Chapter Fifteen: The End of Life

Everyone present looked up at Feng Qichuan’s figure suspended in midair.

It was as if everything unfolding before them was a dream, so unreal as to be almost illusory.

In their eyes, Master Ma, who had always seemed invincible, was as helpless as a kitten in Feng Qichuan’s grasp, utterly incapable of resistance.

Ma Yu’s eyes were wide with fury and despair.

“Die!”

Hovering above, Feng Qichuan regarded everything with cold indifference. His blade’s light pierced through Ma Yu’s abdomen with ruthless force, a flash accompanied by a mist of blood that rained down like a crimson shower.

With a thunderous crash, Ma Yu’s body tumbled through the air and smashed heavily onto the floor below, the impact instantly shattering the ground into countless fragments.

“Xiantian…”

Ma Yu managed to utter these two words before his strength failed him at last.

Seeing their master fall, the followers of the Moruo Sect were struck with a mournful solidarity. Unlike the chaos of fleeing in all directions often depicted in stories, or panicking in terror, they stood together. The Moruo Sect had never harbored cowards; unity was their creed, and even in the face of formidable enemies, they remained steadfast and unafraid.

Perhaps it was precisely this spirit that allowed the Moruo Sect to infiltrate the Yanbei Dynasty so deeply within just a few years, rooting themselves firmly within its core.

They seemed almost brainwashed, each one a death-defying zealot.

By contrast, the imperial court was far from united, which explained its persistent disadvantage in this struggle.

“Feng Qichuan, you will not meet a good end! The Grand Sect will not let you go. From this moment, you will be hunted without end—no matter that you’re Xiantian!” a minor leader glared and shouted, pointing at Feng Qichuan.

The Moruo Sect had faced powerful enemies before, even Xiantian experts dispatched by the court to eradicate them. Yet every time, these would-be conquerors returned in defeat.

No matter how powerful Feng Qichuan was, he was only one man.

Feng Qichuan laughed mockingly. “You should be grateful there are so few of you Moruo dogs here today. Even if all of you were present, what does a man with only three days to live have to fear?”

As soon as his words fell, silence descended on all who witnessed the scene.

What is left to fear for a man who no longer fears death?

Moreover, what made it more terrifying was that this man was a Xiantian master.

Luckily, he didn’t know the location of the Grand Sect; otherwise, no matter how formidable the Moruo Sect was, they would have suffered grievous wounds.

“Let’s go together. Even in death, we must die with dignity.”

But they underestimated the power of a Xiantian master. The chance to strike never came.

Feng Qichuan moved first.

His gaze was like lightning, his terrifying presence sweeping forth and locking onto every soul in the hall.

In the next instant, a formless yet tangible aura of blade energy radiated outward from him, crushing everything in its path.

Under this suffocating aura, fear gripped countless hearts; resistance seemed impossible.

Watching from the sidelines, Sun Xin was deeply shaken.

No elaborate techniques, just a single, simple strike—yet its force was unstoppable.

When the blade’s energy finally dissipated, only Feng Qichuan remained standing.

Or, to be precise, only Sun Xin remained as well, though gravely wounded.

A flicker of surprise crossed Sun Xin’s eyes. He asked curiously, “I was hunting you just moments ago. Why let me live?”

“Consider it mercy. Yingchuan still needs you. By now, you must know Ma Yu’s true identity. The evidence is under his bed—go see for yourself. With this merit, you’ll have enough to become city lord. I hope you remember your original intent and do not let power blind you.” With those words, Feng Qichuan turned to leave.

He left behind not only himself, but also the blade that had accompanied him for many years.

His great vengeance was fulfilled; the knot that had burdened him for days was finally undone.

He felt a freedom in his heart like never before.

He hoped his wife and child, wherever they were, could witness this moment.

He had done it. He had uprooted the Moruo Sect’s entire Yingchuan branch.

Outside the city, Yi An and Feng Qichuan stood silently by a newly erected headstone.

Here was the resting place of Feng Qichuan’s wife and child.

“Master Yi, my end is near. Thank you for all you’ve done for me, though I have nothing left to give you in return. The only thing I have left is the remaining true energy in my meridians—would that be of any use to you?” Feng Qichuan’s face was untroubled. For him, death was perhaps a kind of release.

He knew that martial artists above the first class could transfer their inner power to others. But the true energy in his body had not been cultivated by himself, so it was less pure than others’. Still, aside from his skills, he had nothing else to offer.

“If you do this, you won’t even have two days left,” Yi An sighed.

In truth, even if he received all of Feng Qichuan’s power, it wouldn’t make much difference to him—at most, it would break through his final two meridians and save him a month’s effort. For a third-rate warrior, however, it would be transformative. Feng Qichuan’s Xiantian energy could raise any such man straight to the peak of the first class.

After all, the true energy of martial artists and that of spiritualists ultimately led to the same destination—one built the foundation within, the other drew upon the essence of sun and moon, and the spirit of heaven and earth.

“No need. To die beside my wife and child is happiness enough. I have no regrets,” Feng Qichuan shook his head. He had nothing left to hold him in this world.

An hour later, Yi An absorbed all of Feng Qichuan’s energy, breaking through the final two meridians—just one step away from establishing his foundation.

He was now separated from that goal by nothing but a final threshold.

As the last wisp of energy faded, Feng Qichuan’s life reached its conclusion. His skin withered before their eyes, his dark hair turned instantly white, and he aged decades in moments.

Feng Qichuan closed his eyes slowly, letting life slip quietly away.

Death, when it finally arrived, was not as frightening as one might imagine—at least, not in Feng Qichuan’s eyes.

“I’m coming, Qiuniang, Wen’er. Wait for me—we’ll be together soon.”

With those feeble words, Feng Qichuan’s breath ceased.

He departed with a smile.

Yi An, who had witnessed it all, felt a storm of emotions within.

No matter what others might say, in Yi An’s eyes, Feng Qichuan was a man of true mettle.

Even if not for the sake of vengeance for his nursemaid, Feng Qichuan was a man worthy of his aid.