Chapter 65: The Living Flower Vase Part 1

Feng Yun’ai’s heart was lodged in her throat. She had no time to process Sang Chencao’s sudden, jarring intimacy and immediately spun around to leave.

“Hold it!” a sharp voice barked.

Feng Yun’ai halted, her peripheral vision darting toward the source of the shout.

“That style you used… was that the Solitary Peak Sword Art?” the speaker demanded. “What is your relationship to Feng Rong!”

In that instant, Feng Yun’ai’s heart hammered against her ribs like thunder. The vibration left her chest numb and her head spinning, the world tilting on its axis until she could barely tell north from south.

A cold sneer cut through the interrogation. Sang Chencao spoke with a haunting, ethereal lilt. “What we are discussing now is the death of Feng Rong and the treacherous schemes of certain individuals. What does it matter who this girl is to the deceased? Unless, of course, you had a hand in her death and are looking for a distraction to bury the truth?”

The questioner’s face flushed a violent red before turning deathly pale, their fury stifled by the accusation.

“Xiuxiu, go on then,” Sang Chencao said, her mockery vanishing into a composed, effortless grace.

Feng Yun’ai didn’t hesitate. She bolted toward the Council Hall, though a gnawing unease took root in her gut. Things were going too smoothly. Even if Zhou Gui was truly caught off guard, surely those pulling her strings wouldn’t be so careless?

Her intuition proved correct. The moment she reached the Council Hall, she spotted a woman draped in a black robe standing before the long red-lacquered desk. The woman’s hand was raised, ready to strike.

Inner qi had already coalesced in the woman’s palm, shimmering like the flickering light of an oil lamp. If that strike landed, the desk would be pulverized, and the Earthstone hidden within would vanish without a trace.

Feng Yun’ai could not allow the evidence to be destroyed. She drew her sword in a blur of motion, lunging forward to slice at the woman’s arm.

Her sword light flickered like a firefly. At a glance, it appeared as soft as mountain snow melting into a spring, shimmering with ripples; in reality, it was swifter than any current—a dragon soaring from the deep, reaching for the clouds and howling with the wind.

The black-robed woman tilted her head back, her lips parting in a brief gasp of shock. She twisted her body to evade the strike, but the edge of the blade still sheared through her sleeve.

The scrap of fabric drifted silently to the floor, yet the impact felt like a heavy beat on a war drum.

The woman suddenly unsheathed a scimitar from beneath her robes. She swung it as if to force Feng Yun’ai back, but as the crescent blade flashed, she redirected the strike toward the red-lacquered desk.

Feng Yun’ai lunged forward, feigning an attempt to intercept the blade’s qi. Hidden behind her back, her left arm moved in a blur. With a sharp clack, she drew a second sword.

As the sword in her right hand parried the scimitar, the blade in her left lunged toward the black-robed woman’s chest. It was a classic feint—striking west while pointing east. The twin shadows of her blades danced in perfect harmony, like an immortal riding a crane while accompanied by a phoenix.

This was the true allure of the Solitary Peak Sword Art. Though its name suggested a lone peak, the style was never solitary. It was a heart of ice reflected in two blades, a dance of shadows where one became three.

Feng Yun’ai vaguely remembered that the Solitary Peak Sword Art had originally been a single-blade style. It was only one day on the mountain, moved by a sudden realization, that Feng Rong had elevated the technique to a new level.

What had Feng Rong said that day?

“Even I have days where I mourn the passing of spring. What was once a paired sword style has now become a double-bladed art.”

Feng Yun’ai only understood now that Feng Rong had likely been thinking of Wen Lanxin. They had trained together since childhood, their swords born from the same source. Their styles were meant to be two halves of a whole, a shared understanding between blades—until they eventually drifted apart.

Feng Yun’ai snapped back to the present, her eyes locking onto the black-robed woman.

The woman hurriedly retracted her scimitar and arched her back. The sword qi grazed her throat, severing several strands of hair. “You… you are Feng Rong’s successor,” she stammered, her voice trembling.

The voice was hauntingly familiar, but Feng Yun’ai didn’t let herself get distracted. With a flick of her wrist, her sword intent surged like a lightning strike.

The woman was no novice. Her scimitar techniques were erratic and bizarre, a style entirely absent from the Jianghu Records. The blade was heavier and cruder than a standard sword, yet in her hands, it moved with unnatural fluidity. Her movements were supple and feminine, creating a jarring, unsettling contrast with the brutal weapon.

Fortunately, Feng Yun’ai possessed exceptional intuition. After a few exchanges, she saw through the mysteries of the blade. The Solitary Peak Sword Art abhorred indecision. Steadying her mind, she used both swords in tandem—one to shatter the woman’s offensive, the other aiming straight for her throat.