"You... who are you? This is our personal business; I suggest you don't interfere." The sect master of Sword Splitting Sect said. He could feel strength emanating from the old man, but he was not afraid. He also brought backup.
The old man hiccupped and scratched his scruffy jaw.
"Oh?" He asked lazily, his voice half-slurred, half-playful. "What if I want to interfere?"
He took another long swig from his gourd. A thin line of wine spilled from the corner of his mouth, trailing down his beard.
Li Liang stepped forward at once, bowing deeply.
"Senior Cang," he said respectfully. "Are you the support His Highness called?"
"Mn." Elder Cang waved his hand lazily. "The brat said you were being bullied. Told me I'd find some sword-cultivating insects ruining my nap."
The old man yawned loudly and stretched.
Then—suddenly—he vanished.
Gu Zheng's heart skipped a beat.
"Formation alert—!"
But it was already too late.
BOOM!
The ground beneath the core-breaker formation exploded, sending sword cultivators flying like rag dolls. A massive crater opened where the spiritual array had been just seconds before.
Dust clouded the battlefield.
When it cleared, Elder Cang stood there—right in the heart of the Splitting Sword Sect's lines—with his hands still in his sleeves.
He hadn't even drawn a weapon.
Gu Zheng's expression darkened. "You dare interfere? You made a big mistake."
Elder Cang raised one bleary eye. He didn't look at Gu Zheng but looked into the empty sky and said, "Are you going to show up or not?"
His words and actions puzzled many people. Are there more people who haven't taken the action yet?
At this time, two figures appeared, wearing black clothes and hiding their faces. The aura emanated by two of them was stronger than others.
"Two mid-stage great saint realm experts." Li Liang and other elders sensed the aura of two mysterious men and said.
"So, who are you?" The drunk old man glanced at the two men and asked. However, the black-clothed men didn't reply to his question. One of them said in a hoarse voice, "Old man, leave; this has nothing to do with you. If you dare to go against us, it won't do any good to you."
"Oh, really? Then I want to see what you can do to this old man." The drunken old man took another sip and said casually.
"Do it." The two black-clothed men looked at each other and said. Then they released their weapons and launched an attack simultaneously on the old man.
The moment the two masked men launched their attack, the very air around them twisted and roared.
One summoned a halberd wreathed in dark flame, its presence suppressing the temperature across the battlefield. The other drew twin sabers—sleek, black, and imbued with an eerie, corrosive wind that made the grass wither wherever the blades passed.
Spiritual pressure descended like a tidal wave. Even the elders of Purple Mist Sect instinctively raised their guards, their robes fluttering from the sheer aura released.
Yet— the old man remained completely unmoved.
He tilted his gourd and drank deeply. Wine spilled down his chin. His stance wobbled. His eyes were half-lidded, barely open.
And yet…
The halberd shot forward first, tearing through space with a fiery arc. The ground split in its wake, molten rock bubbling up from the force of the blow.
Everyone held their breath.
But then—
Clang!
A single finger. That was all Elder Cang used.
He extended his finger and lightly tapped the halberd's edge.
In an instant, a tremor reverberated through the weapon like it had struck an immovable wall of divine steel. Cracks splintered up the halberd's shaft—and with a dull snap, it shattered into glowing fragments midair.
"What?!" the halberd wielder cried out, stumbling back, coughing blood.
Before the shock had even settled, the twin sabers sliced forward. A brilliant cross-slash shimmered through the air, aimed cleanly at Elder Cang's neck and chest.
But the old man simply exhaled.
A warm gust followed.
Boom—!!
The wind of his breath dispersed the saber light like a candle flame before a gale. The masked man staggered, eyes wide in disbelief.
"What technique is this?!"
Elder Cang yawned. "This technique?"
He shifted his stance lazily, then muttered:"Drunken Sword—'Heaven Forgets the Sword.'"
And suddenly—
The battlefield shifted.
No blade gleamed in Elder Cang's hand. Yet sword intent radiated from him with such intensity it distorted the very air. Invisible currents cut through the surroundings like threads of silver silk. Bamboo in the distance bowed. Clouds overhead thinned.
The two masked attackers hesitated—but it was too late.
The old man took one casual step forward.
And the world answered.
Chi—!
A thin red line appeared across the neck of the halberd-wielder. A moment later, blood sprayed like a mist as his spiritual armor shattered, and he collapsed with a dull thud, unconscious—or dead, it was hard to tell.
The second masked man roared, releasing all his essence in a final strike—a desperate spiral of saber intent and soul energy meant to obliterate everything within thirty meters.
"Let's see if you're still drunk after this!"
But Elder Cang didn't even glance his way. He leaned sideways slightly, as if dancing through moonlight.
Step.
A soft tap of foot against stone echoed.
Flash.
A silver arc whispered through the air.
Crack.
The masked man's sabers snapped in half. His knees buckled. Before he could retreat, Elder Cang flicked his wrist, and an invisible force knocked the man backward a dozen paces before slamming him into the ground.
The battlefield fell deathly silent.
Only the gentle clink of Elder Cang's wine gourd remained, swinging from his hip.
He scratched his head. "Tch. Spilled my drink."
The people of the Purple Mist Sect stared in stunned awe. Even the elders were pale—awed not just by the technique, but by the sheer ease with which he had dismantled two mid-stage Great Saint realm experts.
"Did he… even draw a sword?" one disciple whispered.
"No," said the other, eyes narrowed, his voice reverent. "He is the sword. He has reached the peak of sword dao, sword heart."
On the opposite side, Sect Master Gu Zheng's expression had darkened completely. His backup, his aces—defeated in mere moments. It wasn't just strength; it was dominance. A pressure that suffocated even hope.
"You…" Gu Zheng clenched his fists. "Who are you, really?"
Elder Cang turned his bleary gaze toward him. "Who am I?"
He raised his gourd and drank again.
"Cang. Just Cang. Retired Elder of the Eternal Sword Sect. Dao Companion to no one, father to no brats, and current wine supplier for a certain Prince."
Gasps echoed across the field.
"Eternal Sword Sect…" one elder whispered. "isn't the strongest sword sect in the eastern sea continent… and their head instructor was…?!"
Li Liang's hands trembled faintly. "Cang Wuliang… the Unmoving Sword Immortal…"
Elder Cang yawned again. "Hah. I told the brat I'd only come out once. After this, I'm going back to my wine cave."
But then he paused and looked toward Xiao Tian's residence.
"Though, if anyone touches that brat… I might just forget I'm retired."
Gu Zheng's heart was beating very fast. His mind was full of confusion. Who was this mysterious prince? Why didn't he know about it? If he knew that there was such a person present in the purple mist sect, he wouldn't have come.
Behind him, the remaining sword cultivators of the Splitting Sword Sect hesitated. Morale had cracked. The sight of their strongest men defeated in under a minute broke something fundamental in their hearts.