My Enemy Became My Cultivation Companion-Chapter 622 - 410 Too Weak

"I'm afraid this young dan actress won't be coming back anymore. I must have inconvenienced you all—though I thought the incense of a whole sixty years would suffice for kindness. Turns out my old face... is useless!"

Master Jiangxin strolled through the backstage of the opera garden, two female Taoist priests trailing behind him. Hearing his endless sighs and groans, they merely exchanged glances and shook their heads.

Just moments ago, both had tried to persuade him. The two women also enjoyed listening to opera, but their interest was far from the obsession Master Jiangxin had for drama. Missing out was regrettable, yes, but it was only regret.

Yet Master Jiangxin, this senior, seemed guilt-ridden as if his life hung in the balance. Since the actress could not be induced to return, he insisted on bringing them backstage for a look, no matter what.

Afraid others might develop biases against opera, or grow weary of it.

The backstage was a semi-open courtyard, divided by a thin line drawn through the center, with thick curtains hanging down. To the left was the men's troupe, and to the right, the women's troupe. After informing the opera troupe's elder master of his intentions, the elder graciously came to meet them.

As men and women kept their distance in propriety, the two women naturally saw only the performers from the women's side.

The elder's surname was Fang, with the given name Liang, addressed by Master Jiangxin as Elder Fang.

"We are privileged by your esteemed presence," Elder Fang said warmly before calling out to a group of female performers, "Girls, come meet the Immortal Masters!"

As soon as the words fell, several lithe figures emerged from behind the door—bright-eyed and comely, carrying the manner of frail elegance. The youngest was no older than thirteen or fourteen, and the eldest was no more than twenty. Each was in the bloom of youth, curiously observing the Taoist priests, lips pressed shut with the decorum of noble daughters, though their shifting eyes chattered inquisitively.

Being of similar ages, Lu Ying noticed their modest attire and the telltale thinness of their arms—bones jutting visibly, faces pale and powdered—starkly contrasting her own circumstances as Sword Armor's foremost disciple. She couldn't help but breathe a few soft sighs, "Ah... Ah..."

Yin Weiyin cast a sidelong glance, this innate sympathy with a touch of fox-like charm.

Thankfully, it was only a slight touch; too much, and she'd risk luring Chen Yi's soul away.

Elder Fang then addressed the assembled girls:

"Why are you not greeting the Immortal Masters?"

At his command, all the girls straightened up, chiming in unison:

"Greetings to the Immortal Masters."

Their voices were perfectly synchronized, devoid of extraneous noise—testament to Elder Fang's exacting control over the opera troupe.

Master Jiangxin nodded appreciatively, saying, "Excellent, excellent. Were it not for my humble journey in cultivating the Dao, I might have considered recruiting a few of them."

Elder Fang chuckled nervously and replied, "Our humble and lowly craft could never obstruct your divine path to transcendence."

"The Dao follows nature; what matters most is flowing with its course." Master Jiangxin said with a chuckle. "That girl over there—is she playing Lin Chong?"

Master Jiangxin's gaze fell upon a young woman who responded with a bashful smile. At Elder Fang's beckoning, she stepped forward, holding a sword and twirling it into a flourish.

"Her stage name is Xia'er. She specializes in portraying male roles," Elder Fang introduced. "Xia'er, perform a segment for them."

With a spin of her long sword, Xia'er moved seamlessly with her weapon, her melodious voice rising:

"Forced into rebellion under the Red Turbans, branded a traitor and a Yellow Scarves renegade. Just like a falcon loosed from its tether, a hare escaping its cage, a dragon slipping through the nets! Who will punish the unrighteous and save the nation? Who will wield justice like Gao Yao? With temples silvered and baggage sparse, I depart for the unknown—will the heavens finally turn?"

As her performance reached a crescendo, Xia'er's figure darted several yards forward, nimble beyond compare. Her sword circled back, twisting with her wrist into dazzling flourishes, catching sunlight that dazzled everyone's eyes.

Yin Weiyin remained impassive, inwardly dismissing it as mere theatrics. Lu Ying, however, discerned some merit amidst the spectacle—first nodding, then shaking his head.

The start of her swordplay was sharp enough, but its finish was overly embellished.

"Master, I won't suspend my leg anymore!"

A sudden cry of protest rang out. The Taoist women cast their eyes toward its source and saw a young girl, no older than ten, hanging by one leg on a rope. Sweat beads as large as soybeans cascaded from her face like a waterfall.

With outsiders present, Elder Fang forced an apologetic smile before turning briskly to scold her:

"You little wretch! Refusing leg-suspension training—how will you survive on stage later? If you can't perform, are you planning to work the brothels?"

"I won't do it anymore, I won't!" the girl cried, sobbing as she shook her head.

"Hold her down for me! Originally, it was just an hour of suspension; now, make it two hours! You ungrateful brat—you think spending money to buy you gives you a free pass for life?"

After his tirade, Elder Fang turned back, bowing and resuming his ingratiating demeanor toward the Taoist priests:

"I'm sorry for showing you such a laughable sight, so laughable indeed."

From behind, a gust of wind swept through, rustling the Taoists' robes into celestial drapes. Lu Ying noticed the girls' brows dripping with relentless sweat, falling like rain.

Upper-class, lower-class—

The divide was profound.

......

