Chapter 130 The Ordinary Prodigy
Hong Xianglong's lips curled in a cold smile, his eyes sweeping over Han Yu with contempt.
The man before him had plain features and a restrained aura like common iron. Though they were both at the Return to Origin Realm, he would make this opponent understand—the gap between a prodigy and an ordinary man was an unbridgeable chasm!
What flowed in his veins was a heaven-defying constitution that could drive the entire cultivation world mad!
The Celestial Saint Body—an unparalleled physique of ancient legend, its hundred meridians linked to heaven and earth, capable of stirring the forces of sun, moon, and stars with a mere motion.
In cultivation, he required no breathing exercises, for heaven and earth's essence flowed into him ceaselessly. In battle, he could borrow the might of the stars, each strike imbued with awe-inspiring power.
It was said that at full mastery, one could cross the void with flesh alone, rending the heavens with bare hands!
Even more terrifying was the Supreme Blood surging within him—bloodline of the ancient supreme clans, each drop brimming with boundless might.
As it coursed through him, it could suppress all laws and shatter all techniques. Attacks of ordinary cultivators collapsed upon contact, and even higher-realm pressures were forcibly dispersed. Most dreadful of all, it carried the trait of immortality.
No matter how grievous the wound, as long as one drop remained, he could be reborn in nirvana!
Either one of these constitutions was enough to guarantee an unstoppable path to the Saint Realm. And he bore both. In the Hong family, not to mention peers, even old monsters of the Longevity Realm were hardly worth his concern.
"To die beneath my dual Saint bodies—" Hong Xianglong's frame erupted with blazing starlight, his blood surging like magma. "—is the greatest honor a mortal like you will ever know!"
He raised his fists slowly. Wherever his knuckles pointed, space itself twisted and shuddered.
Han Yu, standing under Hong Xianglong's overwhelming might, remained calm as still water.
He swung his sword slowly, a motion as plain as a farmer hoeing his field. Yet a subtle, harmonious sword intent quietly emerged, forming a faint circle of sword energy around him.
In natural talent for the sword, he was not as gifted as his eldest brother, Xiao Chen—that man was born with resounding sword bones and by last year had already drawn upon the sword intent of heaven and earth.
In clarity of sword heart, he was not his third junior sister—that girl merged with her sword the instant she touched it, her sword path so pure it outshone sun and moon.
In comprehension, he was not his fourth junior brother—that youth could read a sword manual once and innovate, crafting techniques even the eldest brother admired.
And as for physique—
Han Yu's lips curved faintly.
He was a true mortal. No Celestial Saint Body, no Supreme Bloodline, no innate Dao bones. Even his spiritual roots were the lowest grade possible.
In a great sect, he might not even qualify as an inner disciple.
While his senior brothers and sisters were dazzling jewels that sects would fight to claim.
But what of it?
The sword circle solidified, simple yet indestructible.
Han Yu had never relied on talent to reach this point.
Ten years ago, to perfect a single thrust, he practiced three thousand times a day until the skin of his palms split and his blood dyed the hilt red.
Eight years ago, he shut himself away for three years, seeking to master one basic sword form.
When he emerged, even his third junior sister marveled—it was no longer a basic form, but a move refined to perfection.
Five years ago, he traveled the lands, seizing every opportunity he could, step by step raising his cultivation.
His heart never wavered. His path was only the Dao.
Sword techniques that others grasped in three days, he polished for three months.
The fundamentals others deemed dull, he practiced daily until they became supreme.
Prodigies rose with the wind; mortals climbed one step at a time.
Even a mountain ten thousand feet tall can be scaled.
Now he wielded the supreme immortal art his master had taught him—Heaven-Piercing Sword.
This sword required no heaven-defying comprehension, no extraordinary physique, only a heart sharpened to its utmost.
He, Han Yu, was deemed worthy by a master honored as a Saint, and taken as a disciple.
He was born to prove that with a mortal's body, one could stand shoulder to shoulder with prodigies!
The sword circle suddenly contracted, condensing to the sword tip.
That focus was enough to stir heaven and earth, to open a path before him.
Under the moonlight, that plain green-edged sword shone brighter than the stars.
