Chapter 97: Master Li

The sword’s shadow lingered like a dream—ethereal, fleeting, as if woven from mist and moonlight. Even after the demonstration ended, the afterimage remained imprinted on their eyes, haunting their minds. They were utterly captivated, unable to let go.

Yet the form was so intricate, so layered, that though they’d memorized it, they couldn’t quite grasp its essence. It was as though they’d seen it, but not truly understood it.

Seeing everyone still deep in thought, Li Hao didn’t linger. He sat back down, picked up his brush, and resumed painting.

+827. +789. +702...

With lightning speed, Li Hao ground ink and painted. The dozens of divine-level paintings he completed in one sitting each earned him between seven and eight hundred experience points. His cultivation path experience skyrocketed.

As Li Hao painted, the others slowly stirred from their trance. Not daring to disturb him, they instead seized the moment to meditate, to absorb every nuance.

When Li Hao finished his fourth painting, he turned to them and asked, “How did it feel?”

A tall, graceful youth stepped forward after a moment of hesitation. He was one of the prodigies from the White Hall, rivaling Song Yueyao in talent. Now, his voice trembled slightly with embarrassment.

“I… I’d like you to demonstrate it again, Master Li.”

He’d watched two full rounds, and still hadn’t grasped it. It was a humbling admission.

Li Hao glanced around. Every face bore the same mixture of eagerness and quiet reverence.

“Alright,” Li Hao said after a pause. “Repeating it over and over won’t help. If I’m teaching, I should do it right—fully. I won’t leave anyone behind just because I’m in a rush.”

He asked the group. All were at the Skillful Level of foundation. But even within that level, there was a spectrum—some barely reached it, others were close to perfection.

“I’m teaching you,” Li Hao said, scanning the room. “I expect you to master this. I’ll be giving you three lessons. If you can reach Perfect Level by then, I’ll grant each of you one wish—within my power, of course.”

“Perfect Level?”

“Three wishes?”

The room fell silent. Shock rippled through them.

This wasn’t a gift. It was a challenge—and Li Hao was setting the bar impossibly high.

Three lessons to elevate them all to Perfect? That was not just hope—it was fantasy.

They couldn’t compare themselves to Li Hao, who’d mastered a sword art after just one glance at a manual. Even if they were talented, reaching Perfect Level took months—sometimes a year and a half of relentless training to etch the movements into their marrow.

And yet… the man before them had already defied the impossible.

Li Hao saw their hesitation. He said nothing more. Instead, he picked up his sword.

A single demonstration of Perfect-level form wouldn’t do. It would be mechanical, lifeless. But if they could feel the rhythm, the soul of the art—then the path forward would open.

“Silence!” Li Hao’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

Two words. Cold. Sharp. The murmurs died instantly.

A ripple of unease passed through the hall. The air grew heavy. Eyes turned serious. A presence, commanding and solemn, settled over them.

“Feel it,” Li Hao said, his expression now solemn, focused entirely on the sword in his hand.

Then he raised it.

Yin-Yang Reversal Sword – True State.

Yes. Not just Supreme Perfection—beyond flawless. Li Hao unleashed the sword in its True State.

At this level, the art returned to simplicity. It transcended the ordinary, revealing the very essence of the technique—the soul of the sword.

The blade flashed. Black and white light surged, alternating like breath and shadow. The sword danced through the air, yet seemed to drift between realms. Solid. Empty. Real. Illusion.

As the light spun, the two colors twisted and merged—until, in a final, blinding flash, they became one.

The sword stopped.

The hall was silent. Utterly still.

They were entranced. Their eyes fixed on the space where the sword had been. Their minds had vanished into that single, perfect motion. Even after the blade was sheathed, the afterimage burned in their vision. The rhythm still echoed in their bones.

Li Hao didn’t speak. He waited.

Then, one by one, they snapped back to reality.

“That… was the Yin-Yang Reversal Sword?” someone whispered.

“It’s nothing like what I’ve practiced before!”

“But it is real… my old training—it was fake!”

“No, not fake. Wrong.”

“This is the real Yin-Yang Reversal Sword. The master taught us wrong. The manual was wrong!”

“One sword turns yin and yang. One sword shatters space!”

Their voices rose, trembling with emotion. Faces flushed. They were overwhelmed, almost desperate.

Song Yueyao stood frozen, her mind blank. The noise faded into silence. She closed her eyes.

Then—she moved.

She dashed to the weapon rack, drew her sword in a single, fluid motion.

The blade sang.

Its shadow flared—like light dancing, like a serpent coiling, like a peacock spreading its feathers in full bloom.

Perfect. Utterly perfect.

The sword art that had stalled for half a year—broken at the bottleneck—suddenly surged forward, leaping onto a new plateau.

The others stared, stunned.

“She’s done it…”

“She mastered it? But she’s only had it a year!”

“It’s identical to Master Li’s—exactly!”

A wave of awe swept through the hall. Their hearts pounded. The title “Master Li” slipped from their lips—not out of formality, but reverence.

From awe… to worship.

