Lao Zhou seed to have understood Wang Anfeng's intent.
Being able to be entrusted with an important task by Tan Yurou, to act as a spy in a city outside Xi Dingzhou, he naturally couldn't be a fool. After careful contemplation, and dismissing the idea of finding a couple of delicate and attractive young masters, Wang Anfeng was able to sleep soundly through the night.
When he woke up the next day, there were already attendants waiting outside the room.
After washing up, Wang Anfeng didn't dine in the inn. Rembering the provocative won who had appeared in his room last night, he still felt sowhat uncomfortable all over his body and didn't go to see Lao Zhou. He rely spoke briefly with the two attendants and slipped out through the back door.
It was now the hour of the dragon, and the streets were already bustling with people. Spotting vendors preparing breakfast, Wang Anfeng casually found a table to sit at. He watched what others were choosing before very deliberately ordering a serving of baked sesa flatbread and a bowl of millet porridge.
Just as Wang Xingqing had said, the flatbread here was indeed worth trying.
Its crust crispy, breaking into several pieces in your mouth, each bite released a rich aroma of oil, while the inside was incredibly soft, solid in flavor and simple. The contrasting textures and flavors intertwined in a delightfully indescribable way. While serving the dishes, the neighboring shopkeeper also offered a small plate of finely shredded pickled vegetables, greeted him with a smile, and then retreated.
Since it was winter, the pickle was sowhat cold to the taste but refreshing nonetheless because of the added fragrant vinegar, balancing out the slight greasiness of the flatbread's crust. Unknowingly, Wang Anfeng found himself unable to stop eating, not halting until he had finished the millet porridge cooked with pumpkin, placing the bowl on the table and exhaling a white breath.
He felt that, though the al was quite simple, it was filling and satisfying enough.
"The bill, thirteen Datong Currency."
The proprietor, a man in his forties with a trace of white in his hair and a constant smile on his face, had a wooden bucket on the table for collecting copper banknotes. Wang Anfeng pulled out thirteen hidden weapons from his chest, laid them on the table, and rose to leave amidst the shopkeeper's calls, walking through the city feeling much more relaxed all over.
The Qingyang Caravan was to stay in the city for quite a few more hours. Calculating the ti, they should have just arrived at the East Market, preparing to report to officials and arrange for their goods and storefronts.
Ever since he witnessed Hong Hui's final sword strike a few days prior, his own martial arts had entered a state of exhaustion. Continuing his practice as he had in the past no longer had any effect, possibly even regressing, as if he were confining himself to one place.
Therefore, Wang Anfeng didn't return to the inn to ditate and practice Breathing Techniques as he would have normally done. Instead, he wandered aimlessly through the city.
In his hand, he still held the withered branch broken off from Heavenly Sword Mountain, his deanor nonchalant and casual, contrasting with the bustling scene of the county town as the festival neared, attracting curious looks from passersby.
That one sword strike, he still couldn't let go of it completely...
Wang Anfeng sighed in his heart, his hand with the withered branch lightly tapping the void and then the ground.
There was no sound.
Yet in Shaolin Temple, the scholar in green no longer was casual as before. Watching Wang Anfeng tapping the branch on the ground and then lifting it, repeating the action as if he would never cease, his expression slightly relaxed, he barely nodded in acknowledgnt.
Not too stupid...
Not far away, Wu Changqing put down the dical book in his hands, glanced at Mr. Ying, thought for a mont, but decided to open the conversation with a smile:
"Mr. Ying..."
The scholar looked up, his voice flat:
"What is it?"
The old man stroked his beard, not speaking his true thoughts, but rather said laughingly, "The intent conveyed through the sword, lost in the mont of delight. In my observation, Xiao Feng's swordsmanship should already be considered as having reached a certain level of mastery. Among the younger generation of Great Qin, he could be counted as one of the few..."
The scholar looked at the slow-moving young man in the aerial illusion, scoffing:
"Reached a certain level of mastery?"
"Whose level has he reached? Who's room has he entered?"
"Sword Intent, Sword Moves, Sword Technique, all acquired from predecessors, lacking even a hint of his own thing. How could such swordsmanship be considered having reached any level of mastery? At best, it is a trick capable of killing, far from being worthy of being called a technique, let alone a Dao."
His voice paused slightly and seed to soften a bit as he grudgingly continued:
"It was only the sword thrust at that ancient pavilion on the mountain a few days ago that showed so promise..."
Wu Changqing nodded in agreent with a smile.
He understood Mr. Ying's aning.
The sword thrust at that ancient pavilion on the mountain ca after Wang Anfeng had stood desolate for days, combining his enlightennt from staring directly at Hong Hui's Sword Intent with his own swordsmanship atop the pavilion. The vastness of heaven and earth lood, and a profound Sword Qi seed to hide beneath. The alignnt of ti, place, and people, the three as one, allowed him to make that thrust.
It was exquisite to the utmost.
Though not apparent on the outside, it fully captured the three essences of Sword Intent. Any tough steel of the world placed before that casually executed thrust would have been pierced through, its power arguably the strongest sword thrust Wang Anfeng ever delivered.
Even now, even when recreating the scene in Shaolin Temple, he might not necessarily be able to make the sa thrust again.
Martial artists are not automatons of Mo Family, each sword thrust made in a fight is different, and the glorious sword techniques of history, like legendary lines of poetry, are products of inspired spontaneity, almost impossible to replicate.
And this is why top swordsn hold each other in high esteem.
Because they know that only each other can push their swordsmanship to higher realms.
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