The night was ink-dark, and a wild wind howled across the barren land.
Hong Xianglong let out a long roar, his true essence erupting like a volcano, robes snapping in the gale.
Golden light flared around his fists, dragon-shaped phantoms coiling faintly about them—the ancestral Zulong Fist of the Hong family finally revealing its edge!
His right fist struck out, the force ripping the air with a thunderous boom.
A colossal golden dragon phantom surged from his knuckles, head raised high, crashing down upon Han Yu with the power to shatter mountains.
Where it passed, the ground split open into a deep trench, shards of stone pelting down like rain.
Yet Han Yu did not retreat. His green-edged sword drew a light stroke.
The Heaven-Piercing sword circle rippled, thin as a cicada's wing, splitting the furious dragon fist into two.
The divided force howled past him on either side, blasting a distant hill into dust.
Hong Xianglong's body shot forward like lightning, soaring three zhang into the air, both legs sweeping out like golden dragon tails!
The strike carried the force to split a mountain in half. Before the legs even landed, the crushing pressure sank the earth within a hundred-zhang radius by three feet.
Still, Han Yu stood unmoved, the sword circle flowing like a wheel. When the dragon tail reached him, the circle shrank to a single point, pressing exactly against Hong Xianglong's ankle.
A metallic clang split the night. Hong Xianglong felt a strange soft force dissolve all his power, forcing him to twist and retreat midair.
But before landing, he formed his hands into claws, raking out a storm of strikes.
Each claw tore the air with shrill screams, golden dragon talons blotting out the sky and sealing every inch around Han Yu within ten zhang—there was nowhere to escape!
At last Han Yu moved.
His steps shifted lightly, his sword traced circle after circle.
Every circle intercepted a claw strike with perfect precision. The clash of metal rang out in a storm, sparks bursting through the night like falling stars.
From afar, it looked like golden meteors clashing against a cold, radiant moon.
Hovering above, Hong Xianglong sneered. "You are impressive. I admit I underestimated you. But my next strike—even a cultivator of the Longevity Realm may not withstand it. Tonight, I'll show you what a true prodigy is!"
In the next instant, Hong Xianglong flipped upside down, fists joined like a hammer, and plummeted from the sky.
The strike carried his full strength. Before his fists landed, the crushing pressure alone carved a crater thirty zhang wide into the earth.
Han Yu finally frowned slightly.
Dropping to one knee, his sword circle shifted from round to square, forming a shield above his head.
The impact detonated with a world-shaking roar, collapsing the ground for a hundred zhang around and sending dust billowing into the heavens.
When it cleared, a deep pit marked the spot. Han Yu still held his sword raised in defense, though blood traced the corner of his mouth.
The Heaven-Piercing sword circle had not broken, though its glow dimmed faintly.
Han Yu wiped away the blood, his eyes calm as ever. He rose, and the circle shone bright again.
The night wind wailed. On the desolate plain, golden and green figures faced each other once more.
Hong Xianglong's assault was like a torrential storm, every strike earth-shattering. But Han Yu stood like a blade of grass in the tempest—seemingly fragile, yet unyielding.
…
As time passed, Hong Xianglong's breath grew ragged, veins bulging at his temples. The dragon qi around him churned wildly, the might of the Zulong Fist unraveling.
Each blow could split stone, yet the swordsman in blue was like a rock in a deep pool, unmoved by the raging current.
"Damn it!"
He roared, fists lashing out like golden meteors. But Han Yu's sword circle shifted from defense to attack. His sword struck like a serpent's tongue, each thrust landing with uncanny accuracy on the weakest points of Hong Xianglong's strikes.
Light though they were, the blows forced him to change his moves again and again, his powerful fists striking only into softness.
Impossible!
Hong Xianglong's eyes twitched. He could feel the man's swordwork transforming.
What began as flawless defense now carried a subtle rhythm, each strike weaving an invisible net. His proud Zulong Fist grew sluggish, its strength bound.
Just as his fury reached the brink—
"Stop."
A clear, icy voice fell upon the battlefield like a cold spring.
Both men froze, turning their heads at the same time.
…
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