Others followed, rushing to the racks, drawing swords, practicing frantically in the vast, open hall.

The rest snapped out of their trance, no longer watching. They needed to feel it. To etch it into their muscles, their bones.

Soon, shouts rang out—“I’ve done it! I’ve mastered it!”

Some had been stuck in stagnation. Now, they broke through.

Li Hao smiled.

When someone approached for another demonstration, he clapped his hands. “Watch again.”

They repeated it four times.

By sunset, the lesson ended.

Li Hao glanced around. Over a dozen had achieved Perfect Level. He felt a quiet satisfaction. Hard work pays off.

As the class wound down, someone finally asked:

“Master Li… what level was that? The one you just showed?”

“The Perfect level is just the beginning,” Li Hao replied. “Above it is Supreme Perfection. And above that—True State. That’s what I just demonstrated.”

He saw no reason to hide it. Sword Saints and masters who’d spent decades refining a single art had already touched True State. Some even grasped the essence of a technique.

And Li Hao sensed… True State wasn’t the peak.

There was something higher.

But his current cultivation realm couldn’t reach it yet. Perhaps when he entered the Spirit Mind state, he’d glimpse it.

“True State…”

The word hung in the air.

Song Yueyao’s pupils contracted. Her breath caught. She’d heard of it from her grandfather—legendary, nearly mythical. To reach it, one needed rare talent, and decades of unwavering dedication.

And Li Hao was only fourteen.

She couldn’t think further. Her mind reeled. Her heart trembled.

Now she understood—why others had always said being near prodigies was unbearable.

It wasn’t envy. It was overwhelm.

“Practice on your own tonight,” Li Hao said, waving his hand. “The master shows the door. Cultivation is up to you.”

He dismissed the class.

Back at the manor, Li Fu found him.

“Lord Houxun sends word,” he said. “You should cultivate relationships with influential friends. Even if the True Dragon title is certain, connections last a lifetime. Don’t leave any room for criticism.”

Li Hao merely nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The next day, Li Hao brought extra small crispy buns to the Cold Pool.

He kicked a pebble into the water.

A moment later, the Water Qilin’s massive form emerged from the depths—then reshaped into human form, dripping wet, yet perfectly dry.

Song Qiumo’s eyes lit up the instant she saw the buns.

Li Hao smiled and handed them all over. Then he waved and left without a word.

As he walked away, Song Qiumo bit into one. Her eyes crinkled into crescent moons.

Back at the White Hall, Li Hao began his second class.

He’d just stepped outside when a furious voice rang out from within:

“How dare you insult a child like that?!”

“He may lack martial talent, but that doesn’t make him worthless!”

“You can punish him. Whip him like a martial disciple. But you can’t treat him like a dog—like trash!”

The voice was raw with Qi, vibrating with righteous fury.

Li Hao paused. Slowly, he approached the door.

Inside, the hall was packed. He’d slept in—late as usual.

Three figures stood before the students: Sun Hongdian and Zhou Zheng, the same two from yesterday.

Beside Zhou Zheng stood a broad-shouldered, middle-aged man in plain clothes. His bearing was fierce, his aura unmistakably powerful. He bore a faint resemblance to Zhou Zheng—but where Zhou was refined, this man was raw, like a mountain carved by storm.

On the floor lay scattered book fragments. The scene was eerily familiar.

“General Zhou, you’re being unreasonable!” Sun Hongdian snapped, face red. He’d been lecturing Zhou Zheng—until the man’s father showed up, overhearing everything.

He’d thought the general would thank him for disciplining his son.

Instead, the man stormed in and tore into him.

“Unreasonable? What part was unreasonable?” the man roared. “Did I not speak truth? You called my son a rotten pot of porridge, a filthy, worthless worm!”

“He’s not a failure. He’s a person. A man. Not a dog to be kicked!”

His voice thundered through the hall.

“My son may have little talent—but his spirit is pure. Even if he never reaches Strength Integration, he’s still my pride. How dare you insult him like that?”

Silence. Utter silence.

No one mocked Zhou Zheng for needing his father’s protection. Instead, many glanced at him with quiet envy.

Sun Hongdian’s voice trembled. “You’re impossible to reason with. If you want to leave, leave!”

“Then I’ll leave!” the man shouted, grabbing his son’s arm. “I’ll find another master for him!”

Zhou Zheng’s eyes burned red. He clenched his jaw, tears welling—but he wouldn’t let them fall.

“I want to stay,” he whispered. “I want to learn. I even mastered the sword art yesterday!”

“Then I’ll find you a better teacher!” the man snapped. “There are plenty!”

Sun Hongdian’s voice cracked. “If you leave, you’re gone. No return.”

“Then I don’t want to come back!” the man roared.

He turned to leave—only to collide with the doorway.

Li Hao stood there.

All eyes turned.

The students shot to their feet, bowing in unison.

“Begging your pardon, Master Li!”

The synchronized chant shocked both Sun Hongdian and Zhou’s father.

“Master Li?”

Sun Hongdian blinked, stunned.

