Apocalypse Forecast

Chapter 1055: Chapter 817: Aftermath

What tonight’s lesson represents, behind it all, is a ritual like washing one’s hands of the world with a golden basin.

Through the transfer of authority and the invocation of aid, the renewal of the Dojo is completed.

From this moment on, the Sword Saint will withdraw from the rivers and lakes.

No one had expected the old man to let go so fast, so decisively. Before anyone could react, everything had already settled like dust.

The old man took the Sword from his waist, and immediately, Kamizaki Haruka, kneeling, respectfully raised the blade with both hands, displayed it before everyone, then carefully and solemnly hung it at her own waist.

Right in front of all the Dojo’s senior staff and Disciples, the transfer of inheritance was completed.

Before the undercurrents could even begin to surge, the ending had already been hammered into place, the dust settled, leaving no room at all for anyone with ulterior motives to make a move. He had even, without a sound, brought in a powerful ally like Tengu Mountain and a nearby ally like Tanbo, to help his successor survive the period of weakness.

Perhaps this is what the Samurai call the "Art of War"?

Move like Thunder, unknowable as shadow.

Tengu Mountain lies far out on the Border, vast in Power, yet incapable of shaking the foundation of the Dojo. With a Great Tengu as a distant ally and powerhouse, the Dojo, having lost its Sword Saint, will be able to pass through the awkward transition with sufficient stability.

And Tanbo, so close at hand, is in a state where everything must be rebuilt, with immense potential but, for now, no strength to scheme against the Dojo. They can be fully trusted, and deep cooperation can unfold on equal footing.

With the Great Tengu and Huai Shi present, even if Kamizaki Haruka proves completely worthless, the Dojo’s vitality can still be preserved.

As for whether there will be friction in a decade or so, after the honeymoon period, that’s a matter for then. No matter how far-sighted one’s scheming, it’s impossible to calculate that far ahead.

Right beside the old Sword Saint, that Teenage Girl began methodically announcing the upcoming reorganization and downsizing of the Dojo. It would withdraw from the management of Huangquan Slope and focus solely on the Dojo’s own operation and the teaching of its Disciples.

All this was clearly at the Sword Saint’s instruction.

The old man’s intention was expressed very clearly: after stripping away every political attribute of the Dojo, he only wished it to continue on purely as the Dojo of Shangquan Style.

As for anything more, he did not care. All he wished to leave behind was a simple inheritance.

And a Dojo bereft of its Sword Saint probably could no longer control Power that was too vast relative to itself. To retreat decisively and sever ties now is far better than being torn apart by a pack of wolves later.

Yet the more Huai Shi listened, the more wrong it sounded.

Because all of these arrangements revolved around a single point.

—If, after losing the Sword Saint, how can the Dojo continue to exist for the long term?

He would even go so far as to cut off such a big slice of cake for him, even hand him the title of deputy director of the Dojo for free. In the future, whenever he went out, any Yingzhou Warrior he met would probably count as his Disciple or grand-Disciple in name...

In his heart, Huai Shi couldn’t help but begin to suspect: could this old man be entrusting an orphan to his care?

Then he heard the Thunder.

In that instant, everyone heard the deafening roar.

From the mountains behind the Dojo, a shrill bolt of Thunder-light burst forth, falling from the sky, crashing into the earth, tearing through the barrier ahead like rotten wood. In an instant, it plunged straight into the very core of the Dojo...

In that moment of stupefaction, everyone couldn’t help but look upward.

Before the Sword Saint, what petty cur dares run wild here?

Yet Shangquan’s eyes were lowered, as if he heard nothing at all, like someone old who had simply fallen asleep.

Only at the corner of his mouth, as if in illusion, the faintest smile curled.

Only Huai Shi could feel it.

He was no longer here.

No, he had never been here.

He had merely gone back to where he actually was.

.

In that instant, in the exquisite courtyard, beyond the door that had opened, the old man leaning in his chair, enjoying the Moonlight, lifted his eyes.

He looked toward that swirling cloud of dust that had fallen into the courtyard, and the great pit that had torn apart the entire quiet, beautiful scene. From it, a burly figure slowly emerged.

He bared his teeth in a smile at him.

"Long time no see, Shangquan."

Luo Lao said, "Are the arrangements for after your death finished? I’ve come to fight you."

"Fight?"

The Sword Saint was amused, so amused that drool ran from his mouth, triggering a violent cough.

In the chair, that old man, so emaciated he was nothing but bones, laughed to his heart’s content. In his deeply sunken eye sockets, the shriveled eyeballs were full of mockery.

"How wonderful, how wonderful."

The old man, paralyzed in his chair, unable to even wipe his own drool without a caretaker, laughed. "At such an old age, to hear someone say they want to come fight me—it feels just like hearing a Beauty confess her feelings to me when I was young... makes the blood boil, ha ha."

He tilted his head, his dry thin neck like a stalk of straw, barely able to support his skull.

"Sorry, Luo SiWei, you’re late."

He said, "You’re fifty years too late."

Fifty years ago... I should have died.

This is the truth tightly sealed by the Yingzhou Phylogeny—the true appearance of the Sword Saint who had long since retired from public view.

In his youth he duelled too often, hot-blooded and belligerent, leaving behind so many wounds. Only when he grew old and tried to nurse his health did he begin to retreat. He bore the empty title of Sword Saint, yet could not halt the day-by-day decay of age.

According to the best medical care of the Existence Institute, according to common sense, fifty years ago he should already have died of old age.

His consciousness would have scattered, his Soul collapsed, his body decayed, his out-of-control Stigma frozen once more, sinking to the deepest depths of Hell, to greet the most thorough death.