Forgotten Tale of Jianghu-Chapter 50: The Long-Awaited Confrontation

Xin Long sat on the shadowed wall, his figure blending into the night like a ghost without form.

His gaze, cold yet unwavering, fixed on the distant figure standing by the window of the Silent Serenity Apothecary — Chu Cao.

The falling snow had grown heavier, blanketing the world in a silent, suffocating white.

He exhaled softly, a faint cloud of breath vanishing into the frigid air.

The lanterns hanging outside the manor swayed gently, their warm glow mingling with the steady flicker of candles within her room. Though dim and distant, they cast enough light for Xin Long to see her stillness — how she stood without a single movement, like a fragile statue carved from winter itself.

He could not see her face clearly.

But that didn't matter.

He knew it all too well — the gentle curve of her jaw, the delicate line of her lips, the quiet sadness that sometimes flickered in her eyes when she thought no one was watching.

The snow, relentless now, kept falling.

Xin Long's hand tightened, his internal force spreading slowly through his body, warming his freezing limbs. Yet no amount of inner strength could melt the growing chill inside his chest.

She couldn't see him.

She didn't know he was there.

The moon, once bright and unyielding, now hid behind thick clouds — just like him.

Waiting.

Watching.

And hoping, perhaps foolishly, that the skies would clear once more.

This... was the first time his heart had ever stirred for someone.

Yet, by tomorrow, he didn't know what would become of her — or himself.

If his plan succeeded, the days ahead would be a storm of blood and chaos. He would move like a shadow, hidden in the dark, forever chased by death.

So tonight, before it all unraveled...

He watched her.

Not as Xin Long, the cunning mastermind.

But simply as a man standing at the edge of a dream — one that could never be his.

Xin Long's gaze lingered on the faint silhouette of Chu Cao — distant and blurred by the falling snow.

A moment longer.

Then, without a word, he rose.

With a sudden twist of his body, he leapt down from the shadowed wall, his movement swift yet soundless, like a whisper lost to the wind.

The north wind howled, fierce and unyielding, biting at his face as he landed — but Xin Long didn't flinch.

Instead, he turned once, his cold eyes flickering back toward the Manor of Secrets — a final glance, a silent farewell.

Then he was gone.

His figure melted into the night, vanishing into the bone-cold wind as he sprinted toward the ruined pavilion at the edge of the city.

There was something waiting for him there.

Something that needed to be done.

And tonight... there was no room for hesitation.

...

"Silver-Faced Tyrant Wangba!"

"Xin Long! Xin Long!"

The roars of the martial artists echoed beneath the rising light of the fading sun, a deafening wave crashing against the sky itself.

Xin Long's mind drifted, but his expression remained still — as cold and unyielding as ever.

The snow fell thinner now, a delicate contrast to the boiling excitement swelling in the air. He could feel it — the hundreds of gazes fixed on the stage, burning with anticipation and bloodthirst.

Some were eager to witness a clash of strength. Others, hoping for a fall from grace.

But somewhere within that sea of eyes...

He knew Chu Cao was there.

Silent. Unmoving. Watching.

He didn't need to look for her; he could feel her presence like a thread pulling at the corner of his heart — faint, yet inescapable.

Perhaps it was because he had seen her when he ascended the stage.

Or perhaps... it was because, despite his walls of steel and shadow, Chu Cao was the one person who still haunted his thoughts.

With a slow, steady breath, Xin Long pressed those thoughts down — burying them beneath the cold.

There was no room for hesitation. Not now.

As Xin Long ascended the stage, his gaze flicked — swift as a blade — capturing a fleeting moment in the crowd.

Bai Jing Jing.

Her face, calm yet unreadable, was turned slightly away. But it was not him she was looking at.

It was Xu Zhu Han.

The so-called Prey Xu stood near her, speaking in a low tone. Though his words were lost to the rising clamor, the weight behind his gaze — the bitterness laced within those dark eyes — was unmistakable.

