Chapter Fifteen: The Dignity of the Martial Master

As soon as her words fell, a sudden wind rose from nowhere. It was as though Zheng Feixian’s body was swept up by the wind, or perhaps it was her own movement that stirred the gale. Her palm struck out in a plain, unadorned manner—this was Zheng Feixian’s style, a palm only she could deliver.

Only Karl, caught within the attack, could truly feel the speed and force behind her palm, could sense the tremendous, unyielding pressure that threatened to crush him. It pressed upon him so fiercely he nearly wished to flee, forcibly reminding him that he was facing the world’s foremost martial artist—the one renowned for steps that startled immortals and palms that shook the heavens.

Karl’s pupils dilated abruptly, bloodshot, and without a second thought, he raised his hands to meet her strike.

Years ago, when confronted by Zheng Feixian, he had chosen to run. In his recollections, he both praised his own decision and felt deep regret. A voice inside him had always insisted that, had he fought on, he might not have lost. Now, facing her once more, he carried countless hopes and trusts of the Black Wolf Alliance’s warriors, bolstered by years of relentless training and newfound confidence.

He could not flee—not now, not again, not leave behind that same regret.

Their palms met, yet there was no deafening crash.

Instead, the muscles in Karl’s thick arms trembled violently in an instant, flushing red. He staggered back seven steps, shattering the flagstones beneath his feet; blood surged to his throat, and before he could suppress it, he spat it out.

Zheng Feixian’s form spun gracefully through the air.

It did not look like some intricate combination move. But this, too, was her style.

In a common duel, such an opening would allow one to expel foreign energy, gather their internal strength anew, and either prepare for another strike or take the chance to retreat.

But not so with Zheng Feixian. The force of an ordinary palm would never carry such might, nor could anyone else instill such mortal dread in Karl. He had no time or means to withdraw; before he could steady his stance or disperse the force surging through his meridians, Zheng Feixian was already descending from above.

As if an immortal descended to the mortal realm—her posture graceful as a fairy, her palm’s power as mighty as a god’s.

Karl screamed—a sound that, in a life-and-death battle, would usually disrupt one’s inner energy and spell disaster. But he was desperate now; only a full-throated, soul-tearing roar could drive away his fear of death as he hurled his palms up to meet her.

Again, their palms collided, but still no thunderous sound erupted.

This time, Karl’s muscles twisted grotesquely beneath the immense force. He unleashed his inner strength in a frantic burst, managing to push Zheng Feixian away—and then, without a backward glance, ran for his life with all the strength he could muster.

“Is that all? I hardly care to hunt you down,” Zheng Feixian said, drifting lightly for several yards, coming to rest by the lakeside railing. She picked up her yellow robe with a jade-like hand and slowly donned it.

The patrolling disciples, hearing the commotion of Karl’s escape, split up—some giving chase, others coming to check on the situation. When they saw Zheng Feixian returning to her quarters with a composed and solemn expression, they all fell to their knees, apologizing profusely.

“No need to stay here. Go see if he can be captured,” she ordered calmly.

The disciples hurried off to pursue him.

Once Zheng Feixian closed her door, the youthful radiance vanished from her face, replaced by a deathly pallor. She rushed to the bathing chamber, vomiting blood into a porcelain basin, her once-dark hair now entirely silver and withered, tangled like dry grass.

She heaved blood until the basin was half full, finally stopping only when she could barely stand. Yet she refused to call for help. Supporting herself against the wall, she staggered back to her room, collapsing and rising again with stubborn determination. Her chronic injuries had tormented her for years—each flare-up brought pain so excruciating she sometimes wished for death itself.

Now, with her old wounds triggered and having endured two of Karl’s powerful blows while her strength was depleted, she knew her time was short. She would not last long; dying immediately would spare her much suffering.

But she was Zheng Feixian—her life and death bore heavily on many people and matters. If she died now, Karl’s ambitions would revive, the Black Wolf Army would act without restraint, and Zheng would soon face war—countless citizens would bleed on the battlefield, disciples of the Feixian Sect could not avoid catastrophe, and the losses would be grave.

