Chapter 2: The Blade and the Chessboard

Mu Ye’s face darkened, his gaze dropping to the black-gold sword at Zong Ji’s waist. As a blade master, he might not know swords, but he was a connoisseur of weapons.

It was a top-tier sword. Mu Ye would bet it was an immortal-grade weapon.

The chilling aura radiating from it was overwhelming. A single glance felt like being swallowed by the ferocious golden dragon etched on its hilt. Higher-grade weapons bore spirits, and Zong Ji’s sword seemed to possess an embryonic consciousness, resonating with its master, amplifying their power.

Mu Ye remembered it from their first encounter, always at Zong Ji’s side. Yet, in all their duels, Zong Ji never drew it.

Tai Xu Sect was famed across the Xuanshu Continent for its swordsmanship. As the head disciple of Sect Leader Ming Xu Zi, Zong Ji was rumored to have unfathomable sword mastery. Tales within the sect claimed he broke the Peach Blossom Five Elements Formation, unsolved for a millennium, with a single sword stroke. Even his junior, Hidden Sword Peak Master Yan Si, admitted, “I’m no match for Senior Brother.”

Though no one had seen Zong Ji draw his sword in sparring, he earned the title “Sword of the Ages.” Rumors even spread that he only drew it against worthy foes.

Unworthy foe Mu Ye: …So infuriating.

“How? For this final battle, Young Master Zong still won’t indulge me?”

Not even drawing a weapon in a duel—what was that if not contempt? The more Mu Ye thought, the angrier he got, nearly fuming to death.

Zong Ji, hand half-extended, paused, inwardly exasperated.

This world was a web novel called Carefree, a male-oriented cultivation story from Qidian. Zong Ji was its protagonist. By sheer coincidence, Zong Ji was also the pen name of the author.

Yes, reality was that absurd. As the author, Zong Ji had transmigrated into his own book’s protagonist, forced to embark on a grueling cultivation journey.

As the writer, he hadn’t given his protagonist sword skills. Transmigrating didn’t magically grant him a golden finger to wield swords either! (Roars)

Besides, since he’d written about the Shadow-Bearing Sword’s existence, and Zong Ji had raided an ancient ruin, how could he not claim such a prize? Though he couldn’t use it, the half-divine weapon was undeniably cool, perfect for strutting around, boosting his prestige.

Zong Ji’s usual weapon was a fan. In fights, a casual wave unleashed sword qi.

Sword qi! Historically, perhaps five people ever achieved that.

With a fan alone, he was formidable. One could only imagine the grandeur of Zong Ji wielding his sword—“One stroke piercing heaven, parting clouds with a flourish.”

Zong Ji: …How do I explain that sword qi without swordsmanship was my original setting? Such a headache.

As his fame grew in Xuanshu, his barely-used, mediocre sword skills became synonymous with unfathomable mastery in people’s minds. They even crafted a reason for him: Why has no one seen Zong Ji’s sword? Because those who have are dead.

Zong Ji: I almost believed it myself.

Still, he couldn’t draw the sword. Doing so would expose him, and he’d lose face.

“You’re a worthy opponent,” Zong Ji said, coughing lightly. His hand, reaching for the fan, froze, then gracefully touched his lips. His swift reaction made the motion look effortlessly suave.

“Today, I’ll defeat you without a sword, and you’ll be convinced.”

Zong Ji’s frail, refined appearance belied his arrogant words, making Mu Ye itch with rage.

“Big talk!” Mu Ye sneered. “Using that flimsy fan again?”

The fan was a sore point for Mu Ye.

Zong Ji, that despicable guy, ignored his sword for a gaudy black fan, waving it from a distance. The fan looked frivolous, but the dense, chilling sword qi it unleashed was real, effortlessly parrying Mu Ye’s blade with minimal effort.

Ranged against melee—only a fool would stand still and take hits. Mu Ye tried every trick to close the distance, but Zong Ji’s elusive footwork and gold-embroidered boots conjured countless afterimages. By the time Mu Ye refocused, Zong Ji was far off, restarting the chase in an endless loop.

No matter how he fought, Mu Ye couldn’t touch a corner of Zong Ji’s robe.

Like kiting in a game—deadly. A blade master who couldn’t even graze a sleeve had no chance. Three coins for a key—did he deserve one?

“No need,” Zong Ji said.

Mu Ye’s eyes lit up, fists clenching eagerly. No fan? Perfect!

He couldn’t wait to charge, blade in hand, to wash away past humiliations. Real men fought head-on. For Zong Ji to agree was like the sun rising in the west.

“Draw your blade,” Zong Ji said calmly, hands clasped behind him, standing serene amidst the swirling snow. His black-gold robes fluttered, exuding the aura of a reclusive sage.

Mu Ye: …Something’s off.

The gray-robed blade master gripped his hilt, eyes narrowing suspiciously. Zong Ji stood there, seemingly full of openings, completely unguarded.

No matter. Risk brought reward. Forcing Zong Ji to draw his sword would be ideal. As a blade master, he feared no challenge.

Steeling himself, Mu Ye’s black eyes burned with resolve. The silver-purple origin star on his forehead vanished, his aura surging, billowing his robes. As he raised his blade, he seemed to merge with it.

Mu Ye was a born blade master. Unfortunately, when Zong Ji created him, he was destined to be the eternal second fiddle—a cannon fodder rival to highlight the protagonist’s dazzling, domineering glory.

Why pick a fight with the protagonist? Zong Ji had lavished his character with favor, making him heaven’s chosen. Opposing him meant doom.

Zong Ji maintained his enigmatic facade, lips curling into a faint, misty smile.

Surely, someone was recording this epic battle on a jade slip. To preserve his image as the dream god of countless Xuanshu maidens, Zong Ji posed perfectly, controlling every expression to look dashing.

In a flash, Mu Ye, building his momentum, vanished.

A radiant blade arc roared from his hand, closing the distance to Zong Ji in half a breath, carving a deep trench through the knee-high, perennial snow.

Here it comes! Even Zong Ji, two minor realms above Mu Ye, grew serious. Not out of fear—he was pondering how to win convincingly and stylishly.

“Fine, I’ll show a bit of my true skill.”

Sighing, his fingers behind him grasped something cold.

One mile. Three zhang. Five feet. Close.

Mu Ye’s face lit with triumph. His blade was inches from Zong Ji’s chest, needing only a flick of the wrist.

The nightmare who’d trampled him for years would finally be crushed!

Seven inches. So close, Mu Ye could see the intricate gold patterns on Zong Ji’s robes and the sudden amusement in his rare golden eyes.

Amusement?!

Mu Ye’s pupils contracted, spiritual energy bursting from his toes. His instincts screamed, and he retreated, hair standing on end, body acting before thought.

“Running?” Zong Ji’s brows furrowed, his smile rippling. His hand didn’t stop.

With a flick of his black sleeve, his slender fingers released objects wrapped in dense spiritual energy, hurtling forward with immense force, shattering the air.

Black-and-white chess pieces.

“Place.”

“Array!”

At Zong Ji’s command, the pieces multiplied into dozens, encircling Mu Ye before he could escape. His protagonist wasn’t a brute with blades but a refined scholar versed in zither, chess, calligraphy, and painting.

These bone chess pieces were Zong Ji’s secret weapon. Elegant in battle, annihilating foes with a smile, fan in hand, carefree and deadly.

Perfect for crushing melee fighters like Mu Ye—accurate every time.

A Saint-tier aura descended like a mountain, vast as the sea, pressing on everyone’s hearts. The black-robed man stood casually, an uncrossable chasm to Mu Ye.