He wasn't merely watching Bai Jing Jing.

He was watching her watch him.

Jealousy, like a slow poison, twisted through Xu Zhu Han's restrained expression — a quiet storm brewing behind the mask of civility.

Xin Long didn't linger. His mind sharpened, severing the useless thread of thought. Whatever game was unfolding between Bai Jing Jing and Xu Zhu Han was not his concern.

Yet, even as he strode onto the stage, his senses remained razor-sharp.

From the corner of his vision, he caught the judges — the three silent figures seated high above — their eyes fixed upon him. Unmoving. Calculating.

Just like everyone else.

And so, with the weight of countless gazes — some hungry, some hateful — Xin Long ascended the stage, his heart as cold and distant as ever.

Xin Long's cold gaze locked onto Wangba.

The man before him, clad in stark white robes, looked no older than twenty-nine — yet there was a deadly precision to his stance, a quiet lethality simmering beneath the surface.

The weapon in his hand was no ordinary fan. Forged from steel, its sharp edges gleamed under the rising sun, a deceptive tool of elegance and murder. Wangba didn't hold it like a noble scholar would. No, he wielded it like a predator poised to strike.

Xin Long's fingers slid to his waist, uncoiling the whip-sword he wore as a belt in one smooth motion. Since he had left the sword usually hanging at his waist back at the inn, all he had with him now were a whip-sword, a hidden dagger, and the sword of Sangguan Yun'er, wrapped in cloth and slung across his back.

Even so, a sword was a sword.

As Xin Long's thoughts calculated every angle, every move, he caught the faintest flicker in Wangba's expression. Their eyes met — and for a brief moment, the world seemed to still.

A silent exchange passed between them, sharper than any weapon.

Wangba, noticing Xin Long's subtle shift, tilted his head ever so slightly — a half-smirk playing on his lips — as though daring him to act first.

The crowd's noise thinned into a hollow hush. The anticipation pressed like a hand against their throats, heavy and unrelenting.

From the corner of his eye, Xin Long caught sight of Chu Cao, her arms crossed, standing calmly amidst the restless crowd. Behind her, Bai Jing Jing's face was a canvas of barely concealed worry, her lips parted, her eyes fixed on him.

He didn't linger on them.

His world, in that moment, consisted of only two people: himself — and Wangba.

Two men.

Two weapons.

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And a silence sharper than steel.

Xin Long's grip on his whip-sword tightened.

Before him, Wangba's steel fan remained poised — a silent promise of violence. The air, already sharp with unspoken threats, felt heavier now as every eye in the square fell upon the two of them.

But Xin Long's mind, as always, worked in multiple layers.

From the corner of his vision, he caught the storm brewing in Prey Xu's eyes — a fury so fierce, it seemed to burn beneath his composed facade. Bai Hongfu's furrowed brow spoke of something darker, a restrained wrath teetering on the edge of control.

And there, like a predator hidden in the brush, was Abbot Kongshan of the Shaolin Sect — his gaze cold and unwavering, observing with the silent intensity of a hawk eyeing its prey. Beside him, the Daoist Master of the Wudang Sect lowered his head in a slight nod, a gesture laced with quiet authority.

But the thought that gnawed at Xin Long the most wasn't the looming clash with Wangba — it was Prey Xu.

The way Prey Xu's eyes always found Bai Jing Jing. The way his gaze hardened whenever Xin Long spoke to her.

He remembered it clearly — how Prey Xu had once claimed he only "happened" to arrive at the city square moments after an incident, brushing it off with a careless, "A worker told me."

Too convenient. Too perfect.

The pieces clicked in Xin Long's mind like an elegant trap snapping shut.

He was certain now — Prey Xu had planted spies to tail Bai Jing Jing. Perhaps an assassin disguised as a commoner. Perhaps a skilled martial artist lurking in the crowd.

And it wasn't just jealousy. It was something more.

