Life in Fuk On Building was anything but peaceful.

  One careless remark from Auntie Fung —

  “That ancient?costume swordsman really knows kung fu!” —

  spread through the old?school martial arts circles of Sham Shui Po like a drop of oil in a boiling wok.

  Worse still, the building’s bored resident spirits had nothing better to do.

  They secretly transmitted the awe?inspiring sword aura from Ye Lingyun’s fight with Ah?Gui through their own ghostly network.

  Soon, the rumor of

  “There’s an ancient swordsman living in Fuk On Building”

  quietly circulated across both human and non?human communities.

  And challengers arrived.

  First came a few burly men practicing Hung Gar and Choy Li Fut, wanting to “exchange pointers.”

  Ye Lingyun didn’t even draw his sword —

  a few taps with the scabbard sent them tumbling into a heap, leaving in embarrassment.

  Then came a staff?technique practitioner,

  a dual?blade youth,

  a Baguazhang martial artist,

  and even an office worker in a suit who trained Filipino Kali sticks.

  They came one after another.

  Ye Lingyun found it annoying, though he did gain a glimpse of this era’s martial arts —

  direct, occasionally vicious, and somewhat interesting.

  The whole thing gradually turned into a farce, because the building’s spirits gathered as spectators.

  Whenever a challenger arrived, half?transparent figures appeared along the corridor and window ledges, whispering excitedly —

  and even opening gambling tables:

  “I bet this one won’t last five moves! Three sheets of underworld paper!”

  “His stance looks stable — maybe ten moves? I’ll bet a string of spirit?money!”

  “I bet the swordsman will actually draw his sword! I’ll wager the energy?shadow of my old pocket watch!”

  The wagers were absurd: underworld paper, burnt joss?money ashes, obsession?projections, even “future quotas” for absorbing yin energy.

  Auntie Fung once caught them and scolded with hands on hips:

  “You rotten gamblers opened a betting stall again? Believe it or not, I’ll invite Lord Guan to come have tea with you lot!”

  The spirits scattered instantly —

  and resumed the next time as usual.

  Windbeak perched up high, pecking at metal scraps while commenting:

  “Tsk, the house always cheats. They’re secretly adjusting the odds.”

  At first Ye Lingyun was uncomfortable, but seeing the spirits were merely noisy and harmless —

  and even offered silent admiration whenever he executed a clever move —

  he reluctantly accepted it.

  Sunri joked that this was “a street?performer version of the martial world,”

  while Lin Che analyzed seriously:

  “Spirits have a natural attraction to high?intensity life?energy and technical movement. It fulfills a cross?dimensional entertainment need.”

  That day, a different challenger arrived.

  A man in his fifties, broad?shouldered and thick?backed, wearing a faded kung fu shirt.

  He came empty?handed, but behind him two disciples carried a long weapon wrapped in cloth.

  Even before the cloth was removed, a heavy, oppressive aura seeped out.

  He cupped his fists and declared in a booming voice:

  “Northern Guan?dao practitioner, Liu Zhenshan.

  I heard there is a sword master here — I have come to seek instruction.”

  His voice was like a bell, his presence sharp and imposing.

  The spirit?gamblers exploded instantly:

  “Guan?dao versus ancient sword! Beautiful!”

  “I bet on the Guan?dao — heavy and fierce!”

  “The swordsman is fast — he’ll strike first!”

  Windbeak flapped excitedly: “Guan?dao! This one’s worth watching!”

  Ye Lingyun descended the stairs.

  Seeing Liu Zhenshan and the long weapon, his eyes narrowed.

  This man carried battlefield aura —

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  a true warrior who had seen blood.

  The Guan?dao radiated a faint intent of cleaving mountains and breaking wind.

  For the first time in a long while, Ye Lingyun felt a genuine sense of anticipation.

  Liu Zhenshan wasted no words.

  He flicked the cloth cover — clang!

  The cloth slid off, revealing a Guan?dao over eight feet long, its crescent blade dark?green and cold, exuding a chilling presence.

  He held the end of the shaft with one hand and tapped it to the ground —

  a dull thud, dust rising.

  “The blade is named Mountain?Breaker.

  Sixty?eight jin.

  Please.”

  Gasps rippled through the crowd.

  Sixty?eight jin, tapped lightly with one hand — his arm and stance were extraordinary.

  Ye Lingyun drew his sword three inches.

  “Please.”

  Liu Zhenshan moved first.

