boyutpedia Chapter 346 Cutting at Will
Chapter 346 Cutting at Will
Zhang Chulan's mouth gaped open, unable to close it for a long time. His jaw almost dropped to his chest, and his eyes were wide like saucers.
He knew Nie Lingfeng was strong. He knew it from the very beginning. But "knowing" and "seeing with one's own eyes" are two different things.
He thought Nie Lingfeng was strong in the way that he was "one or two levels above us"—like a college student beating a high school student, even if he couldn't beat him, he could at least exchange a couple of blows.
But now he realizes that Nie Lingfeng's strength is the strength of "a university professor beating up a kindergarten child".
They are not the same species.
That's the kind of fierce guy who could rip open the belly of Yuri, the "Grey Wolf" from the Bear Kingdom, with a single slash! And in front of Brother Nie, he's... just like that?
His attack was blocked in one move.
He was knocked back with a single blow.
One move and the tiger's mouth split open.
From beginning to end, Nie Lingfeng only did one thing—raise his sword.
A hint of surprise flashed in Master Wang Ye's eyes. His pupils dilated slightly, then turned into realization and admiration, and his brows slowly relaxed.
"Effortless mastery, arriving first despite starting later..."
He said in a low voice.
"Brother Nie's swordsmanship has reached a state of perfection. Sato's sword is the pinnacle of 'technique'—he has mastered a skill to its peak, reaching the limit of what humans can achieve. There is no way to go any further. But Brother Nie's sword is already the rudimentary form of 'the Way'—not technique, but a state of being. Clouds have no constant form, water has no constant shape, Brother Nie's sword is no longer bound by any moves, it is free and unpredictable. You can't imagine how he will draw his sword, because he himself doesn't know. He simply... lets the sword do its own thing."
In the field.
Sato Ittosai steadied himself.
He stood there, head down, looking at the still-bleeding web of his right hand, silent for about three seconds.
Then, he raised his head and stared intently at Nie Lingfeng.
His eyes were filled with shock and confusion.
And a hint of... fear.
It wasn't the kind of fear of "I'm afraid of you." It was the kind of fear of "I've discovered I'm living in the wrong world." All the knowledge, all the confidence, all the "I know" built up over decades shattered in that moment.
In that brief exchange, he felt like he wasn't facing a single person.
Instead, it was a vast, boundless, and unfathomable...天地 (heaven and earth).
The opponent's knife, seemingly so slow and casual, precisely intercepted my fastest and most ferocious strike. It felt like hitting a ball of cotton with all my might—the cotton didn't fight back, but when you hit it, your strength inexplicably vanished, and you didn't even know how you lost.
It's like swinging a knife at the sea—you slash, the seawater cuts a slit, but when you pull the knife back, the slit closes, leaving no trace. The sea feels no pain, no injury; it doesn't even notice you.
Powerless.
absurd.
"What...what kind of swordsmanship is that?"
"Ichisai Sato asked in a hoarse voice."
His knuckles turned white from gripping the knife so tightly. A thin layer of sweat, mixed with blood from his hand, had seeped onto the hilt of the "Blood Cherry" sword where he had gripped it, making it slippery.
"Swordsmanship?"
Nie Lingfeng tilted his head slightly, as if he had heard a question he didn't quite understand.
He pondered for a moment. His eyebrows furrowed slightly, and his lips pursed, as if he were trying to recall an answer from a long time ago.
Then he said:
"It was chopped off randomly."
“…………”
Sato Ittōsai did not vomit blood.
But he felt something blocking his chest, like he had swallowed a piece of burning coal, unable to go down or spit it out. His throat bobbed up and down, and the muscles in his cheeks twitched twice.
"Chopped randomly."
He practiced diligently for sixty years, getting up at four in the morning to practice his swordsmanship and not going to bed until eleven at night, 365 days a year, rain or shine. For sixty years, he did not slacken his efforts even once.
He pursues "one strike"—a strike that requires no second strike.
He staked his life, his soul, and everything on that one knife.
Then the other party told him—
"Chopped randomly."
"I don't believe it!"
Sato Ittosai's eyes were bloodshot.
Those weren't the bloodshot veins of anger, but the madness born from shattered faith. Like a devout believer who one day discovers their god is a clay sculpture. He doesn't want to accept it, he refuses to accept it, he denies it.