To confirm his theory, Xin Long had invited Bai Jing Jing to a simple meal days ago — a test, nothing more. He watched carefully, noting how Prey Xu appeared again, this time with a thinly veiled excuse for his "unexpected" arrival.

It confirmed Xin Long's suspicion.

Xu Zhu Han wasn't merely possessive — he was obsessed.

The more Bai Jing Jing spoke with Xin Long, the deeper Xu Zhu Han's mistrust grew, spiraling into a barely-contained rage. His focus wasn't solely on Bai Jing Jing's reactions; it was on Xin Long — his words, his gestures, his every calculated move.

But beneath the anger lurked something even more dangerous — a twisted fascination.

Xin Long recognized it for what it was: a mind slowly unraveling, a puppet with strings he could pull.

Yet before he could push further, his thoughts were abruptly cut off. Wangba charged forward, fan extended, forcing Xin Long to shift his focus from the hunt to the immediate threat before him.

Wangba moved like a sudden gust of wind—sharp, unpredictable, deadly.

The whistle of the steel fan slicing through the air echoed twice—

"Whish! Whish!"

Xu Zhu Han's gaze remained fixed on the stage, unblinking, as Wangba suddenly charged at Xin Long. Fueled by a fierce desire to see Xin Long defeated, his eyes followed every movement with intense focus.

There, at the heart of the commotion, stood Wangba—fan poised, his right arm tensed, left foot pivoting. He lunged, the fan a blur of silver streaking toward Xin Long's throat.

And yet, Xin Long did not flinch.

His whip-sword remained planted at his side, sword-tip kissing the ground. His body, upright like a lone pillar against a storm, exuded nothing but calm anticipation.

The moment Wangba's fan cut through the space between them, Xin Long's whip-sword surged upward—swift, fluid—deflecting the steel fan in one clean arc. The clash rang out, metal on metal, a cold spark in the dim square.

His body leaned back, every motion sharp yet measured, feet grounded even as his torso arced away from Wangba's strike. The fan grazed past his neck—so close he felt the wind whip against his skin—but missed by a hair's breadth.

With the grace of a predator countering its prey, Xin Long didn't waste a heartbeat.

As his body tilted back, his right foot slid behind him, digging into the earth—anchoring him. The instant his whip-sword met Wangba's, he twisted the sword—pushing the fan upward—then shifted his weight to his front foot, the arc of his motion aligning perfectly with the curve of his next strike.

In a seamless follow-up, his sword whipped forward, slicing through the air—aimed directly at Wangba's left collarbone.

Every movement calculated. Every strike a whisper of violence.

Yet, even as steel met steel and the crowd's gasps rippled through the square, Xin Long's mind spun elsewhere.

From above, Xu Zhu Han's gaze bore down like a blade of its own—eyes wide, knuckles white against the balcony rail. He was watching—no, scrutinizing—every move Xin Long made.

That thin thread of hostility, of resentment and envy, only tightened with each passing moment.

Xin Long's lips curled ever so slightly—a ghost of a smirk.

Let Prey Xu watch. Let him hate.

It only made him easier to control.

The clash of steel and the sharp hiss of air—

"Clang!"

Wangba twisted his right arm, raising the steel fan to block Xin Long's incoming sword.

But in the blink of an eye—

The sword didn't strike the fan's edge as expected. No—just before contact, Xin Long's wrist flicked—fluid, calculated. The whip-sword, once aimed straight for Wangba's neck, shifted. The sharp edge angled, transforming the thrust into a sliding strike—its flat side kissing the fan's ribs instead of clashing head-on.

The fan bent backward with a sharp "clang," buckling under the sudden shift in force.

And the blade—now freed from the block—curved, cutting its way toward Wangba's exposed left collarbone.

Eyes wide, Wangba staggered back a step, his foot scraping against the stone floor.

But Xin Long moved like a shadow, his body still low and arched from the earlier dodge.

