Flower Stealing Master

Chapter 627: Doubts Arise

The crowd turned their heads in unison, their expressions varied. 

Xuan Cheng and his companions were filled with caution, while the group of men in black appeared more perplexed than anything else. 

The sudden voice had caught everyone off guard, as if someone had been lingering nearby all along, yet no one had detected their approach beforehand.

Even Song Qingshu’s gaze grew solemn as he looked in the direction of the voice. Moments ago, his attention had been divided between caring for Ren Yingying and countering Xu Zhu’s moves. Despite his distraction, there were few in the martial world capable of approaching so silently. 

Who was this person?

All eyes followed the source of the voice. 

A tall figure emerged, unusually imposing, with silver hair and beard, a ruddy and smooth complexion, and a demeanor of benevolence, exuding an otherworldly, taoist charm. Unfortunately, his image was somewhat marred by the filthy state of his plain green taoist robe.

“This man…” Song Qingshu’s expression shifted as he felt an inexplicable sense of reverence and awe rise within him. In the depths of his memory, he seemed to faintly recognize this figure.

Master Fang Zheng was equally taken aback. He quickly stepped forward and bowed respectfully. “Fang Zheng greets the esteemed Grandmaster of Wudang.”

The words left everyone gasping in unison. 
Zhang Sanfeng, revered like a living immortal in the martial world, had not been seen in decades, having retreated to Wudang Mountain in seclusion. Affairs of the sect were managed by his disciples, and most in the martial world had only heard of him, never seen him.

“This disheveled taoist is Zhang Sanfeng?” Even figures like Zuo Lengchan couldn’t quite believe it.

In terms of seniority, Zhang Sanfeng was of the generation of many current sect leaders’ grandmasters. In his youth, he had been unrestrained and unconventional, earning nicknames like the “Disheveled Taoist” or “Zhang the Sloppy.” Those days were decades past, making it difficult for even someone like Zuo Lengchan to connect this unkempt figure with the legendary Zhang Sanfeng.

Fang Zheng recognized him only because a decade ago, Zhang Sanfeng had sought the Nine Yang Scripture at Shaolin to treat the cold poison in Zhang Wuji’s body. At the time, Shaolin, unaware of his purpose, had assumed he came to challenge them, secretly mobilizing the temple’s experts in preparation. Fang Zheng had been among them.  (G: Nine Yang Divine Art = Nine Yang Scripture.)

“Zhang Sanfeng?” Xuan Cheng’s eyes lit up as his True Qi surged.

During that visit, Xuan Cheng had been in secluded training in the Scripture Pavilion and hadn’t met Zhang Sanfeng. Hearing of the temple’s extreme vigilance afterward, he dismissed it with some disdain. By the time he emerged, he had mastered thirteen unparalleled Shaolin techniques, brimming with confidence and considering himself unmatched. With Zhang Sanfeng having “betrayed” Shaolin, he regarded him as his sole rival. Seeing him in person now, his fighting spirit soared.

“This humble taoist is but an old man, Master Fang Zheng. There’s no need for such courtesy.” Zhang Sanfeng nodded slightly at Fang Zheng before noticing Xuan Cheng. His gaze sharpened momentarily. “This master’s divine aura flows freely, and his True Qi moves at will. You must be Shaolin’s renowned Master Xuan Cheng of the Thirteen Arts.”

“That is this humble monk.” Though eager to challenge Zhang Sanfeng, Xuan Cheng dared not show disrespect to such a towering figure.

While Zhang Sanfeng’s tone was complimentary, it was more out of courtesy than true amazement. However, his expression shifted when his gaze fell on Xu Zhu. “This young monk… remarkable, remarkable. Shaolin is truly full of hidden talents. This humble taoist is deeply impressed.”

It wasn’t that Xu Zhu’s martial arts surpassed Xuan Cheng’s, but rather that his youth made his achievements extraordinary. Orthodox martial arts emphasized a solid foundation and gradual progress, leading to slower advancements. If Xu Zhu had been in his forties, Zhang Sanfeng wouldn’t have been as surprised. But he appeared barely in his twenties.

In the Wudang sect, Xu Zhu’s age corresponded to a third-generation disciple. Zhang Sanfeng couldn’t help but compare him to his own grand-disciples. None of them matched Xu Zhu’s level. Even Zhang Wuji, though exceptional, had gained his skills through unique circumstances outside Wudang teachings.

Having long transcended personal desires, Zhang Sanfeng’s only remaining aspiration was the inheritance of his sect’s martial arts. Shaolin’s accusations of his betrayal, though not angering him, left a lingering sense of injustice. Thus, he harbored a subtle sense of competition with Shaolin. He believed that his century-long efforts, especially the creation of Taiji Fist and Taiji Swordplay, had made Wudang’s martial arts on par with Shaolin’s.

Yet seeing an ordinary Shaolin monk like Xu Zhu with such profound skills dampened his spirits.

“Yingying greets the esteemed Zhang.” Ren Yingying gently pushed away from Song Qingshu and bowed respectfully. She had often heard her father praise Zhang Sanfeng as the greatest among martial artists and deeply admired his reputation. Her greeting was heartfelt. Song Qingshu did not stop her, knowing her cold poison had significantly diminished under his True Qi suppression, allowing her brief respite.

“Good, good. Young lady, please rise.” Zhang Sanfeng smiled warmly and waved his sleeve lightly, a soft force lifting Ren Yingying to her feet.

Before she could thank him, Zhang Sanfeng chuckled. “Young lady, you’ve addressed me incorrectly.”

“Huh?” Ren Yingying was bewildered, wondering if her father had some unknown connection to Zhang Sanfeng.

Zhang Sanfeng explained with a smile, “This humble taoist recently descended the mountain and heard of the Sun Moon Holy Cult’s announcement of your engagement to Qingshu. You should address me as Grandmaster.”

“Ah!” Ren Yingying flushed with embarrassment. Never having considered Song Qingshu her fiancé, the thought mortified her. She wished for Song Qingshu’s demise, let alone calling Zhang Sanfeng “Grandmaster.” Yet his esteemed reputation left her at a loss for words, forcing her to stand awkwardly, blushing.

Unaware of her thoughts, Zhang Sanfeng attributed her reaction to shyness and reassured her. “It’s normal for young ladies to feel shy. You can address me as Grandmaster after your marriage to Qingshu.”

Ren Yingying wished she could vanish on the spot, muttering a vague acknowledgment.

“Let this humble taoist examine your cold poison,” Zhang Sanfeng said gently, stepping closer to her side with a single stride. “Young lady, let me take your pulse.”

In the distance, Xuan Cheng was inwardly shocked. Zhang Sanfeng had moved in a blur, appearing beside Ren Yingying in an instant, with no discernible technique. How was this possible?

Song Qingshu silently nodded. Zhang Sanfeng’s mastery indeed lived up to his legendary status, his unintentional displays of skill awe-inspiring.

Yet, what puzzled Song Qingshu more was another matter: ‘Zhang Sanfeng has been in seclusion for decades, delegating sect affairs to his disciples. Why has he personally descended the mountain this time?’ 

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