Chapter 6: Iron Sand

Mei Qinghe was silent for a long while before she finally said, “The Five Peaks Sword Alliance shares a common bond. They would never stoop as low as you say.”

It was merely stubbornness on her part, a fact she was well aware of—and so was Li Miao.

What else could she have said? Should she have admitted, “You’re right, elder. Our Huashan Sect is indeed on the verge of extinction”?

Orphaned at a young age, Mei Qinghe was taken in and raised by the Huashan Sect, long regarding the honor and disgrace of her sect as her own. To avoid shaming Huashan, she would rather wait for Li Miao to strike her down.

Naturally, she could not simply agree with what Li Miao said.

Yet the decline of Huashan could no longer be concealed. Lacking any real conviction, the best she could muster was a feeble protest: “It won’t be as you say.”

Li Miao smiled. “So you do know the truth.”

“It’s true that I intend to act against the Five Peaks Sword Alliance,” he admitted, “but harming the alliance doesn’t necessarily mean harming Huashan. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Mei Qinghe gave no reply.

She understood his meaning, but after all, she was only in her twenties, raised within the sect, seldom venturing beyond its gates. Unlike those seasoned veterans who had long since seen through the so-called world of martial arts, although she grasped the concepts of self-interest and hierarchy, she was unwilling to concede to them.

Just like some of the stubborn youths from Li Miao’s previous life—fully aware of what was “right,” yet refusing to bow their heads.

Li Miao smiled again.

He hadn’t come tonight with any scheme in mind; he simply wanted to finish the performance left unfinished the night before.

It was only when he noticed Mei Qinghe about to make a move that he felt compelled to intervene, leading to everything that happened after.

After recognizing her Huashan swordsmanship, he thought it might serve both personal and official ends to seize an insider and use her as a pawn.

But his thoughts had now shifted.

The Embroidered Uniform Guard was a secretive agency, dealing in the filthiest trades, the most naked pursuits of profit, the darkest corners of the human heart.

Twenty years in their service had steadily eroded any idealism he might have had about the martial world.

The real jianghu was anything but romantic: those who championed justice died without a corpse; those who pursued vengeance saw their families destroyed.

Reputation was rarely built on martial prowess, but on power; blood was spilled not for honor, but for fortune.

Double-dealing, deception, and betrayal—these were the true ways of the world.

So when he saw Mei Qinghe gripping her broken sword, awaiting death, Li Miao could not help but laugh.

For this woman’s actions were among the few things that still matched his fading expectations of the martial world.

And because of that, he now had a different plan for Mei Qinghe.

Noticing her silence, Li Miao was not bothered.

Bribery was rarely effective with the young, but threats worked on everyone.

He changed the subject. “What do you think of my martial arts?”

Relieved that he no longer pressed her about Huashan’s troubles, Mei Qinghe exhaled and shook her head. “I can’t tell.”

She truly couldn’t.

When Li Miao had made his move, she hadn’t registered it at all—it was only upon seeing her sword suddenly shortened that she realized something had happened.

And as for his flick of the wrist that severed her blade, she couldn’t even think of a suitable comparison.

If it was a concealed weapon technique, it didn’t seem so; such techniques relied on deception and fatal precision, but she had never heard of a master who could launch a single dart with such sheer force that it pierced straight through someone.

On the other hand, if it was merely brute force, that was even more bewildering.

Li Miao reached out and pinched the blade of Mei Qinghe’s sword, giving it a light twist.

Crack.

A segment broke clean off.

Mei Qinghe was stunned. Though he had broken the sword right in her grasp, she hadn’t felt the slightest strain on the hilt.

Looking at the piece of blade in his hand, she saw, to her shock, the clear imprint of a finger!

Li Miao hadn’t simply “snapped” the blade—he had, as if plucking a flower, pinched a portion off the sword.

“Give me your hand,” Li Miao said.

Mei Qinghe numbly extended her palm.

