Chapter Seventy-Three: Perseverance!

“How is this possible?” Huang Yue stared, dumbfounded, her mouth agape to its utmost, her eyes brimming with shock and disbelief.

What had she just witnessed?

It was meant to be a straightforward, ordinary display of overwhelming strength—a battle between Mount Tai and an ant. The outcome should have been decided in an instant. How, then, had it turned into this?

At first, everything proceeded as expected. Even when Zhou Yi exerted all his strength, pushing himself to the limit, the brilliance of his blade startled her. He was clever, resourceful; he converted his disadvantages into advantages, combining flames and the black wind, weaving them together with his blade’s power. He did everything possible—and even the impossible.

His strength was astonishing.

Yet Huang Yue knew that even so, even reaching this level, it could not prove he was capable of resisting Mo Hu’s sword.

The gap between them was too immense; Zhou Yi’s efforts could not bridge it.

Indeed, as she had anticipated, Zhou Yi, though performing beyond his limits, was struck by the wooden sword the moment they met. He was sent flying, unable to land for a long while.

His body spun through the air, tracing erratic lines, resembling meat on a chopping board, utterly devoid of hope for reversal. Next, a single sword—just one—would end everything.

But just as Huang Yue thought it was over, she saw Zhou Yi, still tumbling in midair, suddenly swing his arm and conjure another long blade. Its body was quickly enveloped in flames, bound by black wind like threads, exuding an ancient aura.

And then, before her stunned gaze, he managed to fend off Mo Hu’s wooden sword. Though he was easily struck aside and spat blood, he did not die.

In that moment, events seemed to return to their origin. Zhou Yi’s body continued to spin through the air, clearly on the verge of death, with no place to gain traction—yet somehow, he found strength again, conjuring another long blade.

The same formula, the same flavor, even the same result.

But seeing this result again, Huang Yue’s heart no longer leapt with joy or reassurance. Something within her chest churned violently, round after round, mirroring her chaotic emotions.

“Why? Why does he cling to life like a cockroach, impossible to kill?” Huang Yue’s mind was a tangled mess, irritation rising as confusion transformed into a nameless emotion that would not dissipate. She did not want to know, nor admit, that its name was unease.

Mo Hu’s feelings mirrored hers. Though he still held the upper hand, his wooden sword retained its formidable power, easily overpowering Zhou Yi time and again, yet his mood soured further. The shift from confidence to anxiety took but a moment—a mere instant, hardly enough time for a blink—yet in that fleeting interval, his entire outlook was overturned.

He had never imagined his emotions could change so dramatically, nor that an innate weakling, however gifted, could force him to such extremes.

He could not fathom it.

But it was now undeniable.

“Why won’t you die?” Mo Hu’s expression darkened, even more so than Zhou Yi’s. His gaze brimmed with frustration, and if one looked closely, they might discern an intense fear lurking deep within his eyes.

Boom.

With fury in his eyes, Mo Hu’s fingers moved rapidly, his wooden sword spinning as its speed reached new heights; veins bulged, muscles tensed, and he rushed at Zhou Yi.

Boom, boom.

Boom, boom, boom.

Zhou Yi’s skin cracked, fissures appearing like parched earth in drought, crisscrossed in dark patterns. At first glance, there was a strange, artistic beauty to the black wind’s darkness, but with another look, one could see the despair and death lurking within those cracks.

Zhou Yi was in agony, too pained to speak, lacking the strength even for words.

He was exhausted, but rest was not an option.

He knew that, were it not for his golden finger and points spent on energy, he would have collapsed long ago. The despair and death hiding in the cracks of his skin would have erupted from within.

Every time, as that despair and death threatened to emerge, he clenched his teeth and quickly added points—like dropping a single bead of water into a raging fire. It could not extinguish the flames, but it made them burn less fiercely, giving him a moment more to struggle.

“I am a man!” Whenever he neared his limit, Zhou Yi told himself this. Whenever he felt unable to go on, he repeated it.

“This is life!” Whenever thoughts of complaint surfaced, he reminded himself.

Life is never simple. Life is the foundation of all things; happiness and pain are its adornments. If you wish to live, you cannot think only of happiness—the greater part is the happiness hidden behind suffering.

In life, happiness and pain are equally abundant, but happiness is mischievous; it hides behind pain.

This is a game, a game called hide and seek. When you push aside the pain, you’ll be delighted to find happiness concealed behind it. In such moments, true happiness is revealed.

“Come!” Zhou Yi’s hoarse voice echoed in his mind, resounding like thunder. He had no strength left to cry out in pain, but he still had the strength to fight.

Boom.

Arm extended—blade in hand.

Boom.

The long blade swung, adorned with red patterns and black lines.

Bang.

The blade struck down swiftly, colliding with the incoming wooden sword; it shattered, scattered, and vanished.

“Come!” As the world spun, Zhou Yi’s expression remained calm, his gaze steady. His sore, numb arm reached out again on habit, inner power surging under the energy’s boost, moving with his will, coursing through his body to his palm, forming a long blade.

Boom.

The blade turned red.

Boom.

Black lines appeared upon it.

Bang.

The wooden sword arrived—long blade met it—glasslike, it broke apart.

“Again!” Zhou Yi shouted low, his fighting spirit undiminished, as if he had never lost.

“You’re insane!” Mo Hu’s features twisted, his eyes bulging, nostrils flaring, rage emanating as though he were not the victor.