Forgotten Tale of Jianghu

"The Butterfly Whirlwind Kick?"

"A kick so fierce it can twist a man's head right off?"

"Did he really use the Butterfly Whirlwind Kick?"

The moment Abbot Kongshan's words echoed through the hall, the warriors below the platform erupted in astonished murmurs. The Butterfly Whirlwind Kick — a move of deadly precision — was now being tied to Xin Long.

Chu Liusan's lips parted in disbelief, his voice a whisper meant for no one but himself.

He had never witnessed the technique firsthand, yet the mere mention of it from a figure as authoritative as the Abbot left no room for doubt. If the Abbot said it was true, then it had to be true.

A weight settled in Chu Liusan's chest. His right hand still gripped the hilt of his sword, extended in front of him — a stance of forced composure. His face remained stoic, but his mind was a chaotic storm.

He locked eyes with Xin Long — standing calm, cold, with those dead, unreadable eyes. The kick itself had done nothing to him physically, yet losing in front of the crowd — especially with the Butterfly Whirlwind Kick as the reason — gnawed at his pride.

Finally, he spoke, his voice steady but his heart unsteady.

"Even the Chief Abbot himself acknowledged your move… What more can I say, Brother Xin?"

It was a bitter surrender — one not to the kick itself, but to the power of the Abbot's words.

As the words left his mouth, Chu Liusan noticed the faintest flicker of something on Xin Long's face — a fleeting smile, too brief to name.

His heart sank.

Did Xin Long lie?

No — impossible.

Had he not just admitted defeat? The words were already spoken.

It no longer mattered whether the kick was real or not.

The legend of the Butterfly Whirlwind Kick was now Xin Long's to wear — like a mantle of fear draped over his shoulders.

…

Xin Long… After offering a single, indifferent nod to his defeated opponent, Chu Liusan, he calmly slid his whip-sword back into his belt.

His movements were unhurried — a quiet finality in every gesture.

Then, with a slight turn of his body, he faced the Chief Abbot of the Shaolin Sect, bowing his head in a show of respect — an act more of formality than genuine reverence.

A brief glance followed — to the warriors below, still chanting his name in an uproarious chorus:

"Xin Long! Xin Long! Xin Long..."

"Mm..."

The sound escaped him — soft, indifferent — as his gaze flickered across the crowd.

And then he saw her.

Standing quietly among the uproar, untouched by the chaos — Chu Cao.

Her expression was calm, a faint, unreadable smile on her lips as she watched him — not with the excitement of the others, but with a quiet intensity that pricked at the edges of his mind.

He hadn't noticed her when he stepped onto the platform.

He hadn't noticed her while he fought.

When had she arrived?

And why — why was she standing alone, not at Bai Jing Jing's side?

For someone often under Bai Jing Jing's watchful protection, it was odd — almost unsettling — to see her so detached, slipping in and out of the crowd like a shadow.

His gaze lingered for a moment too long.

Then, as though sensing his eyes on her, Chu Cao's faint smile disappeared.

Without a word, she turned away.

Gone.

Xin Long didn't follow her with his gaze.

He didn't move.

Yet, for a fleeting second, something imperceptible shifted in his eyes—a momentary stillness, like a ripple across an otherwise calm surface.

He didn't chase the thought.

Didn't chase her.

And as quickly as the moment came, it was gone—unnoticed by anyone.

Xin Long's gaze slipped away from Chu Cao—severed like a blade drawn from its sheath.

Without hesitation, his eyes landed on Bai Jing Jing and Xu Zhu Han.

Bai Jing Jing, standing amidst the softly falling snow, bore a faint smile—a delicate curve of her lips that seemed both graceful and unreadable. The melting snowflakes clung to her flowing robes, adding a cold, ethereal beauty to her already commanding presence.

But it was Xu Zhu Han's expression that truly caught Xin Long's interest.