Zhou Zheng’s eyes widened. He turned to his father. “Dad! That’s Li Hao! He’s the Master! Yesterday, he taught us all—perfect in one lesson!”

“What?” Zhou’s father and Sun Hongdian stared, dumbfounded.

One lesson? All of them?

Li Hao was equally shocked.

What? Yesterday only a dozen had mastered it. Now everyone’s claiming perfection?

Then why am I even here?

“Master Li…” Zhou’s father stared at Li Hao, then dropped to one knee. “General Zhou Liang, at your service!”

The hall gasped.

Li Hao rushed forward. “General, please—no need for this!”

“Master,” Zhou Liang said, bowing low. “I served under your father.”

Li Hao nodded. “No need for formalities.”

Sun Hongdian’s face twisted in pain. He clenched his jaw.

“Dad,” Zhou Zheng pleaded, “I want to stay. I want to learn from Master Li again.”

Zhou Liang hesitated. He hadn’t known Li Hao was teaching here—especially not this level.

But seeing his son’s earnest eyes, he nodded. After a few words of warning, he left.

Sun Hongdian glared. “Zhou Zheng, you’ve disrupted the class. The Tan Palace Academy isn’t some place you can come and go as you please.”

Zhou Zheng paled.

Li Hao smiled. “Master Sun, it was just a misunderstanding.”

Sun Hongdian, seeing Li Hao intervene, instantly softened. “Master Li, you don’t understand—this boy’s father… he’s brutal…”

Li Hao shook his head. “Master Sun, I know you mean to push your students. But sometimes, the sharpest words can crush a young soul.”

Sun Hongdian fell silent. His face darkened. He said nothing more.

Li Hao didn’t press. He turned to the students.

“Zhou Zheng said you all reached Perfect Level?”

The hall buzzed with excitement. Ma Jing spoke first:

“Master Li, it’s true! That form—what you showed—it’s alive. We caught the rhythm of the path. That’s why we’ve advanced so fast!”

It was flattery—but it hit the mark.

Li Hao sighed. “I’d planned three lessons. So… today’s a waste of time.”

They all laughed. To have learned so much in one class? They were already grateful beyond words.

One boy grinned. “Master Li… didn’t you say we could each have three wishes, once we mastered it?”

A chorus of excited voices rose.

“Wait!” Lin Feifei stood up, frowning. “Don’t go too far, okay? Some of you are asking for things that are ridiculous.”

Several boys laughed sheepishly.

“Master Li,” one teased, “if you won’t take us to the Pavilion of Listening to Rain… how about the Entertainment House?”

The others perked up instantly.

“YES! That’s the one!”

They were young,热血, barely out of the mountains. The academy was strict, competitive—every day a test. They’d never known the world beyond.

And now—freedom.

The girls groaned.

“Ugh. Disgusting.”

“Honestly, boys.”

Li Hao chuckled. “An Entertainment House visit? That’s easy.”

In this age, entertainment was scarce. Going to one was like the old world’s TikTok or WeChat videos.

Entertainment Houses had three tiers—three, six, nine ranks. The lowest? Brothels. Cheap. Dangerous.

The better ones? Artistic. Music, poetry, performances. If you had good poetry or enough gold, you could enjoy… more.

If Li Hao took them, it would be the finest in Qingzhou—just a few songs, a little laughter. Nothing more.

“Really?” The boys’ eyes sparkled.

The girls rolled their eyes. “Ew.”

Song Yueyao shot Li Hao a cold glare. “You go. I’m not.”

“Me neither,” Lin Feifei said.

The girls protested loudly.

But the boys, fearing he’d change his mind, clamored like starving beasts.

“Too many opinions,” Li Hao said. “If you don’t go, I’ll give you each a painting as compensation.”

They stared.

Li Hao opened a scroll.

“This is what I painted yesterday.”

They gasped.

The painting wasn’t just a scene. It was alive. The White Hall, the students—each face captured in perfect detail. A frown, a glance, a quiet smile. The women graceful, the men strong. The sunlight warmed the image—like a spring breeze across ten miles of fields.

Some were speechless.

A boy raised his hand. “Master Li… I don’t want to go. Can I have one?”

“Limited supply. Priority to the ladies.”

Li Hao smiled.

The girls, who’d been grumbling, now surged forward—fighting for the scrolls.

Song Yueyao stared, stunned. Such mastery… not something learned in days.

The boy beside her—quiet, calm, dressed in simple blue robes—had mastered the Sword Dao at a level beyond his years. And yet, he still found time to paint.

She couldn’t fathom him.

When they each got their scroll, the girls unfolded them, admiring the art—though they couldn’t practice it. But beauty? They loved it.

Once the girls were satisfied, Li Hao used the rest of the class to lead the boys down the mountain.

They were ecstatic—this was unprecedented.

If any other master saw this, they’d be punished. But with Li Hao? The sky could fall—no fear.

As they descended, the news spread to the Tan Palace.

Song Yufeng, sipping tea, nearly choked.

“What? Li Hao’s teaching… and leading the whole class to an Entertainment House?!”

(End of Chapter)

Chapter end