Chapter Thirty-Four: A Sword Technique of One’s Own

Swish...

The whisk danced through the air, producing a faint sound.

Veterans of the martial world always knew how to conceal themselves; the less friction between weapon and air, the greater the lethality.

Although the sword-browed Daoist’s skills had waned with age, his moves remained brutally precise. He did not let down his guard simply because his opponent was weak, aiming straight for the vital points.

Everyone present furrowed their brows, their estimation of the sword-browed Daoist rising yet again.

Indeed, age brings cunning, and a chrysanthemum’s fragrance can never be outdone...

“I really don’t want to fight you… Can’t you just hand over the money peacefully?” Lin Dong’s brow tightened, though inwardly, he had already given up hope. Perhaps his whole life would amount to this.

Am I about to be beaten to death?

Yet, a trace of defiance lingered in him. He grabbed a spoon by his side, making a last, desperate struggle.

At the moment he picked up the spoon, something flashed through his mind.

He recalled that evening, beneath the setting sun—the fading days of his youth, and Xiao Yan tirelessly scooping manure from the earth...

Why?

Thinking back now, he realized that Xiao Yan’s manure-scooping movements seemed to follow a certain rhythm...

“Are you watching carefully? This is the Manure-Scooping Sword Art. Study it well... The key to this sword technique is…”

Xiao Yan’s voice echoed in his mind.

...

Meanwhile, the whisk struck, slicing toward Lin Dong’s face like the scythe of death.

The sword-browed Daoist sneered coldly. “Heh… On the verge of death and still daydreaming!”

...

Not far away, Elder Huiming watched the crowd with growing anxiety, shouting, “Xiao Yan, your disciple is really going to get killed! No, I must go save him!”

But as soon as he took two steps forward, Xiao Yan grabbed him.

“Hey, hey, Elder, don’t be rash. Just enjoy the show…”

“But… Lin Dong is far too weak… If something unexpected happens… what a waste of such a promising talent…” Elder Huiming’s face flushed red. “Do you even know who that sword-browed Daoist is? In his youth, he was infamous for his cruelty—there was nothing he wouldn’t do…”

“Don’t worry. Have you ever seen a shit-covered man?” Xiao Yan leapt down from a tree, grinning. “Today, you’re in for a treat…”

“…” Elder Huiming was speechless.

...

At that moment, Lin Dong began to channel his energy—fifth level of internal force!

His aura barely rippled out, noticeably feebler than the sword-browed Daoist’s.

The onlookers were all on edge. This young monk has nerves of steel—only now, at the critical moment, does he begin to focus his energy?

Yet, would it do any good?

Suddenly, Lin Dong moved. He pushed his fifth-level internal force to its peak. The spoon dipped into the manure bucket and scooped out a hefty lump…

The midday sun was almost blinding. The sky above Golden Mountain Monastery was brilliantly clear; even birds dared not flit about. The hot wind stung the skin.

Many squinted against the harsh light, a bead of sweat stinging their eyes, but none of this could dampen their appetite for drama.

Through the narrow slits of their forced-open eyes, they saw the young monk’s spoon move in an utterly ordinary way, no different from a farmer irrigating his fields with manure.

Splutch...

With no warning, the contents of the spoon splattered directly onto the sword-browed Daoist’s face.

The young monk casually lifted the spoon—a gesture as simple as the last.

Smack...

The whisk was instantly knocked aside by the spoon, flying straight into a nearby tree and lodging there, startling Elder Huiming so much he nearly turned and fled.

Such an unbelievable turn of events appeared completely natural, even mundane, in the monk’s hands.

It was as if everything was part of the natural order, seamless and inevitable.

Chen Buqun was the first to be stunned. When he finally processed what had happened, his expression grew complex, bordering on disbelief.

It made no sense...

But for some reason, he felt the manure-scooping motion looked vaguely familiar. Where had he seen it before?

Chen Family Sword Art!

In a flash, those words crossed his mind.

But then he shook his head. Though it bore some resemblance to the Chen Family Sword Art, it wasn’t quite the same.

...

Most bewildered of all was the sword-browed Daoist, frozen in place, inexplicably doused in filth.