"I have diligently cultivated the way of the sword for sixty years, pursuing the ultimate 'One,' how could I be defeated by your 'casualness'?! Take this!"
He moved again!
This time, he did not pursue that ultimate "one strike".
That pinnacle strike requires a perfect unity of spirit, energy, and will; it demands the complete dedication of one's being. But now, his spirit has dissipated, his mind is in disarray, and he can no longer muster such a strike.
But he had other knives.
He unleashed all the sword techniques he had learned in his life!
"One-Sword Style: Chaotic Blades!"
The Blood Cherry Blossom Katana transformed into a blood-red curtain of blades in his hand—
Or cleave—the knife falls from above, unstoppable, as if to split the heavens and earth in two.
Or a slash—the blade sweeps horizontally from the side, carrying immense force, even creating an arc-shaped ripple in the air.
Or a stab—the tip of the knife points straight to the heart, swift as lightning, silent and stealthy, like a venomous snake hidden in the grass.
Or, a slash—the knife is used to slice diagonally upwards from the chin to the forehead, capable of splitting a person's face in two with a single cut.
Or a smear—the blade is pulled horizontally along the neck at a very small angle and at a very fast speed, so that the person being smeared cannot even scream.
Or slice—the tip of the knife cuts across the skin, not too deep, not too shallow, just enough to sever the tendon.
The sword light flashed like a waterfall, and the sword energy surged everywhere!
Like a raging storm, it enveloped all of Nie Lingfeng's vital points!
Each strike was sharp and ruthless, each strike carrying the resolute determination to sever everything. The sword strikes were continuous, one after another, one strike upon another, as if to completely engulf and shred Nie Lingfeng!
"Ittō-ryū: Ranjin" – the "ran" in this name doesn't mean chaotic, but rather a chaotic mess, like "a riot of colors dazzling the eye." It means too many, too fast, too dense, so dense that you can't tell which strike is real and which is fake, because every single strike is real.
Faced with this storm of attacks—
Nie Lingfeng finally moved.
He still held the knife in one hand.
His left hand hung at his side, his fingers slightly bent, as if counting pebbles on the ground. Only his right hand held the Snow Drinking Blade, the tip pointing downwards and the blade forward.
They moved with light steps.
It wasn't fast—it was "light." His feet landed almost silently, like a leaf drifting to the ground. But his movements were unpredictable, shifting left and right, forward and backward, making it impossible to guess where he would go next.
Her figure moved through the swirling sword shadows, like a willow catkin in the wind—when a willow catkin is blown by the wind, you don't know where it will fly, and it doesn't know itself either. It simply drifts wherever the wind takes it.
For example, a dragon swimming in the clouds—the dragon appears and disappears in the clouds, you can only see a scale or a claw, and you can't guess its whole appearance. You see it on the left, but by the time your knife strikes, it has already gone to the right; you see it on the right, but by the time your knife catches up, it has gone up.
The Snow Drinking Blade in his hand was no longer a simple tool for parrying.
Or a light touch—the tip of the blade gently touches the back of the "Blood Cherry" blade, like a dragonfly skimming the water, with little force, but just enough to deflect the opponent's blade a few inches off course.
Or, with a flick of his wrist—the blade, close to the "Blood Cherry" mark, is pulled to the side, as if parting a curtain, and the opponent's blade slides into empty space following his force.
Or guide—not to block head-on, but to use your own blade to hook the opponent's blade and pull it in the direction you want, turning the opponent's strength into your own.
Or, with a twist of the blade, it can entangle the opponent's blade, like a rope, drawing the opponent's attack out of the circle.
The movements were fluid and natural, without a trace of artifice.
"Clang clang clang clang clang!"
The dense, rain-like clang of metal rang out once more.
But this time, the sound was no longer clear and melodious; instead, it was somewhat dull and sluggish. It sounded like something churning in mud, each sound shorter and more suppressed than the last.
Sato Ittosai felt every slash he made—
They all seemed to be stuck in a quagmire.
It wasn't that it was blocked, but rather that it was "swallowed." When he slashed with his knife, the opponent deflected it with the edge of their blade, causing his knife to veer off course; when he slashed with even greater force, the opponent pressed down with the back of their blade, causing his knife to sink; when he slashed with all his might, the opponent withdrew their blade, and his knife struck nothing but air.
