Chapter 3: The Chessboard’s Might
Zhongzhou, Tai Xu Sect.
Majestic snow-capped mountains encircled Zhongzhou, the continent’s most mysterious region. The Tai Xu Sect’s founder had carved a peak with a single sword stroke, establishing the sect amidst a starlit world of ice and snow.
Heavy snow fell like goose feathers, the sky a lifeless white. Despite the bone-chilling cold, the Tai Xu disciples’ hearts burned with excitement. They stared at the black-gold figure before them, their gazes so intense they could bore a hole through Zong Ji’s back.
Using chess pieces as weapons—unheard of, unseen!
Moreover, these pieces, launched from Zong Ji’s sleeve, carried terrifying sword qi, capable of tearing space itself. Even from a distance, the onlookers felt the killing intent, holding their breath, afraid to make a sound. Sword cultivators seized the rare chance to study the unleashed sword qi.
“Form the array!”
In the moment Mu Ye retreated, Zong Ji raised his hands, fingers dancing to position each piece. A vast divine sense poured out, trapping the blade master in the center.
Instantly, the swirling snow seemed to halt as the chess array took shape. A faint spiritual chessboard emerged, its mountainous pressure suffocating.
This was… Saint-tier.
The blade master stood in the snowy gale, his figure desolate. His black eyes, deep as obsidian, reflected no light.
Half-Saint and Saint-tier differed by a mere half-step, but the gap was vast as heaven and earth.
Mu Ye had imagined countless scenarios. When they made the five-year pact, Zong Ji was only Ninth-Tier, Five-Star. His unreadable strength due to his hidden origin star was a mystery, but Mu Ye was confident he led by several minor realms.
After five years, Mu Ye broke through to half-Saint, basking in the Wuji Sect’s adulation. His ranking soared on the Mysterious List, walking with a swagger.
At his age, such a feat made him a once-in-millennia prodigy. Even his master remarked that without Zong Ji, Mu Ye might not have advanced so quickly.
A goal had sparked his potential. Mu Ye was certain of victory, ready to settle old scores, his spirits soaring.
But meeting Zong Ji revealed the truth: in five years, Zong Ji had surpassed him, joining the ranks of the continent’s top Saints.
Standing in the chess array, Mu Ye felt the crushing weight of challenging someone above his level.
Yet—why was it that Zong Ji made cross-tier challenges look as easy as eating or drinking, while Mu Ye couldn’t?
At Sixth-Tier, Zong Ji had trounced the Seventh-Tier Mu Ye. At Seventh-Tier peak, he faced Ninth-Tier titans and escaped unscathed, shocking the continent. The more Mu Ye thought, the more his chest surged with frustration.
He never believed he was inferior to Zong Ji. Yet every time he obsessively targeted him, Zong Ji was already miles ahead, glancing back with those indifferent golden eyes, as if nothing could enter their depths.
“Hmph… give up? Impossible.”
In the snowy storm, Mu Ye muttered to himself.
Zong Ji raised a brow, surprised. He sensed Mu Ye had grasped a chance for Saint-tier enlightenment in this desperate moment. After this battle, Xuanshu might gain another Saint.
Somewhat awkwardly, Carefree was Zong Ji’s first novel, and he’d accidentally given the rival a bit too much of a golden finger. No wonder the book flopped—readers didn’t want a pesky side character stealing the show from start to finish. They craved the protagonist tearing through rivals, delivering satisfying face-slaps.
At that moment, a dazzling blade light erupted in the snow, outshining the white expanse.
To break the array, find its weakest point!
Blade and sword masters shared the same creed: “One sword breaks all techniques” implied “One blade decides victory.”
Mu Ye needed only to strike.
“Good!”
Even Zong Ji couldn’t help but shout in approval. Such spirit deserved his full attention.
The bone chess was Zong Ji’s secret weapon, never used publicly. With a worthy opponent delivered to his door, it was the perfect test.
