One person: Starting with the Snow Drinking Blade

While effortlessly dealing with the increasingly frenzied attacks, Nie Lingfeng still had time to reply. His tone remained calm, as if he were commenting on the nice weather.

"puff--!"

Sato Ittosai finally couldn't hold back any longer.

He coughed up a mouthful of blood.

The blood didn't flow from the corner of his mouth, but rather a warm, bubbly liquid that surged up from deep in his throat. He couldn't swallow it back, nor could he hold it in, and it just "plop"ed onto the ground, forming a dark red puddle with a few streaks of blood in it.

I don't know if it was from anger or an internal injury.

His face changed from pale to ashen, and his lips changed from ashen to purplish. He looked as if he had aged ten years.

His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked like a madman.

He wielded the "Blood Cherry" sword even more frantically—not just frantically, but swiftly. Like a drowning person struggling desperately, the more he struggled, the deeper he sank. The sword light almost merged into one, and from a distance, he was completely enveloped in a blood-red glow, obscuring both the sword and himself, leaving only a wildly spinning red blur.

They completely abandoned their defense.

Only attack, never defend.

They seemed ready to perish together.

His swordsmanship had become completely chaotic. There were no routines, no techniques, only frenzied, reckless, and suicidal slashes. One slash after another, each strike was delivered with all his might, each strike carried with a death wish.

"One-Sword Style: Sacrifice Slash!"

This is the ultimate strike that abandons all defense, burning life and soul.

Its power far surpasses the previous "Swallow Return"—because "Swallow Return" is a technique, while "Sacrifice Slash" is a matter of life and death.

Sato Ittosai staked his life on this one strike.

This wasn't a metaphor; it was a real gamble. After this strike, whether it hit or missed, he was certain to die. His essence, his vital energy, his soul would all be consumed in that one blow. Even if Nie Lingfeng didn't kill him, he would die from exhaustion.

He was willing to pay with his life—

To defend the dignity of the sword path, which I have cultivated through a lifetime of arduous practice!

"I cannot lose."

He said to himself.

"I'm not fighting for myself. I'm fighting for the name 'Ittosai,' for my sixty years of arduous training, for everything I believe is right. If that person can defeat me with 'casual cuts,' then what have I done for the past sixty years? What has my life meant?"

The crimson light of the blade surged once more.

This time, it wasn't a stunning arc of light.

Instead, it was a blood-red blade of energy that shot into the sky, as if it were about to cleave the heavens and earth!

The aura emanated not from the blade itself, but from Sato Ittosai's entire being—his eyes, his mouth, every pore of his body radiated a blood-red light. He was burning like a sword thrown into a furnace, glowing red-hot and then white-hot, on the verge of melting.

Wherever the blade's energy passed—

The air was torn apart, emitting a piercing shriek, the sound like something crying.

A deep furrow was plowed into the ground, and gravel and dust churned up on both sides, revealing a shocking, smoking white mark.

It points directly at Nie Lingfeng!

Faced with this desperate attack.

A hint of seriousness finally flashed in Nie Lingfeng's eyes.

It wasn't fear. It wasn't tension.

It is not a matter of respect.

Respect for your opponent.

A person who is willing to risk their life to defend their beliefs deserves respect, regardless of their stance.

He stopped his "chaotic" swordsmanship.

He gripped the hilt of the Snow Drinking Blade with both hands.

Right hand in front, left hand behind, blade held horizontally in front of him, edge facing forward. This posture is perfect, so perfect it looks like it was copied from any swordsmanship textbook. But it is precisely this perfection that makes something feel off—because Nie Lingfeng's swordsmanship is never "perfect."

An aura far more powerful, vast, and icy than before rose from his body!

It wasn't "emanating" out—it "rising." Like a door sealed for a thousand years, finally pushed open from the inside. Cold air poured out from the cracks, surging, overwhelming, and unstoppable.

The Snow Drinking Blade in his hand seemed to come alive.

It emits a pleasant humming sound—a "buzzing" sound, not harsh, but deep and long, like the first breath of a sleeping beast upon awakening.

The icy blue light on the blade intensified, no longer the faint, moonlit glow of before, but a dazzling, sun-like radiance. Yet, the light was cold; looking at it, you felt as if your eyes were about to freeze.

A chill permeated the air.

A layer of white frost quickly condensed on the surrounding ground, walls, and even in the air. The frost didn't form slowly; it appeared to appear suddenly, as if someone had poured a bucket of liquid nitrogen onto it.

On the nearest wall, the frost was a finger's width thick, with tiny icicles growing on it. The emergency lights on the ceiling were dim, their shades covered in ice.

