Chapter 62: Who Else Opposes?

Upon hearing rumors of a ruthless demonic warrior at Thunderbolt Peak, an invitation was sent to heroes across the land to gather there and discuss urgent matters. Both the upright and the underworld factions of the martial world responded without hesitation, packing their belongings and making their way to Thunderbolt Peak. In recent days, the roads have been filled with martial artists galloping on swift horses, their figures darting across the official paths.

Some, renowned for their extraordinary agility, deemed horses unnecessary. Trusting in their own mastery of lightness skills, they sped across grass tips and treetops, fearing that if they arrived late, the coveted demonic weapon would already have been claimed.

Outside Nine-Bend Gorge, crowds had gathered, layer upon layer, packed so tightly that nothing could be seen of what transpired within. More people arrived ceaselessly from all directions, only to be stopped at the edge of the throng.

“What’s going on? Why is everyone blocked here? Do we have to queue to enter Nine-Bend Gorge?” someone complained.

A burly man beside him pointed at the trees and said gravely, “Climb up and you’ll see.”

He took the advice and scrambled up a trunk, noticing others descending from the branches, while many more climbed up, peering inward like him.

Once atop, he saw that the trees around him were crowded; some trunks bore several people at once, perched precariously. He looked toward the gorge and was stunned.

At the mouth of the valley stood a wooden table and a massive parasol. A man and a woman sat leisurely at the table, sipping tea. The man was strikingly handsome, dressed in luxurious attire, idly fanning himself with a complex-patterned folding fan—a clear sign of a wealthy young master.

The woman was clad in violet, her face veiled, her features obscured. Yet her brows and the captivating allure of her eyes left onlookers wondering what other charms lay beneath the veil.

Hung on the stone wall at the gorge’s entrance was a wooden plaque, scrawled with four bold characters: “No Entry Ahead.”

On the ground lay numerous corpses, their exact number impossible to count at a glance, all dressed as martial artists.

A hundred paces off, a large group of martial artists surrounded the scene, faces twisted in anger—yet none dared step forward.

Those watching drew sharp breaths, unable to help but ask, “What on earth is happening?”

A nearby veteran, seeing the newcomer’s confusion, explained:

“That young man appeared from nowhere, hung up a sign and blocked the gorge. Whoever tries to enter, he strikes down with a single sword.”

“That bold?”

“Is he challenging the entire martial world single-handedly?”

Just then, another burly man charged forward with a heavy hammer. The young man nonchalantly drew the longsword from the table, a flash of red light, then returned it to its sheath—his posture never shifting from his seat.

Sword energy shot forth; the attacker froze, a thin cut opening at his throat, and he collapsed, eyes wide in death.

Silence fell over the crowd.

The spectators on the branches all drew in sharp breaths. Only now did they understand why so many were gathered, yet none dared approach. The youth’s power was far beyond that of the assembled martial artists.

“So bold!”

“Damn, his sword is so fast I couldn’t even follow it!”

“Whose champion is this?”

An old hand among the crowd on the treetops murmured with a strange look, “Some asked; he claims to be Young Master Folding Fan, You Zhuo.”

“You Zhuo?!” the newcomers echoed in disbelief.

“But,” the man continued, “now we’re all starting to doubt he’s really You Zhuo. This youth only uses his sword, never the folding fan, though he does carry the Cloud Fan. He’s never displayed the fan technique.”

“So what if he’s not You Zhuo? If we all rush him, he’ll be exhausted!”

The veteran pointed to a nearby pile of corpses, all dressed identically, and sighed: “See? The Eighteen Eagles of Warehouse Creek attacked together—he felled them all with a single stroke, their bodies still warm.”

“He struck down eighteen at once? What mastery!”

“So fierce?”

A hundred paces from the gorge, many renowned martial masters had gathered, yet none dared face Ji Huo’s sword.

Still, such a formidable opponent blocking the way was a problem. Even without the news of the demonic weapon, his presence was a slap in the face to the martial world.

After much discussion, someone stepped forward ten paces and bowed, saying, “I am Zhu Qing, the Return-to-Origin Palm. May I ask your name, young hero? What is your purpose in blocking Nine-Bend Gorge?”

His tone was low, but his voice carried power, revealing profound internal strength—mastery at its peak.

Ji Huo glanced up calmly. “My name is You Zhuo. For the next two days, Nine-Bend Gorge is sealed. No one may enter.”

“Such audacity! All under heaven belongs to the king! Who granted you the right to do this?” someone shouted angrily from the crowd.

Ji Huo drew his sword with his right hand. A flash of red light swept forth, the blade returned to its sheath as if nothing had happened.

A sickening sound—blood sprayed everywhere as the speaker was cleaved in two.

The crowd was horrified! They had retreated a hundred paces, believing themselves safe from sword energy—such was the limit of most sword masters.

Yet Ji Huo had struck precisely at that distance—his power was terrifying. Suddenly, the crowd felt even a hundred paces was not safe, and they moved further back.

“Anyone else object?” Ji Huo asked coldly.

The crowd hesitated, but none dared reply.

Zhu Qing cursed the fool inwardly, then bowed again toward Ji Huo. “Young hero, You Zhuo was seen in Liang Kingdom not long ago. Surely that’s not your real name?”

Ji Huo replied lazily, “I don’t care. I am You Zhuo. If you can discern my style, that’s your skill.”

“In that case, allow me to learn from your expertise.”

Zhu Qing narrowed his eyes, summoned his Return-to-Origin Palm, and both hands glowed orange. Leaping high, he struck out at Ji Huo.

Midair, his palm force became a translucent orange hand over two meters tall, howling wind swirling as it hovered, revealing immense power and internal energy.

Ji Huo raised his eyes, drew his sword in a reverse grip, and as the blade flashed with dazzling red light, he shattered the palm imprint with a single sweep.

He followed with another horizontal slash, striking Zhu Qing.

“Not good!”

Zhu Qing countered with both palms, but the crimson sword energy crashed into his hands, sizzling fiercely!

Zhu Qing retreated ten steps before the sword energy finally dissipated. His hands were bloodied, his face flushed, and he spat a mouthful of blood.

“I’m unharmed?!” Eyes wide, he was utterly incredulous.

From the youth’s arrival, no one had survived a single strike—never had anyone forced him to a second blade.

Yet he had withstood two strokes and escaped intact!

Could it be that his recent diligent practice had truly improved his skill?

“You may leave. I won’t kill you this time,” Ji Huo’s indifferent voice called out from afar.