Clutching the broken piece of blade, Li Miao held it above her hand. Without so much as a flick of his fingers, a cascade of iron filings fell from his palm, piling into her cupped hand.

Only when a mound had collected did he stop, dusting the powder from his hands.

“Can you see it clearly now?”

Mei Qinghe stared blankly at the iron sand in her palm.

Could she see it clearly? In truth, she could not.

This handful of iron filings all but upended her understanding of martial arts.

There was a widely practiced external hardening technique known as Iron Sand Palm—training meant hours of thrusting the hands through scalding iron sand to toughen the flesh. At the highest level, one could seize a weapon barehanded without injury.

There were indeed masters famed for disarming their opponents empty-handed.

But that was a matter of toughening the hand with iron sand—who had ever heard of grinding iron sand out of the blade itself with a bare hand?

No matter how great one’s martial skill, the human body was still flesh and blood. If someone could train themselves to be harder than iron, what need was there for swords at all?

But Mei Qinghe now understood the truth of Li Miao’s martial arts:

Unrivaled.

At the very least, nearly all swordplay and blade techniques were useless against him.

Blades and swords were but extensions of the limbs—yet they could never be as nimble as hands and feet. The only reason swordplay existed was because steel was sharper and harder than flesh and blood.

But before this man, even the blade itself was a weakness.

You could extend your sword toward him, but he would simply crush it as if it were tofu and hurl the fragments back to pierce you through. What use was mastery of swordsmanship then?

“Elder, just who are you?” Mei Qinghe asked hoarsely.

“My name is Li Miao. I am nobody—at least, nobody known in the martial world,” Li Miao replied with a smile. “Now, I have a proposition for you.”

“Starting today, you will follow me. You answer when I ask, and do as I command.”

“When my business is done, perhaps there will be great benefit for your Huashan Sect.”

“If you refuse, I’ll pay a visit to Huashan and break every sword I find with a single finger.”

“Do you understand?”

Mei Qinghe nodded.

She had no choice. She wasn’t in a position to refuse.

“Excellent. Wait here—I’ll settle your unfinished business.”

“I am a fair man: I always offer reward before demanding service.”

With that, Li Miao vanished in the blink of an eye.

Mei Qinghe stood motionless, not daring to move, her heart a tumult of emotions.

She had thought herself accomplished in martial arts and, having investigated her enemy’s skills in advance, had been confident in her revenge when she left the mountain in secret.

Who would have imagined she would be threatened by such a mysterious master and forced into his service?

Her sect did not know her whereabouts; no doubt, they would send people to search.

When they found her, how would she explain? Should she tell the truth?

Had tonight’s events not happened to her, she would have dismissed them as a joke.

To make matters worse, this Li Miao had openly declared his intent to act against the Five Peaks Sword Alliance. Here in the lands of Qi and Lu, it was clear he was headed for the Five Peaks Assembly at Mount Tai.

When he stormed in with her at his side, could Huashan really remain uninvolved?

If he destroyed the alliance, would the declining Huashan Sect, stripped of its prestigious name, be able to cling to survival?

Her thoughts raced, spiraling into despair.

Just then, as her mind churned with anxiety, a figure suddenly appeared before her.

She looked up—it was Li Miao.

He tossed a man at her feet.

The man, his acupoints sealed, crashed to the ground. Struggling to rise, he pleaded,

“Sir, I do not know how I have offended you. If it’s money you want, there’s a chest of silver in my room—I will gladly give it all to you.”

“If there has been a misunderstanding, or if my men have offended you, you may punish or kill them as you wish—I will not shelter them.”

“If I have wronged you in any way, please tell me—I will give you my hands and feet, just spare my life…”

After much effort, the man managed to sit up and looked at Mei Qinghe.

When he saw her face, he paused, then suddenly seemed to recall something and stammered, “It’s you… you’re still alive?”

Mei Qinghe looked at Zhao Dehua, slumped on the ground, and spoke.

“Yes, old man.”

“I’m still alive.”