In a mere flash of a moment in combat—

The difference was astronomical.

Dong Gong Ruoshu watched as the blade's gleam from a short knife rushed toward Chen Yi's face, seemingly poised to pierce his skull. Yet in the split second that followed, Chen Yi didn't budge; instead, he lifted a single hand and swiped through the air, leaving behind a residual shadow.

With just a sideways slap, the hulking drunkard's cloth-coated hand shattered, his skin bulging with veins, his eyes widening as blood vessels burst from the impact of True Qi.

The drunkard's pupils shuddered as he remained standing while Chen Yi shifted slightly rearward. His other hand curled into a hook, giving the illusion—seen from behind—that the drunkard had pierced through Chen Yi's chest to strike inwards toward the room.

Another assassin instantly moved forward, swiftly drawing his blade to charge through the threshold toward Dong Gong Ruoshu. Turning his head, he only caught sight of his comrade's severed head crashing heavily to the ground.

His mind momentarily blanked as instinct drove him to swing his blade toward Chen Yi.

A sharp flash of steel sliced through the air—the fine steel blade, proven to slice iron as if it were mud.

Yet Chen Yi hardly shifted. With two fingers, seemingly more familiar with the blade's technique than the assassin himself, he effortlessly clamped the sword's spine before driving it forward with a mere push. The beast-head bronze ring slammed violently into the attacker's ribcage, the sound of splintering bones resonating.

That drunkard-assassin spat blood profusely, collapsing to the ground.

Blood pooled heavily, with foam rolling across the floor. To Dong Gong Ruoshu's eyes, it was an unsettling sight—how Chen Yi had merely flicked his hands, and the two attackers crumpled as though playing dead. She understood this wasn't humorous; it was simply too fast.

So fast there wasn't even time for dramatic lines, mocking insults, or defiant taunts.

So fast the encounters ended before words could precede action—so fast they wouldn't even fill five hundred words in a storybook.

Dong Gong Ruoshu instinctively gasped in awe,

This husband of hers… certainly wasn't ordinary…

It felt like this was a deal she'd profited from—though she hadn't swindled her way into his Li Pearl yet...

Chen Yi didn't glance at Dong Gong Ruoshu but crouched down, looking coldly at his defeated opponents.

One man had blood spilling from his throat, his splintered ribs puncturing his lungs, rendering speech impossible.

The other had smashed teeth, his mouth a gory mess, unable to do more than groan.

"These two—are they spies from Western Jin?" Chen Yi mused aloud.

Dong Gong Ruoshu regained her composure, taking stock before remarking: "They seem like… guests who came from outside… it's likely they are."

Chen Yi shook his head: "No, I don't think so."

"Why not?" Dong Gong Ruoshu asked curiously.

"If they knew you as 'Chen Qianhu' were here, why would the housekeeper fail to secure the stairwell and allow them passage so easily?"

Dong Gong Ruoshu thought through his reasoning, nodding in agreement. Before she could show her admiration, he continued:

"And there's another point."

"What is it…?"

Chen Yi uttered three words:

"Too weak."

......

On the top floor of Yuanfeng Building, deep within its study.

A middle-aged man dressed in brocade, his temples streaked with white, stood alone at his desk. His breath misted visibly with each exhale, his fingertips repeatedly caressing a damaged token—an "Idle Token."

Originally meant to hang upon the children of the household, it now rested in the hands of one past fifty.

Only the character "Huang" remained on the token; the lower portion had vanished.

The severed edge was smooth.

A sword's mark.

"You're saying that the so-called Chen Qianhu is in fact the eldest daughter of Western Jin's Chen family?"

Huang Jing let out a heavy sigh, the mist rising above him, lingering on the beams above.

Condensation instantly formed on the wooden beams.

The housekeeper's heart chilled with surprise—his master so rarely displayed such threatening intensity.

This was a Fourth Rank Martial Artist.

Thirty years ago, Huang Jing had taken renown as the headmaster of Huang's Saber Martial Hall, and jointly hunted Lonely Smoke Sword alongside Kunlun Sect Leader Tang Ze.

The housekeeper continued, "It should be correct. Reports from reliable sources mention Chen Qianhu appearing in multiple locations in series—I ventured to suspect she's baiting Lonely Smoke Sword and their likes."

Huang Jing remained silent for quite some time.

The housekeeper dared not lift his head to observe his master's back, but the crunching sound of his clenched fists filled the room, his joints echoing sharply.

It sounded like a man bracing to avenge his child.

Huang Jing, now past fifty, bore only one son, Huang Yao—a prodigious talent who once held thirty undefeated matches, later venturing through Jianghu with thirty trusted companions.

Yet nearly all were slain by Lonely Smoke Sword.

Only a single servant, dismembered, returned to Huang Manor clutching a fractured token.

After that, Huang's Saber Martial Hall closed its doors, and Huang Jing spent nearly half his life consumed by vengeance.

After a long pause, Huang Jing finally spoke:

"Find someone—it's unlikely Xique Pavilion will kill Lonely Smoke Sword outright; rather, they'd transport him to the Capital City."

"Bring someone to me—I'll use them to lure out the big fish, then finish them with one strike."

The housekeeper, having already anticipated his master's intent, promptly replied, "I've sent men to handle it."

"Who?"

"Two 'drunkards'—efficient as always, they'll surely bring them here."