My Enemy Became My Cultivation Companion

Above the vast river, the Medicine Buddha Tower of the Joyful Sect had already disappeared into the painted layers of autumnal foliage. A small boat drifted forward without wind, a Daoist leisurely rowing, his movements unhurried and calm.

The small boat floated like a solitary leaf upon the water, faintly carrying the sense of moving with the wind. Yet, for a long time, the river surface had remained windless.

The Daoist lowered his gaze, estimating the time, then reached a hand into the water.

On the river's surface, a scene from the inner realm of the Buddha Tower emerged.

The vast demon hordes had crumbled into dust, and Chen Yi's Hou Kang Sword pierced through the neck of the last surviving heir of the Joyful Sect.

Blood gushed out, signifying that from this moment onward, the sect was wholly erased from the world's stage.

The Daoist's hand plunged into the water, grasping at the demonic shadows, then fiercely tugged and pulled.

Suddenly, like a koi fish leaping from the water's depths, a black shadow erupted with a loud splash. It struggled desperately to escape the Daoist's grasp, yet his five fingers locked it in place.

The shadow attempted to lunge, but as the Daoist's fingers tightened further, it let out a piercing, anguished scream.

In its wails, faint words of bitterness and defiance echoed:

"Why… do you get to decide my life and death?"

The Daoist paused slightly, then smiled faintly.

Such deep obsession. If left unresolved, it might transform, feeding on its fate to become a fearsome ghostly deity.

The decades of pure fortune amassed by the Joyful Sect could not be left wasted; they needed to be reclaimed by Penglai Fairy Island.

"Why… do you get to decide my life and death?"

The voice still carried Zhao Bai's resistance and resentment.

The Daoist responded coolly, "It's not we who decide your life and death; it's the heavens that demand your end."

Zhao Bai seemed momentarily stunned. The black flames surrounding him flared high, roaring with fury, questioning fiercely:

"Fate is unyielding, yet can Daoists usurp its will?"

The Daoist calmly unveiled the truth:

"We merely determined… that you desired to live, not to die."

It was as if Zhao Bai suddenly recalled the overwhelming desire for survival he had harbored back then. In the next moment, he went utterly still, as if extinguished—whether in despair, pain, or a transcendent release, the Daoist could not discern. He merely curled his fingers, placing the shadow back into the water.

When the Daoist lifted it again, it was no longer a sinister black shadow but a serene, warm light, tranquil and untainted.

The Daoist tucked this pure fortune into his sleeve, gazing across the river.

The river spread wide, reflecting the distant green peaks. In the silent night, the vast expanse of heaven and earth seemed united. Facing the gentle breeze, the Daoist murmured:

"Someone once asked me: where lies the road to Penglai? In the green mountain clouds, beneath the moonlit heavens."

He rowed steadily, at ease, as the moonlight on the distant river spread forth like a path.

Yet on that moonlit path, a shadow suddenly emerged.

This figure wore a bamboo hat, and at their waist hung a broken sword.

The Daoist's oar froze mid-motion. The ease in his demeanor was replaced by a faint stiffness.

Behind him, at the aft of the small boat, stood a one-armed woman. It was unclear when she had appeared, but she gazed quietly at the Daoist.

"Before you stands the Broken Swordsman of the Western Jin; behind you, the Sword Armor of Yin Sword Mountain," she said.

Zhang Buduan's expression remained composed, though his robe trembled slightly in the breeze.

"To think, after nearly a millennium of cultivation, I would witness such a spectacle," he remarked plainly.

"As the founder of the Quanzhen Sect's Southern School, such an honor is befitting," Zhou Yitang replied indifferently.

He had come here, proving that the one-armed woman had won her wager.

Within the Taoist schools, Quanzhen Sect had, since Wang Chongyang's time, advocated the integration of three teachings under the motto: 'The Three Teachings Share a Common Origin.' Before them now stood Purple Sun Master Zhang Buduan, revered as the Southern School's founding patriarch.

The one-armed woman's gaze passed over Zhang Buduan to settle on the Broken Swordsman standing in the moonlight.