His stare was sharp, dark with a quiet resentment—a seething undercurrent of suspicion and jealousy. Those burning eyes, clouded with unspoken loathing, were locked onto Xin Long like a blade ready to strike.

Xin Long's lips curled—not into a sneer, but into something far more dangerous.

A smile.

Yes.

Suspicion and hatred were precisely what he needed festering in Xu Zhu Han's heart.

Only when his enemy's mind was tangled in doubt and anger could Xin Long's plans take deeper root.

The more Xu Zhu Han despised him, the more reckless he would become.

And reckless men were always the easiest to destroy.

Without a word, Xin Long leapt from the platform, his black robes sweeping through the air like a shadow slicing the snow.

He landed soundlessly—his steps slow, unhurried—and moved directly toward Bai Jing Jing.

Not once did he glance at Xu Zhu Han.

But he didn't need to.

He could feel the storm brewing in the man's chest—the silent rage sharpening with each step Xin Long took.

Yes… Let it fester.

Let it grow.

…

Bai Jing Jing's smile faltered ever so slightly as she watched Xin Long descend from the platform.

He moved with a smooth, deliberate grace — a shadow gliding through the snow.

His gaze, cold and unwavering, locked onto her.

She shifted subtly, glancing from side to side. Her elder brothers flanked her — Bai Luhan on one side, his jaw set like stone, and beyond him, Xu Zhu Han, his head tilted just enough for her to catch a glimpse of his face.

It was clouded.

A storm gathering behind his composed exterior.

Her heart grew heavier.

Last night, Xin Long's words still echoed in her mind — his rare confession, veiled yet unmistakable.

Had Xu Zhu Han sensed something?

Did he already suspect what simmered beneath the surface?

Bai Jing Jing's fingers tightened ever so slightly against the hem of her robes, though her expression remained calm.

All around them, the crowd's attention was riveted on Xin Long — the victor. To the gathered martial artists, he was the center of every gaze, the man who had just seized another ruthless triumph.

But why… why was he walking straight toward her?

Her mind raced.

And then — he stopped.

Right in front of her.

The world seemed to shrink around them.

Snow continued to fall, yet it was his voice — soft, almost a whisper — that pierced through the silence.

"May you find happiness, Bai Jing Jing..."

The words were quiet, but not quiet enough.

Her brothers heard.

She knew they did.

Bai Luhan's eyes darkened, while Xu Zhu Han's expression remained still — too still.

But it wasn't the words alone that unsettled her.

It was the way Xin Long looked at her. His gaze was distant, almost hollow — like a man who had lost something vital yet spoke as though it meant nothing.

It was the look of someone who had long accepted defeat.

That fleeting moment of emptiness in his eyes… only she seemed to notice.

The crowd, still roaring for the champion, didn't hear.

But Bai Luhan did.

Xu Zhu Han did.

And Bai Jing Jing — standing at the heart of this silent storm — could feel the invisible lines of tension pulling tighter with every second.

What was Xin Long thinking?

Why had he come to her?

And most of all — what game was he playing now?

As Xin Long stepped away, his footsteps slow and unhurried, Bai Jing Jing found herself watching his retreating figure.

She didn't mean to.

Yet her gaze followed him — through the shifting crowd, past the lingering stares of those still trying to decipher his cryptic words.

She wasn't the only one.

Others were watching too.

Some with curiosity.

Some with confusion.

No one understood.

The evening wind, a cold breath from the north, swept through the courtyard. It rustled the edges of her robes and bit at her skin, but Bai Jing Jing barely noticed.

Above them, the sun was already dipping beneath the horizon.

The faint glow of the evening star clung to the sky, its dying light casting long shadows over the gathered martial artists.

A farewell of sorts.

And as Xin Long's silhouette dissolved into the creeping darkness, Bai Jing Jing felt an unsettling thought press against the edges of her mind.

Something within her chest — a flicker of light, a fragile spark — seemed to dim along with the fading sun.

Was it always this cold?

Was it only the wind… or had something within her already begun to slip away?

End – 49