"The Six Secrets of Frostbite: A Glimpse of Startling Cold".

He recited the sword incantation in a low voice.

The sound wasn't loud, but everyone could hear it clearly.

The sound didn't come from his mouth—it seemed to emanate from the Snow Drinking Blade. It was deep, resonant, and had a metallic quality.

Raise the knife with both hands above your head.

Then--

Facing the blood-red blade energy that could cleave the heavens and split the earth.

Simply and easily, with a single stroke.

There was no dazzling light.

There was no earth-shattering fanfare.

Only a single, perfectly condensed, icy-blue blade aura, seemingly capable of freezing time and space, emanated from the Snow Drinking Blade, silently spreading forward.

The blade energy didn't "fly" out—it flowed out more like a "stream." Like a glacier slowly and irresistibly advancing. It wasn't fast, but by the time you saw it, it was too late to dodge. Because it didn't come from one direction; it was everywhere, and there was nowhere to escape.

The icy blue blade energy and the crimson blade aura met in mid-air.

There was no explosion.

There was no loud noise.

Amidst the horrified gazes of everyone—

The crimson blade energy that seemed capable of cleaving the heavens and earth melted and disintegrated inch by inch the moment it came into contact with the icy blue blade energy, just like ice and snow encountering the scorching sun!

It wasn't shattered—shattering would leave fragments and make a sound.

It disappeared.

Disappeared silently and cleanly.

It was as if someone had erased that blade of energy from the air with an eraser. Starting from its tip, it retreated inch by inch. With each inch it retreated, the once unstoppable crimson light dimmed, thinned, and weakened a little more.

It wasn't shattered.

Instead, it was the extreme chill that seemed to freeze the soul—

It freezes and disintegrates directly from the smallest structural parts!

The icy blue blade energy continued its relentless advance.

It passed through the dissipating crimson blade energy as easily as cutting tofu.

Then--

It landed lightly on Sato Ittosai's chest.

The force wasn't strong.

It felt like someone had placed a snowflake on his chest.

Sato Ittosai's momentum came to an abrupt halt.

His feet seemed to be nailed to the ground, his body remaining motionless in the forward-charging, sword-wielding posture.

He lowered his head.

He looked at the shallow, icy blue knife mark on his chest, which exuded a faint chill. The mark wasn't long, about three inches; it wasn't deep, about two fen—it had just grazed his skin, and barely any blood had flowed.

His eyes were filled with confusion and bewilderment.

And... a sense of relief.

It wasn't the relief of "I understand," but the relief of "I finally don't have to think about it anymore." For sixty years, he had been thinking every day: Is my knife fast enough? Is it sharp enough? Is it good enough? Now, he finally doesn't have to think about it anymore.

"So... this is... the Dao..."

He muttered to himself.

The voice was very soft, so soft that only he could hear it.

The "Blood Cherry" sword in his hand fell to the ground with a "clang." The sound was crisp and short, like a sigh.

Then--

His entire body, starting from the knife wound on his chest, was rapidly covered with a thick layer of crystal-clear ice. The ice crystals didn't come on from the outside, but grew from the inside—penetrating little by little from under his skin, between his muscles, and within his bones, as if something was taking root and sprouting inside him.

In the blink of an eye.

It transformed into a lifelike ice sculpture.

He remained frozen in place, still in the posture of charging forward and swinging his sword.

On his face, the last trace of a complex expression remained—bewilderment, confusion, and relief, three emotions intertwined and frozen beneath the ice crystals.

Inside the ice sculpture, his congealed blood—dark red, like frozen pomegranate seeds—and a horrified look were faintly visible. Those eyes were still open, the pupils still in focus, staring directly in Nie Lingfeng's direction.

Quiet.

In the hall, only the heavy breathing of the crowd could be heard.

And the eerie chill emanating from the human-shaped ice sculpture under the lights.

A knife.

Just one cut.

Previously, Sato Ittosai was an invincible and arrogant figure, known as "Ittosai," who had slain 999 enemies—

lost.

And the defeat was so complete.

So... there's no suspense.

From beginning to end, Nie Lingfeng only made one strike.

It wasn't about "defeating the opponent with a single strike," but rather "only needing one strike." The blocking, grappling, and attrition beforehand—that wasn't "combat," that was "tutorial." He was waiting for Sato Ittosai to use up all his techniques, waiting for him to push him to the brink, waiting for him to unleash that life-burning "self-sacrifice slash."

Then, he made his move.

A knife.

Send him on his way.