He had just been shouting as the manure hit, mouth wide open, swallowing a good deal of it. The stench turned his face ashen.

What on earth had happened?

Standing there, the Daoist’s instincts kicked in. He quickly retreated several steps.

Moments ago, he had distinctly sensed danger.

Decades of wandering the martial world had honed this sixth sense—much like the time he escaped his enemies by sheer intuition.

...

“What… What just happened?” Elder Huiming was at a loss and blurted out, “He only has fifth-level internal strength, yet he overpowered someone with ten levels?”

He had studied countless tomes in the Sutra Library, delved deeply into martial arts lore, but he could not explain this—unless that manure-scooping motion was, in fact, some formidable sword technique.

Powerful martial arts could maximize the use of internal energy. It was a matter of conversion rate: if your technique was poor, even with thirty levels of internal strength, if your method could only utilize thirty percent, your true might would be on par with someone at nine levels.

Of course, most ordinary techniques in the pugilistic world could achieve around eighty percent efficiency.

“Haha, maybe he just got lucky,” Xiao Yan replied cheerfully.

“Don’t try to fool me. His movement is reminiscent of the Chen Family Sword Art. I’ve heard of it—back in the day, Chen Bufan used it to fight two equally skilled opponents for over a hundred rounds without falling behind.” Elder Huiming frowned, then shook his head. “But no, how could the Chen Family Sword Art be used for manure scooping?”

“Well, that’s why I call it my very own Manure-Scooping Sword Art.” Xiao Yan thumped his chest, puffed up with pride.

“What kind of boorish name is that? Utter nonsense!” Elder Huiming was visibly annoyed.

Still, having studied Xiao Yan’s so-called solo version of the Eighteen Arhats Formation, he couldn’t deny its subtlety… If this was truly Xiao Yan’s creation… perhaps it wasn’t impossible after all.

“All things spring from life and transcend it…”

...

“Lin Dong, how did you…” Chen Buqun gazed at Lin Dong, suddenly realizing he could no longer see through this old friend.

“Hmm?”

Lin Dong stared blankly at the sword-browed Daoist, now covered in filth, then looked down at the spoon in his hand, equally bewildered.

He had only followed the manure-scooping motions Xiao Yan had taught him—his body had acted without thought.

“What martial art is this?” Chen Buqun asked, frowning.

He could never have imagined that the friend he’d left behind, the one he’d once looked down on, would one day stand on equal footing with him—despite having only fifth-level internal force.

And… ten years ago, during the aptitude test, he’d already left Lin Dong far behind…

The sudden loss of superiority left Chen Buqun at a loss.

Hearing the question, Lin Dong frowned in thought. After a long moment, only four words surfaced in his mind. After a brief silence, he muttered, “Manure-Scooping Sword Art…”

“What?” Chen Buqun thought he’d misheard and stepped closer.

“This was Elder Xiao Yan’s teaching… He called it the Manure-Scooping Sword Art…” Lin Dong confessed, lacking conviction.

In truth, it hadn’t really been a lesson. At the time, he’d assumed Xiao Yan was just fooling around and hadn’t paid much attention… He’d only managed to piece together a move or two…

“Manure-Scooping Sword Art?”

Everyone present was dumbfounded. What kind of slapdash name was that for a martial art?

“My master said it’s his own creation… well, not exactly… he said it’s adapted from something else?” Lin Dong, having not paid much attention, could only repeat what he remembered, albeit messily.

“Can you do it again?” Chen Buqun couldn’t shake the feeling that the movement was strikingly similar to the Chen Family Sword Art, so he couldn’t help but ask.

In the martial world, such a request was highly impolite, as demonstrating a technique could let opportunists steal it.

“Sure, why not…” Lin Dong was not the least bit secretive. He promptly flung another spoonful of manure at the sword-browed Daoist.

“Did you get a good look?” Lin Dong tilted his head and asked.

“Uh…” Chen Buqun frowned.

“Once more, then!”

But at that moment, the sword-browed Daoist protested loudly, “Young man, could you pick someone else?”

At those words, the crowd of martial artists behind him took a collective ten steps back—precisely ten steps…

“…”

Seeing this, the sword-browed Daoist turned green, hurriedly tossed down ten taels of silver, and fled as fast as he could.

...