The other party guided, deflected, and deflected the force in a strange way.
The opponent's ice-blue longsword—
At times, his movements were as light and agile as a feather, deflecting his powerful slashes. The force he applied was perfectly controlled; any more and his own blade would be deflected, any less and he would be pinned down by the opponent's blade. With just a gentle deflection, Sato Ittosai's sword, honed over sixty years of rigorous training, followed him obediently, like a cow led by the nose.
At times, the weight was as heavy as a mountain, making his arms ache and go numb. That heaviness wasn't the weight of the knife itself, but the "intention" the other person had poured into it—if a mountain were to fall down, could you lift it? You could hold it for a moment, but how long could you hold it?
At times, the cold was bone-chilling, making his blood circulation sluggish. The chill traveled through the "Blood Cherry" to his palms, up his arm, to his shoulders, to his chest, and to his heart. His heartbeat slowed, his breathing became more and more difficult, and his entire right arm began to go numb.
What devastated him even more was—
Nie Lingfeng's swordsmanship has no fixed routine!
In a moment, the sword flashed wildly, like an avalanche or a tsunami. With a single slash, a chilling aura spread outwards, as if to freeze the entire hall into an ice cellar—that was the style of the "Six Secrets of Unyielding Cold," upright, righteous, and incomparably domineering.
In an instant, he moved with lightning speed, like the wind and lightning. Before the knife arrived, he was already there. By the time you reacted, the knife had already grazed your skin—that was the "Wind God Leg" movement combined with knife skills, fast as a ghost and elusive.
One moment he's cunning and ruthless, like a street brawl, targeting the lower body and vital joints—knees, ankles, wrists, and elbows—all the most vulnerable parts of the human body. There are even a few stabs aimed at the groin; the angles are so tricky and the force so insidious that the onlookers instinctively clench their legs.
And yet, it is both precise and effective.
Each tricky attack forced him to retreat or parry, disrupting his rhythm. Every strike was unattractive, but every strike was effective.
Three distinctly different sword intents—domineering, agile, and sinister—were seamlessly and effortlessly transformed in Nie Lingfeng's hands.
One moment he is a supreme ruler, the next a stealthy assassin, and the next a street thug. He seamlessly switches between three completely different identities and three completely different fighting styles, with effortless grace.
It was as if he was born to use a knife like that.
Sato Ittosai's decades of painstaking swordsmanship appeared so clumsy and so... ridiculous in the face of the opponent's "chaotic" yet exquisitely subtle swordsmanship!
He felt like he wasn't fighting against a single person.
Instead, it was with three people.
No, it was three completely different masters of swordsmanship attacking him at the same time!
One was as cold as ice and snow, chilling to the bone; every cut was like a winter blizzard, freezing him stiff all over.
He's as swift as the wind and as insidious as lightning; you can never guess which direction his knife will come from. By the time you do, the knife has already left its mark on you.
There's another type, like a street rogue, cunning and ruthless, who specializes in breaking the "aesthetics" and "form" of any move. The moment you unleash your beautiful swordsmanship, he sweeps you down with a leg sweep; the moment you execute your exquisite sword technique, he slaps your sword away. He doesn't reason with you, he doesn't compete in skill; he'll use whatever is most underhanded and effective.
"What kind of swordsmanship is this?!"
Sato Ittōsai grew increasingly alarmed and desperate as the fight progressed.
His knife moved slower, heavier, and more out of control. Blood flowed more and more from his hand, and the hilt became so slippery that he could barely grip it. The numbness in his right arm spread from his fingertips to his shoulder, and even half of his back stiffened.
His breathing was erratic. Not the kind of suffocation, but a kind of incoherent chaos, a feeling of not knowing when to inhale. Before, his breathing and swordsmanship were perfectly synchronized—exhaling when drawing the sword and inhaling when sheathing it, a natural rhythm like the beating of his heart. But now, Nie Lingfeng's swordsmanship had completely disrupted his rhythm; he couldn't exhale or inhale, and it felt as if a heavy stone was pressing on his chest.
His gaze changed too. From the initial sharpness like an eagle's, to the later shock and confusion, and now—it's an empty, blank look, as if he's looking at a non-existent enemy.
He didn't know how to play.
He had never encountered such a situation in sixty years.
"I told you, you could cut it however you wanted."