My Enemy Became My Cultivation Companion

Feeling the broadness of his back, Yin Tingxue sniffed the air and muttered:

"Doesn't smell like Mother..."

Chen Yi, already at the Fourth Rank, naturally heard her but said nothing, only sighing quietly to himself.

He truly didn't want to be this girl's mother.

It was too awkward, too strange.

Besides, if he became her 'mother,' would she still like him the way she likes her husband?

Chen Yi mulled over for a moment.

Maybe, when they returned, he should give her a hard time?

Before Chen Yi could sort out his thoughts, Dong Gong Ruoshu spoke up:

"Where are we headed next?"

Chen Yi replied indifferently:

"To hunt down the Prince of Annan."

.................

Outside the pagoda.

Zhang Xuqu's face was pale, his breath coming in ragged gulps, stumbling as he rushed through the dense forest.

It felt as though the West Factory Thousand Households were still pursuing him at an unreal speed.

The light filtering through the forest was dim, the vegetation casting lush shadows everywhere. He didn't know how long he had been running before finally relaxing slightly at sunset.

Lowering his head, he could see his severed wrist.

The wound had crusted over with thick scabs.

"So fast!"

Zhang Xuqu marveled aloud.

It was ironic, considering how bold he had been earlier, outright declaring Chen Yi's blade could never rival his own speed.

Zhang Xuqu knew that entering Fourth Rank was a time of peak momentum, but he couldn't be bothered to ponder whether, after that momentum faded, Chen Yi's blade would surpass his footwork in speed.

A loss was a loss. Zhang Xuqu always knew to quit while ahead—otherwise, he wouldn't have survived this long.

A buzzing sound echoed through the woods.

Zhang Xuqu whipped his head around sharply, his gaze landing on a figure—a Douli Swordsman stepping into the shadows of the trees, silent as a ghost.

The Tongbei Divine Ape's heart skipped a beat.

Only as the swordsman drew closer did his tension ease.

"Damn it, sneaky bastard,"

Zhang Xuqu cursed before saying:

"Your surname is Chen, you wear a hat, and carry a sword—it reminds me of an old acquaintance."

The Broken Swordman approached slowly, his gaze settling on Zhang Xuqu's wrist wound, his eyes sharp and piercing:

"Who?"

The single word dropped like a blade, killing intent palpable.

Dead leaves fell from the trees, shattering noiselessly.

The Sixth Sword Intent in all of heaven erupted, invisible energy fracturing an ancient tree into jagged splinters.

"Who?" the Broken Swordman asked again, his sword behind him now emitting a faint, sinister hum.

Who in the world had inflicted such devastation on him? Zhang Xuqu opened his mouth, intending to answer this sword-bearing Broken Swordman.

"My disciple."

From the tangled vegetation came an unexpected voice.

It belonged to a one-armed woman.

She held no sword.

................

Zhang Xuqu was dumbfounded.

As he turned his head, trembling all over, his hands and feet went icy cold.

Just a fleeting glance out of the corner of his eye was enough for him to realize who she was.

One arm, Taoist robes, Lotus Observatory.

And she stood there so brazenly before the Broken Swordman.

The ninth-ranked swordmaster under heaven, Yin Sword Mountain's Sword Armor, Zhou Yitang!

Zhang Xuqu, who had traversed Jianghu extensively, wasn't unfamiliar with top-ten figures on the martial rankings—even the great Xu Qi, who transcended mortal limits, he had glimpsed from afar—but he'd never seen two such top-ten individuals together at the same time.

And more astonishingly, the ninth-ranked Sword Armor claimed that the former West Factory Thousand Households, Chen Yi, was her disciple?

Since when did Yin Sword Mountain change its rules to start accepting male disciples?

And not just any male disciple—it was one under the Sword Armor faction of Cangwu Peak.

This revelation shook Zhang Xuqu more than discovering the whip-wielding ruler of Great Yu's southern border, the Prince of Annan, was actually a woman.

Zhang Xuqu looked at the Broken Swordman and then at Zhou Yitang. If he could, he'd burrow two feet into the ground to avoid disturbing these two legendary figures and their conversation.

The Broken Swordman turned his gaze toward the one-armed woman. Over the years, they had crossed paths merely three times.

The first encounter had been at Western Jin's Diming Mountain, where the two debated swordsmanship by a lakeside. At that time, she was just a young Taoist, yet her talent in the Sword Dao was unquestionably evident—every word she spoke was like a sword, flawlessly poised against his ideology of swordsmanship.

Striking but not injuring. It was as if she anticipated his every argument.

The second encounter took place in Western Jin's imperial city. By then, she had risen to the rank of Sword Armor, arriving alone, her blade hosting her guests. When her sword emerged, it unleashed a mighty Sword Intent that pushed him back ten meters, her snow-white Taoist robes giving her the appearance of a Sword Immortal descending to earth.

The third was at the banks of the Restless River. By then, her Taoist skills had entered the Nascent Soul realm. The two did not discuss swordsmanship; instead, they conversed about Tao—the metaphysical realm he did not fully grasp. The sky behind her glowed a golden yellow, faint cries of celestial cranes carried by the wind. It seemed she only needed to unleash a single sword strike to ascend, but she remained firmly tethered to the mortal world, embodying the Bodhisattva's vow to serve humanity.

He had believed his sword had reached the pinnacle, while she was just another junior disciple of the Sword Dao—despite her ranking 9th in the world at the young age of twenty-six, there was still an insurmountable distance between them.

Yet it was during that moment, beside the Restless River that he'd severed with his own hands, that the Broken Swordman finally understood: while his sword had indeed reached its summit, hers extended far beyond.

The pinnacle was the final peak, but the living sword of Yin Sword Mountain stretched into unfathomable vistas.

Zhou Yitang approached slowly, her demeanor devoid of any mystique akin to "walking with lotus petals," instead encapsulating a humble radiance amidst the mundane world.

The Broken Swordman had already returned to clarity, and in doing so, his sword fell into his hand.

It was a blade with a broken tip. Its crossguard looked ancient, the cloth wrapping its hilt ragged and worn, yet its edge was ground so fine, so sharp, it seemed capable of splitting even the breeze in two.

Zhang Xuqu was drenched in cold sweat, acutely aware that as a Fourth Rank martial artist—injured, no less—his presence here was absurdly misplaced. What right did he have to stand among two First Rank martial legends, both ranked among heaven's top ten? He shouldn't even remain upright; he ought to be groveling on the ground.

"The one who wounded him is my disciple."