Chapter 131: Patriarch Ling

The elders within the hall collectively felt a sudden urge to spit blood. The Sect Master, who had never spoken harshly to his granddaughter, sternly admonished, “Shuang’er, don’t be mischievous.”

“Since when did the Sword Master Sect raise rabbits?” came a sudden, thunderous voice from outside the hall. Yuruo Shuang’s eyes flickered, and before her appeared a lean, vigorous old man. He wore a faded gray robe, barefoot with straw sandals, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his neck and arms muscular and sinewy.

Blinking her bright eyes, Yuruo Shuang thought the old man looked familiar. Just then, her grandfather and the senior sect members prostrated themselves, calling out “Patriarch.” Her eyes widened in astonishment—this was the sect’s foremost expert, Patriarch Ling, who had forcibly suppressed his cultivation at the Tribulation stage to avoid ascension. Having long since drifted through the world, he had not appeared publicly in the sect for nearly a century. Hastily, she knelt as well, but before her knees touched the stone floor, an invisible, gentle force lifted her up.

“Child, what rabbit are you talking about?” Patriarch Ling asked curiously, without any airs.

The legend of Patriarch Ling circulated endlessly within the sect, and Yuruo Shuang was an admirer. Her eyes sparkled as she involuntarily explained, “My sister said she won’t release the hawk without seeing the rabbit. Only once she gains enough advantage will she reveal what they want to know. It’s not about an actual rabbit.”

Patriarch Ling, known for his humor and fondness for teasing juniors, winked and smiled, “What is it they want to know? Tell this old man in secret, will you?”

Facing Patriarch Ling, Yuruo Shuang promptly forgot her sister’s instructions and replied honestly, “My sister said, ‘Building a cart behind closed doors will never grasp the true meaning. Actually, the entire poem is within the painting, but you all just can’t see it.’ Those were her exact words. I don’t understand.”

“You’re a clever girl, explaining it clearly, yet this old man still doesn’t understand,” Patriarch Ling feigned a troubled look, stroking his beard and chuckling. “Which of you crawling on the ground understands? Hurry and explain it to the old man.”

Called “crawling creatures,” the Sect Master and others could only laugh wryly as they rose to their feet.

After hearing the Sect Master’s report, Patriarch Ling’s eyes gleamed sharply. He snatched the still-wet ink paper, his face flashing through various expressions before suddenly raising his head to gaze intently at the ancestral painting hanging in the hall—the calligraphy of the sect’s founding Patriarch Wang.

The painting had hung there since the Sword Master Sect’s founding, unyellowed despite the passage of time. It depicted a lone swordsman in blue dancing atop a towering peak, accompanied by a cursive poem: “A lifetime of battles across three thousand miles; one sword worth a million troops.” Patriarch Ling had viewed it countless times, and a century ago it had stirred him deeply. Yet upon earnest inspection, it always seemed shrouded in mist, unclear, prompting him to leave on wanderings.

Today, after reading Yuruo Wei’s fragment of the poem “Old General’s March,” discerning the sword intent hidden between the lines like a bright light in the fog, and then looking at the Patriarch’s calligraphy, a mysterious force seemed on the verge of revelation.

Patriarch Ling suddenly became as motionless as a statue petrified for a thousand years, emanating no breath. Though standing there, his presence was so faint it was nearly imperceptible.

The Sect Master and others sensed Patriarch Ling entering a profound state of sudden enlightenment, holding their breath in reverent silence. Yuruo Shuang, meanwhile, studied the painting earnestly. After a long while without insight, she murmured in puzzlement, “Seeing mountains as mountains, seeing water as water—that’s the lowest realm. At higher levels, mountains aren’t mountains, water isn’t water. The highest realm is seeing mountains still as mountains, water still as water. What does it really mean? My sister’s words are so strange.”

Like a stone Buddha long shrouded in dust opening its eyes, a beam of light from the void illuminated Patriarch Ling’s eyes. His robe billowed without wind, his beard and hair flew about, and a powerful aura radiated from him.

Yuruo Shuang, the weakest among them, was the first to collapse, overwhelmed and falling to the ground.

The Sect Master hastily swept his sleeve, lifting his granddaughter and retreating with the others outside the hall, all filled with inexplicable joy.

Once outside, the oppressive aura vanished. Yuruo Shuang exhaled deeply, asking, “Grandfather, what happened to Patriarch Ling?” Her beautiful eyes flickered, still trembling from the earlier suffocating pressure.

“Silence!” The Sect Master, lacking patience to explain, snapped sharply, his burning gaze fixed on the hall. He sensed that today Patriarch Ling would bring the “Broken Enemy Sword Technique” back into the light.

Ling Yanfeng, who had remained outside, squeezed toward his ancestor and whispered to inquire. The usually indulgent and gentle Elder Ling suddenly scowled and barked impatiently, “Quiet!” Scared into silence, he was speechless.

Having never been sternly rebuked by his ancestor before, Ling Yanfeng felt today was the darkest day of his life. Every humiliation and setback he had ever suffered—all because of that wicked woman, Yuruo Wei—had caused even his most doting ancestor to turn against him.

“I will make that wretched woman’s life a living hell!” Ling Yanfeng vowed bitterly in his heart. The image of Yuruo Wei’s stunning, otherworldly face and her deep, sinister eyes flared a burning heat inside him. A wicked thought flickered, shifting his resolve: he would capture these two sisters, make them his forbidden concubines, driving them to ecstasy and torment. Imagining their tender springtime beneath him, his eyes gleamed with a predatory light.

As if sensing his gaze, Yuruo Shuang turned and met Ling Yanfeng’s lustful eyes, suddenly seeing his handsome face as utterly repugnant. Disgusted, she frowned and shifted closer to her grandfather, cutting off that lecherous, burning look.

Her sister had been right—Ling Yanfeng was nothing but a beast! The thought of that pristine body defiled by him made Yuruo Shuang feel nauseous, and a murderous intent sprouted deep within her, breaking through swiftly.

Noticing the change in Yuruo Shuang, the Sect Master, though not overtly attentive, understood fully and felt secretly pleased.

With only one daughter left, and after his childhood sweetheart had passed without him remarrying, the Sect Master had once intended to find a husband for his only daughter. Yet, Yuruo Tianming, that scoundrel, stubbornly refused to be a son-in-law, and his daughter refused to marry anyone else. Then she even urged him to remarry. He remembered how, usually docile and obedient, his daughter had spoken with unprecedented firmness: “If you’re afraid the Ying family bloodline will end, then marry a concubine, brother or sister, I don’t care. Their inheritance will be theirs—I want nothing.”

His daughter had married into the Yu family as she wished, but Yuruo Tianming turned out to be short-lived, leaving her a young widow. The Sect Master pitied her deeply and once urged her to remarry, only to be met with her heart-wrenching sobs. He never brought it up again, silently wondering what charm that short-lived scoundrel held to make his daughter love him so utterly.

With her husband gone, his daughter was like a living corpse, and his granddaughter was too gentle and compliant. The Sect Master watched helplessly, his heart aching, but he could do nothing. His greatest worry was who would care for them when he was gone. Fortunately, his granddaughter seemed to have changed today. Perhaps he might yet raise a female sect leader for the Sword Master Sect!