“Shift the array!”
His gold-embroidered boots stamped, vast spiritual energy lifting him. He tread the void, black hair billowing, standing high above, commanding the chessboard.
In this fleeting world, he was king.
The chess pieces shifted rapidly at his will, black and white pieces rising and falling, forming countless dazzling patterns.
A dead end.
No matter how the pieces moved, the outcome was singular. The blade master, gripping his weapon, poured all his spiritual energy into it. A hurricane rose, his aura piercing the sun.
One final strike, all or nothing.
Zong Ji’s array was complete. His combat style was novel—an Eastern take on a stand-and-fight mage. With high mathematical precision, the chessboard was unbeatable, a transmigrator bullying fantasy natives.
Now was the moment to reap the results.
Zong Ji’s eyes narrowed, brimming with reckless confidence.
“Kill.”
A single word from his lips, light yet heavy as a mountain.
Countless sword qi danced wildly. The chess pieces lost color, their paths razor-sharp and unpredictable, enveloping the gray figure in the array, stripping it of hue.
The pieces stirred the snow; the array awed gods and spirits.
It felt like half a century, yet it ended in an instant. When the white light faded, the blade light was crushed, the sword shadows retracted. Only the blade master remained, half-kneeling in the snow, staggering.
Drip.
Crimson blood fell from Mu Ye’s disheveled hair, blooming vivid flowers in the white world.
His proudest strike, the Cangmang Blade, was effortlessly shattered by the black-white chess pieces. And this was with Zong Ji holding back, subtly wrapping the pieces’ sword qi in spiritual energy at the last moment.
Mu Ye finally understood why his master always urged him not to compare himself to Zong Ji.
“Because—you’re not his match.”
When his master said this, Mu Ye was filled with defiance. But when someone outshone another too vastly, jealousy faded.
Past failures had excuses. But this five-year pact was Mu Ye’s challenge, initiated at Tai Xu Sect, with a higher starting point. Yet the result was the same.
Fair and square, no excuses. Mu Ye wouldn’t let himself be a sore loser.
“I… lost.”
The blade master’s proud spine sagged, his usual brashness dimmed, like a pitiful husky.
Zong Ji: …Complicated feelings.
As the author, he held no disdain for his creations. But Mu Ye could be so annoying.
When Zong Ji first transmigrated, he planned to cultivate casually, knowing the world’s secrets and future. Life lacked meaning when you knew everything.
Then Mu Ye kept provoking him, verbally or physically, embarrassing him publicly.
It wasn’t noticeable when writing, but living it was maddening. Irritated, Zong Ji grabbed a pile of resources, secluded himself in Longevity Cliff, and trained relentlessly—earlier than roosters, later than dogs—to achieve his current glory, crushing Mu Ye.
Still, he didn’t dislike Mu Ye. His characters were like his children—who could hate their own creation?
He understood Mu Ye’s feelings. A lifetime of smooth sailing, a genius, yet forever second-best.
Who’d want to be second forever?
Zong Ji was the Qidian protagonist, heaven’s son. Opposing him was futile. Without Zong Ji, Mu Ye would be the continent’s standard genius template.
Mu Ye wasn’t malicious—his straightforwardness was almost endearing. He challenged Zong Ji openly, never resorting to underhanded tactics. When others badmouthed Zong Ji, Mu Ye would storm their sects, thrashing their prodigies, declaring, “You think you’re worthy to challenge Zong Ji?”
Implying only he, Mu Ye, was.
…Sounds odd, probably a misunderstanding.
“You’re impressive,” Zong Ji said, casting a spell to retract the pieces. “You have a blade master’s heart. The great path is simple—stay true to your blade.”
If not for the moment, he’d have quoted, “You’re you, a different kind of firework.”
Meeting Mu Ye’s disbelieving yet softened gaze, Zong Ji couldn’t resist adding cheekily, “Of course, I’m better.”
Mu Ye: … 🙂