-Split Stone.

On this day, the swords he saw were different from the previous few days.

In one match, a swordsman in his thirties faced a youth in his early twenties. The youth's sword technique was naive and full of openings, and he lost in fewer than ten moves. But after losing, he wasn't discouraged; instead, he was full of excitement and ran up to ask the swordsman for guidance.

The swordsman did not refuse and explained it to him move by move.

Watching this, Lu Mingyuan suddenly remembered his younger days.

Back then at Zhongnan Mountain, Xuanweizi taught him just like this.

Move by move, neither hurried nor slow.

He didn't understand then, but he did now.

The sword Dao is not just about the sword; it is also about the passing down.

Generation after generation, it is passed down.

On the fifth day, the Sword Debate was at the Middle Peak's Zhenyue Palace.

This was the final day and also the most important one. Those who came were all established figures who did not strike lightly. But every match that took place was absolutely brilliant.

Lu Mingyuan watched from morning till night, for an entire day.

When the sun went down, the last sword match ended. The crowd gradually dispersed, and silence returned to the front of the Zhenyue Palace.

He sat alone on the stone steps in front of the palace, gazing at the darkening sky.

Five days, five peaks, over a hundred sword matches.

He had seen speed and slowness, hardness and softness, weight and lightness, orthodox and unorthodox, Concepts, life, and Legacy.

He had seen the ten thousand variations of the world's sword Dao.

The ten thousand variations flowed through his heart one by one.

He suddenly remembered a person.

Jiang Yichen.

That swordsman who had fought him to a hundred-move draw at Mount Qingcheng, the man who had spent thirty years on a single sword of shouzhuo.

Which category did his sword belong to?

Lu Mingyuan thought for a long time and suddenly smiled.

Jiang Yichen's sword did not belong to any category.

His sword was simply guarding.

Guarding a single sword.

Just as Hui Ke's boxing was simply striking.

Just as Jingchen's sweeping was simply sweeping.

Just as the road-repairing old man's hammer was simply hammering.

Just as Tang Zhuo's making was simply making.

Simply guarding.

This was his sword Dao.

Then what about his own sword Dao?

He gazed at the five peaks of Mount Hua in the night, five giant swords pointing toward the firmament.

What was his own sword?

He didn't know.

But he knew the answer was getting closer and closer.

Right here at the summit of Mount Hua.

Right here amidst these thousands of sword Daos.

Right here in his heart.