Chapter 189

Chapter 189
# Chapter 189: Piercing the Sun

From earliest times, Point Cang had always been a place whose true origins remained shrouded in uncertainty. Even the sect leader of Point Cang himself did not know its beginnings for certain. Might it have grown from a Daoist temple raised in reverence of Hou Yi? Judging by its signature and ultimate technique, Sunshot Swordsmanship, that certainly seemed plausible. Or did it bear closer ties to Buddhism, given its long-standing association with the Dali Kingdom, which had established Buddhism as its state religion? During the kingdom’s golden age, the leaders of Point Cang had always been chosen from the Duan royal line of Dali—and so that, too, held truth.

“Master… is Point Cang Daoist, or Buddhist?”

His master answered young Nung-o’s question gently.

“Nung-o, the Yun’nan mountain where our sect makes its home was once known as Cang Mountain. What does ‘cang’ mean? As in the phrase ‘cang sky,’ the word stands for the vast heavens themselves. Add ‘point’ to that name, and you have Point Cang. True to its title, the Point Cang Sect gathers swordsmen who strive to become one pure, unwavering point in the sky—to reach the very sun.”

He went on, “And so the path we walk is neither the Dao of Daoism nor the way of Buddhism. Our path is the Sword Path.”

The memory remained vivid: his master’s hand resting lightly on young Nung-o’s head as he spoke.

“That is why, Nung-o—Dan Nung-o, heir to the Duan name—you must follow in my footsteps and walk the Sword Path of Sunshot. Can you do this?”

Though still a child, Nung-o felt a destiny greater than words could hold. The world might call such a bond fate.

“Yes! This disciple will reach the end of that path, no matter what!”

Still smiling as he stroked the boy’s hair, his master drew a sword in that same hand and drove it toward him.

“Then die.”

Nung-o could not even utter a gasp. The blade slipped just below his Adam’s apple, piercing straight through his windpipe. Only the dead do not breathe—and breath is life itself. This was the sword’s ultimate truth: it had cut straight through life. He felt the steel’s sharp, cold form; he felt the sword as it passed through his own existence, and in that feeling, he understood its essence. Nung-o lost consciousness and drifted between life and death for more than three days.

“You have awakened. How was it—your sword?”

These were the first words he heard upon returning from the edge of death. His master showed no concern for his well-being, only asked after the Sword Path. Any ordinary child would have wept in bitterness, but young Nung-o’s eyes shone as he answered:

“It was a beam of light!”

For all his youth, his talent surpassed that of generations. Because of this, he had seen the very heart of the thrust aimed at his throat. It was a sword—and yet it was pure light, like an arrow loosed from a bowstring, swifter than anything alive, akin to radiance itself.

“Excellent. That is Sunshot.”

A ray of light piercing life—that was Sunshot. The same hand that had driven the sword through his windpipe came to rest again on his head.

“Dan Nung-o, Dan Nung-o… from this day forward, you shall be known simply as Nung-o.”

Point Cang did not give its disciples formal religious names. Instead, to show they would offer everything to the sword, they laid aside their surnames. And so Dan Nung-o became Nung-o, disciple to the Foremost Sword of Point Cang.

“Nung-o… we are Daoists.” The members of Point Cang called themselves by that name. “To walk this path, you must be willing to cast aside anything.”

And so Point Cang’s training taught them to sever many things. At seven years old, Nung-o spent ten days on the highest peak of Point Cang Mountain, staring straight at the sun without food or water. At eight, three years after first holding a sword, he completed one hundred thousand practice thrusts. By ten, he had been cut by his own blade more than a hundred times while sleeping—for he lay surrounded by dozens of drawn swords on his bed.

“Is it difficult? Endure it. You are a Daoist, Nung-o.”

The first form of Sunshot Swordsmanship was Hou Yi Shooting the Sun. The highest, ultimate form was also Hou Yi Shooting the Sun. To pierce the sun as a mortal being demanded trials no ordinary person could bear—and only through such endurance could this supreme sword art be grasped. Such was Sunshot Swordsmanship; such was the path Point Cang pursued.

“Dying in training is not a failure. Go forward with that thought.”

“Long for it. Face death gladly. Accept any duel against the strong, whenever it comes.”

“Give everything to the path you follow.”

“If you understand the Dao at dawn, to die at dusk is no loss at all.” To know the Dao in the morning and pass away that same evening was acceptable—for the sword was the Dao itself, worth every sacrifice to attain.

Yet cultivation, self-discipline, the unceasing pursuit of truth… why was such striving so revered? Because for mortals, it was almost impossibly hard.