The Broken Swordsman's blade remained sheathed. It was an extraordinarily unassuming sword—its guard aged, and its edge honed to an unparalleled sharpness. Even the slightest breeze would be cleaved in two by this blade.

Zhang Buduan stood at the bow of the boat, his robes stirred though no wind blew. Within his Dantian, golden light faintly pulsed. In the next moment, the light converged, forming a sword of pure brilliance, seamless in shape, spirit, and essence, even drawing moonlight into its form.

"This sword I have forged over nearly a thousand years of life and Dual Cultivation," Purple Sun Master declared coldly. "It refines the Yang Spirit and borders on immortality. Surely you understand—once it strikes, it will pierce the floating clouds above and shatter the earthly veins below."

The Broken Swordsman did not respond with intensity; instead, he glanced at the broken sword in his hand, speaking gently:

"My sword has been ready but thirty years. Yet within ten miles of heaven and earth, there is none to withstand my 61st strike."

The river itself seemed to hold its breath at those words.

In the next instant, Zhang Buduan's sword rose.

The river exploded as though shattered by thunder, its deafening roar reverberating endlessly. Waves surged, crashing wildly as if the entire landscape quaked beneath their force. Beneath Zhang Buduan's solitary boat, the waters heaved like a tempest, conjuring a scene beyond mortal imagining—a river nearly split apart in cascades reaching the heavens. The sword's raging energy soared with unmatched ferocity, as if ascending 38,000 feet to pierce into the sky.

The waves surged toward the heavens.

At that moment, the Broken Swordsman raised his sword as well. In contrast, his figure appeared insignificant, solitary, and fragile. Even the moonlight beneath his feet seemed fractured and disintegrating against the battering waves.

Then, he stepped forward.

A flash of sword light flickered, vanishing instantly.

It seemed to be engulfed by the fearsome tides.

Yet, upon the lone boat—battered by waves yet unmoved—the one-armed woman's figure vanished.

Because of that 61st strike, within ten miles of heaven and earth, none could withstand it.

Zhang Buduan still stood on the solitary boat, yet his nearly thousand-year-refined golden sword shattered halfway through its strike, as if colliding with some unseen barrier. Its indomitable radiance splintered into cracks initially imperceptible, then erupting like a mountain collapsing.

Zhang Buduan spat a mouthful of blood as his golden sword crumbled utterly in his grasp.

He swiftly joined his hands in a mudra, chanting incantations to unleash his Primordial Spirit, escaping with a cluster of fortune from the river.

The one-armed woman reappeared.

With her solitary hand, she stretched, pressed, and closed, conjuring the river's waters into a magnificent cage, its grandeur overwhelming.

The cage tightened, aiming to imprison Zhang Buduan within.

"Hah!" Purple Sun Master roared, attempting to burst free.

The one-armed woman drew the cage inward abruptly.

At that moment, the Broken Swordsman delivered another strike.

—Boom!—

After a long silence, the world was bathed in tranquility.

Within a single, translucent droplet of water, a Primordial Spirit seemed to be trapped.

Zhou Yitang waved her hand casually, sending the droplet into the Broken Swordsman's palm.

He took it without hesitation, crushing it mercilessly. The droplet disintegrated into dust, and with it, a generation's Purple Sun Master vanished into nothingness.

The one-armed woman's cold eyes softened briefly, though she remained silent for a long while.

She had given the droplet to the Broken Swordsman intending for him to return it to the Western Jin for arbitration. Yet she had not foreseen him so decisively destroying another's Primordial Spirit, entirely indifferent to the looming karmic retribution.

After a long time, the Broken Swordsman gazed distantly at the Medicine Buddha Tower, his face a mask of indifference.

It was as if this journey had been in vain.

"It seems you wagered correctly. The Joyful Sect was indeed backed by the Quanzhen Sect. I've always been at odds with Quanzhen," he said finally.

Zhou Yitang remained silent.

"The only reason I embarked on this journey was to fulfill a promise—to save one of the Joyful Sect's heirs. And now they are all dead."

Turning back, the Broken Swordsman said coolly:

"If my sword cannot save lives, then it will claim them for penance.

So, tell me—who killed them?"

The one-armed woman replied bluntly:

"My disciple. His surname is Chen, his name Yi, styled Zunming."