After parting ways with Master White Cloud, Zhou Chun traveled day and night toward Chengdu, his mind fixed on finding Maotai and gathering clues about the Wutai Sect. For three days, he wandered the outskirts of the city, asking villagers about any signs of the one-armed, eight-fingered monk, but everyone avoided the topic, their faces pale with fear.

  On the fourth evening, as the sun dipped below the western mountains, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, Zhou Chun heard faint cries for help from a dense wood on the edge of a village. His sword at the ready, he crept quietly into the woods, his footsteps light as a cat, and soon spotted a young woman cornered by three black-robed monks—disciples of the Wutai Sect.

  The woman huddled against a tree, her face tear-streaked, as the monks leered at her, their blades glinting in the fading light. “Hand over the jade pendant your father hid,” one monk snarled, reaching out to grab her arm. “Or we'll kill you and burn down your village.”

  Zhou Chun could not stand by. With a low growl, he leaped forward, his sword slicing through the air. Before the nearest monk could react, the blade had cut through his robe and grazed his shoulder, drawing blood. The other two monks spun around, their eyes narrowing with rage as they spotted Zhou Chun.

  “Who dares interfere with the Wutai Sect's business?” one shouted, charging forward with his blade raised. Zhou Chun dodged nimbly, parrying the strike with his sword, the metal clanging loudly. He fought with precision, his movements honed by years of martial arts training, easily outmaneuvering the two monks.

  Within moments, both monks lay on the ground, groaning in pain, their blades cast aside. The young woman fell to her knees, bowing deeply. “Thank you, hero. You saved my life.”

  “Quickly, leave here,” Zhou Chun said, his voice urgent. “The Wutai Sect will send more men. Go back to your village and hide.” The woman nodded, scrambling to her feet and running toward the village, her footsteps fading into the distance.

  Just as Zhou Chun turned to leave, a cold, cruel laugh echoed through the woods. “Well, well, well—if it isn't Zhou Chun, the Cloud-Crane Swordsman. I've been looking for you everywhere.”

  Zhou Chun spun around, his sword raised, and saw Maotai standing at the edge of the clearing, his one arm hanging at his side, a metal hook glinting in the twilight. Behind him stood two more Wutai monks, their faces impassive, their blades ready.

  “Maotai,” Zhou Chun said, his voice cold. “I knew you'd come for me. But you're not brave enough to face me alone, are you?” He taunted, hoping to buy time to assess his surroundings—thick trees, narrow paths, perfect for evasion if things turned sour.

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  Maotai's scarred face twisted into a sneer. “Bravery? I don't need bravery to kill a fool like you. Ten years ago, you took my arm; today, I'll take your life. And when I'm done, I'll find your precious disciple Zhao Yan'er—my orphaned ward and closed-door pupil—and make him suffer.”

  With a roar, Maotai signaled to the two monks, who charged forward, their blades swinging. Zhou Chun dodged, spinning out of the way, and engaged them in combat. He fought defensively at first, studying their moves—they were skilled, but lacked the recklessness of the monks he had fought earlier. He realized they were Maotai's elite disciples, trained to fight as a team.

  As the fight intensified, Zhou Chun noticed a faint movement in the treetops above—something, or someone, was watching. He did not have time to investigate; one of the monks lunged forward, his blade aiming for Zhou Chun's chest. Zhou Chun ducked, then kicked the monk in the stomach, sending him stumbling backward. The other monk seized the moment, slashing his blade at Zhou Chun's back.

  Zhou Chun spun around, parrying the strike, but the force of the blow sent him staggering. Maotai laughed, stepping forward. “Tired already? I told you—you're no match for me. Surrender, and I'll make your death quick.”

  Zhou Chun gritted his teeth, pushing through the fatigue. He knew he could not defeat Maotai and his two disciples alone. He needed a plan—something to distract them, to give him a chance to escape. Suddenly, he remembered what Bearded Taoist had told him: trust your instincts, and use your wits.

  “You think you can kill me?” Zhou Chun shouted, his voice loud enough to echo through the woods. “I've been trained by Master Canxia herself. She taught me spells that can turn your dark magic against you. Do you really want to test me?” He lied, hoping to bluff Maotai into hesitation.

  Maotai's eyes flickered with doubt. He knew Master Canxia was a powerful Sword Immortal, and if Zhou Chun was her disciple, he would be far more dangerous than he appeared. He hesitated, his hand hovering over his flying sword, unsure whether to attack.

  That hesitation was all Zhou Chun needed. He charged forward, feinting toward Maotai, then spinning around and kicking one of the monks in the head. The monk fell to the ground, unconscious. The other monk roared, charging at Zhou Chun, but Zhou Chun dodged, slicing his sword at the monk's leg. The monk screamed as the blade cut through his flesh, falling to the ground.

  Maotai roared with anger, realizing he had been tricked. “You liar!” He unleashed his flying sword, a yellow beam of light shooting toward Zhou Chun's chest. Zhou Chun dodged, but the sword grazed his arm, drawing blood. He stumbled backward, his vision blurring for a moment.

  Just as Maotai prepared to deliver the final blow, a faint gust of wind swept through the woods. A small stone, thrown with incredible force, hit Maotai's wrist, making him drop his flying sword. The sword clattered to the ground, its light fading.

  Zhou Chun looked up, confused—he had not seen anyone else in the woods. Before he could react, a strong hand clamped down on his arm, pulling him toward the dense trees. “Hurry,” a gruff, drunken voice whispered in his ear. “We don't have much time.”

  It was the Drunken Taoist, his red gourd bouncing on his back, his face hidden in the shadows. He pulled Zhou Chun into the thick underbrush, moving quickly and silently, his steps light as a feather despite his intoxicated demeanor. Maotai's roars echoed behind them, but they did not stop—they ran deeper into the woods, until the sounds of Maotai's anger faded into the distance.