She was Zheng Feixian, the world’s greatest master, the embodiment of Zheng’s might and the unyielding symbol of its invincibility. She could not fall; every additional moment she lived was a contribution to her country. She did not have the right to escape pain, abandon the struggle, or seek release—for the sake of responsibility.

The next day, when a disciple brought her meal, she sat upright at the table as if nothing were amiss, instructing that she not be disturbed unless necessary. As soon as the disciple left, she collapsed back on her bed, enduring her agony in silence.

Six days passed before Zheng Linran returned to the Feixian Sect.

At the sight of her master’s condition, Zheng Linran’s heart was seized by fear and panic; tears streamed down her face in an instant.

“Master! How did you—?”

Zheng Feixian’s expression darkened. She silenced her sternly, voice low with anger.

“My days are numbered. The Feixian Sect must rely on you to lead now! Yet you still act like a child—how can I rest easy? No more tears!”

Zheng Linran wiped her tears, struggling to calm herself, then listened quietly as Zheng Feixian gave her instructions.

“My condition cannot last much longer; at best, I have a month, at most a year. If I force myself to manage affairs publicly each day, I will not survive a month. You must summon the Elder of North Spirit immediately. To outsiders, say that we’ve arranged to travel together. Remember my words—I have no strength to repeat myself. You must take over the sect’s affairs at once. The Spring Elder, Spring Breeze, is reliable but too old to assist you for long; the Summer Elder, Summer Rain, is proud and esteemed—treat him with respect. The Autumn Elder, Autumn Leaf, is eccentric but wholly devoted to the sect and without ambition—do not quibble over trifles, treat him with tolerance. The Winter Elder, Winter Snow, is cold and ambitious—beware. But if you win Autumn Leaf’s loyalty, Winter Snow will not dare act out—Winter Snow fears only me and Autumn Leaf. Do not speak of my condition to anyone, not even the King of Zheng! The royal family has long wished to control the Feixian Sect and will not want you as its head; they will surely try to win you over when you succeed me—deal with them diplomatically at first, but once you have stabilized the sect, ignore them. Never forget the great matters of Zheng, but do not let the court pull your strings and turn you into their puppet.”

Zheng Linran committed every word to memory. “Disciple understands, I will remember everything...”

Zheng Feixian paused to catch her breath; her illness was plain on her face. “Princess Tianlai is no ordinary person; her ambitions are great, and with Ling Luo’s help in future, you must not underestimate or neglect her. As for your marriage...” She was cut off by a fit of coughing.

Zheng Linran hurried to assist, trying to regulate her master’s inner energy, but found it hopelessly chaotic—as if Zheng Feixian had gone mad with fire, beyond her ability to help. Worried, she said, “Master, I remember everything! Please, rest. I’ll get you some medicine from the pharmacy!”

As she rose to go, Zheng Feixian grasped her hand, urgent. “No need! Go fetch him at once...” Another bout of coughing cut her off, and she spat more blood. Alarmed, Zheng Linran promised to do as told, gently helped her master to the bed, and though she hated to leave, she feared causing more harm by staying—so she steeled herself to go.

When Zheng Linran reached North Spirit Mountain, she veiled her face, claiming only to be a disciple from the Feixian Sect. Avoiding Stepping Immortal was her wish, but as she passed the practice grounds, she spotted a large-nosed, dark-skinned, and homely disciple sparring with him. The disciple leading her laughed from afar; unable to help herself, she asked why.

“That’s the third senior’s disciple—they’re quite a pair!” the disciple replied, chuckling.

The disciple’s words and laughter made Zheng Linran flush behind her veil, wishing there were no such person as Stepping Immortal in the world.

As she walked by, Stepping Immortal eyed her back with suspicion. He’d only met Zheng Linran a few times, but as his fiancée, he paid particular attention—her figure seemed so familiar. Soon, he spotted the Elder of North Spirit hurrying out, not yet fully dressed, his expression grave.

A moment later, Ling Luo emerged and, as if nothing were amiss, called him inside.

By then, Stepping Immortal had guessed that something must have happened to Zheng Feixian—surely no one else in the world could cause the Elder of North Spirit such concern.