  A thunderous step —

  the Guan?dao swung as if weightless, a brutal horizontal sweep aimed at Ye Lingyun’s waist!

  Wind roared. Dust exploded.

  The strike was like a charging thunder?beast.

  Ye Lingyun’s pupils tightened.

  His body drifted back like willow fluff, sword tip tapping precisely at the point of force on the shaft.

  Clang!

  The crisp ring vibrated through his wrist.

  The Guan?dao shifted instantly — a rising diagonal slash!

  Ye Lingyun’s spirit surged.

  With a long shout, his sword light scattered like rain —

  not contesting strength,

  but piercing the gaps in Liu’s transitions and breathing rhythm.

  For a moment, sword?light like snow, blade?shadows like mountains —

  metal clashing, sparks flying.

  The spirits trembled with excitement, wagers flying everywhere.

  Windbeak’s beak hung open:

  “Whoa… the Guan?dao guy is strong!”

  Ye Lingyun grew more exhilarated as he fought.

  Liu Zhenshan’s Guan?dao technique had reached mastery —

  grand yet precise, fierce like battlefield slaughter, yet carrying martial rhythm.

  Ye Lingyun had not fought so freely in ages;

  his sword?intent grew purer under the pressure.

  Liu Zhenshan was equally shocked —

  this swordsman was not only fast and skillful,

  but always forced him to change moves at the exact moment before his power fully released.

  After fifty exchanges, neither had the upper hand.

  Ye Lingyun’s mind flashed — prolonged battle was disadvantageous.

  He caught the slight delay after Liu’s “Cleave?the?Mountain” finishing arc —

  And suddenly closed in,

  a straight thrust toward the exposed right flank!

  The sword was like a startled swan — fast, precise, deadly.

  Liu Zhenshan remained calm.

  He dropped his shoulder, turning his body, using his left arm to block —

  while the butt of the Guan?dao stabbed toward Ye Lingyun’s abdomen,

  a mutual?destruction counter!

  Ye Lingyun’s sword tip was about to land —

  but his wrist twisted, the sword spine snapping against Liu’s left arm with a soft pa,

  sending a numbing force through half his body.

  At the same time, Ye Lingyun’s waist twisted impossibly, narrowly avoiding the counter?thrust.

  He retreated a full yard in drifting steps, sheathing his sword.

  Liu Zhenshan’s left arm tingled.

  He knew the swordsman had held back.

  He steadied himself, grounded the Guan?dao, and cupped his fists deeply:

  “Brother Ye, your swordsmanship is divine.

  Liu admits defeat.”

  Ye Lingyun returned the salute:

  “Brother Liu’s Guan?dao is magnificent.

  I have gained much.

  Just now was mere luck — thank you for yielding.”

  The spectators erupted in cheers.

  Spirits groaned or celebrated depending on their bets, ghostly wagers flying everywhere.

  Liu Zhenshan laughed heartily:

  “Splendid! Even in defeat, I am honored!

  If fate allows, I shall return for another exchange!”

  He sheathed the Guan?dao, saluted, and strode away proudly.

  The duel became a local legend —

  “The Guan?dao Warrior Challenges the Ancient Swordsman of Sham Shui Po.”

  Ye Lingyun returned upstairs, breath slightly uneven but eyes bright.

  Auntie Fung leaned in with a grin:

  “Lingyun boy, you’re amazing! Even Liu of the Guan?dao lost — you’re famous now!”

  Windbeak muttered:

  “He clearly held back. If it were me, I’d have chopped him in one strike.”

  Ye Lingyun, for once, didn’t argue —

  a faint smile tugged at his lips.

  Mo?Dou sat at the stair corner, golden eyes calm, tail tip flicking as if judging:

  Not bad.

  Lin Che peeked out, adjusting his glasses:

  “The energy?wave peak was fascinating. I’d like to collect data…”

  Sunri, holding Pardy, shook his head with a smile —

  Brother Ye had finally found a taste of familiar blade?and?sword camaraderie in Hong Kong.

  After this battle, the title “Sham Shui Po Sword Knight” became firmly established.

  Challengers still came occasionally, and Ye Lingyun treated them as sword practice.

  The spirit audience never tired of it, and the “exchange rate” of underworld paper fluctuated several times.

  This stretch of “duel?filled daily life” became a lighthearted interlude amid the chaos of the walled?city storm —

  and gave Ye Lingyun a rare release and comfort in the clash of steel.