The moment Wangba recoiled, Xin Long's back foot pressed hard against the ground—his left knee bent, his right leg coiling like a snake.

In a seamless motion, his foot snapped forward—heel dragging against the floor—pushing his body into Wangba's space.

Before Wangba could fully retreat—

Xin Long's blade shot forward—aimed straight for Wangba's chest.

It was a strike born from a mere flick of the wrist—so fast, so precise—like death itself reaching out.

All of this—everything—had unfolded in less than a heartbeat.

Prey Xu blinked.

And in that single blink, the whip-sword had already reached for Wangba's heart.

"Thang!"

The blade, aimed straight for Wangba's chest, shot forward like a viper's strike.

With a sharp flick of his steel fan, Wangba smacked down from above, trying to parry the incoming dagger.

But—

The moment their weapons clashed—

The blade didn't simply stop. It bent. It twisted.

Xin Long's wrist rotated, the force of his motion causing the blade to flex downward—angled, unpredictable.

The dagger's tip, once blocked, now curved beneath Wangba's fan, snaking lower—racing toward his heart once again.

Wangba's eyes widened, his body frozen.

In that single instant, Xu Zhu Han mind flashed—

Why a whip-sword? Why not a long sword?

And then—he understood.

Xin Long wasn't just fighting with speed or strength—he was manipulating the very flow of the battle. The shorter sword, easy to maneuver, allowed him to shift angles in a heartbeat—an unrelenting, unpredictable rhythm that left his opponent one step behind.

The sword pierced forward.

"Thud..."

It struck Wangba's chest—right at the hollow between his ribs.

A sharp intake of breath—then silence.

The force wasn't just from the sword—it was from Xin Long's internal energy, flowing through the whip-sword, forcing Wangba's muscles to seize.

A nerve lock.

Wangba's body stiffened—arms still raised, eyes bulging—like a stone statue.

The crowd roared.

"Xin Long... Xin Long!"

"The move that sealed the meridians was absolutely brilliant..."

Cheers exploded from the spectators below, their voices echoing across the stage.

Xu Zhu Han jaw tightened, his mind racing.

Xin Long's whip-sword—still pressed against Wangba's unmoving chest—held steady.

And slowly—ever so slowly—Xin Long straightened his posture, his movements fluid yet controlled, his foot sliding back to anchor himself firmly.

The crowd roared louder.

Without a word, Xin Long lifted his sword, pointing it directly at Wangba's frozen form—his lifeless eyes a mirror of death itself.

The crowd screamed even louder.

Xin Long's whip-sword danced—a soft weapon against steel.

He had spent the entire night at the broken pavilion, dissecting Wangba's fan technique—crafting a method to counter and strike without shattering his own weapon. A solid sword would have been useless against Wangba's iron fan. The only path to victory was through fluidity—turning the rigid into the pliable, the strong into the yielding.

And so, just as he had trained—counter, twist, strike.

It worked.

Wangba stood frozen, immobilized by the nerve strike.

But Xin Long's mind didn't rest. His victory wasn't a stroke of luck—it was the result of relentless effort and unyielding resolve. This was what persistence and precision could achieve.

His thoughts sharpened further as his gaze flicked to the figure leaping onto the stage.

A blur of motion.

It was Xu Zhu Han—his so-called Prey Xu.

Without invitation, without hesitation—the young man had used his qinggong technique to ascend the stage in one smooth motion.

Xin Long's cold eyes settled on him, taking in the fiery determination in Xu Zhu Han's stance.

Xu Zhu Han—the one who claimed to have mastered the Iron Body Technique...

who boasted of his grasp over the thirty-six moves of the Dragon Claw Fist...

standing there, his every movement daring Xin Long to prove him wrong...

And Xin Long... had already devised a hundred ways to break him.

A faint smile curled at the corner of his lips.

Not one of warmth—but of calculation.

He had spent countless hours predicting this moment.

The air between them tightened—a silent storm gathering, as if the battle had already begun.

End – 50