“A disciple of Wudang wishes to witness Point Cang’s sword form.”

The moment came at the Wind and Cloud Assembly, where the Nine Great Sects’ ten factions gathered. Martial artists always vied with one another when they met, and this gathering served as the stage to decide which sect held the greatest mastery.

“Well struck. Magnificent.”

The word was praise, and respect—but spoken from victor to vanquished, it was also consolation.

“A thrust that compels admiration against one’s will.”

“Truly, Sunshot Swordsmanship has no equal under heaven!”

“I am enlightened. I have learned much.”

Point Cang had lost to Wudang. For six full Assemblies—sixty years, a complete cycle—they had fallen short.

“Sunshot Swordsmanship… a fitting art for the foremost sword sect in the world.” These words came from the man now recognized as the greatest swordsman alive—spoken to the former foremost sword of what had once been the world’s preeminent sect.

Point Cang fractured. Consumed by frustration and anger, its people began to doubt the very path they had walked. Was the Sword Path worth giving their lives to… or was Sunshot truly not the answer?

“It is the answer. Our way is Sunshot.” Nung-o’s master, the Foremost Sword of Point Cang, had declared it so—but his words sounded like the brave denial of someone already defeated. For sixty years, he had lost to Wudang’s greatest master, again and again.

It was then that Spectral Swordsmanship appeared.

“A new interpretation of the Sunshot Path,” its creator announced. “I name it Spectral—for it embodies the power to divide even light itself.”

This was Myeong-wol, senior disciple of the same generation as Nung-o’s master, the eldest among them. He had spent decades in seclusion, refining his art, and now he presented Spectral Swordsmanship to the sect.

“Inconceivable! A peerless technique!”

“Like Sunshot in essence, yet altogether new! A brilliant evolution!”

“And its training is far simpler, far more accessible than Sunshot!”

Sunshot was profound, its highest reaches agonizingly slow to attain. Spectral, by contrast, could be mastered easily even by young disciples, who grew strong with startling speed. Point Cang made its choice: Spectral would be their way forward.

“Let Spectral Swordsmanship be taught to every disciple. This is the sect leader’s command.”

“Spectral Swordsmanship shall be Point Cang’s new core technique.”

Naturally, there were those who objected—those who clung to tradition and the will of their ancestors, who refused to abandon Sunshot. But the tide could not be turned back. People always preferred what was easier, what came more quickly—especially if the heights they reached seemed just as high.

“Senior brother… cease teaching Sunshot and take up Spectral now.”

Ten years later, when Nung-o had turned thirty, Myeong-wol visited his master’s dwelling and spoke those words. He looked at his elder with open triumph—he who was now the Foremost Sword of Point Cang.

“Junior brother… Point Cang’s true path is Sunshot.”

“Why cling to the old ways? Sunshot is obsolete.”

“No. The foundation is all that matters. Sunshot Swordsmanship remains the finest under heaven.”

“Once, it was. But who among us has ever truly mastered it? No one. Not in a hundred years.”

It was true. There was no denying it. Sunshot had brought Point Cang its glory as the world’s greatest sword sect—but that same art had also been the cause of its decline.

“Senior brother… Point Cang must reclaim its place above all others. With your talent and Spectral Swordsmanship, we can be supreme once more.”

Nung-o’s master was silent for a long time before he asked one question.

“Junior brother… did you truly create Spectral Swordsmanship yourself?”

Myeong-wol fell quiet. When he finally spoke, he gave no answer.

“If you will not accept Spectral… then I must claim the title of Point Cang’s Foremost Sword from you.”

What else was said between them, Nung-o would never know. But he felt certain that after they parted, they fought to decide the truth of it.

“Nung-o… take up your sword. I will give you my final lesson.”

His master returned gravely wounded and ordered him to stand ready.

“Master, you must rest!”

“No! Nung-o, draw your blade! This is my command!”

Perhaps he already knew his time was running out.

“Show me your path. The way you will walk!”

They exchanged only two moves. A thrust that was nothing less than a ray of light—the first form of Sunshot Swordsmanship: Hou Yi Shooting the Sun. And the final form of Sunshot Swordsmanship: Hou Yi Shooting the Sun.

“Nung-o.”

“Master…”

“Did you see it?”

“I did.”

Every disciple of Point Cang bore a long, vertical scar below the throat, left by a sword’s point—the Eagle Eye Mark. And the sword had pierced that very mark.

“Excellent… truly excellent. You and I are fellow Daoists at last.”

“Master, please…”

“Listen calmly… it was never Spectral. It was Chaotic Light.” Not the ‘splitting’ of light, but the ‘confusion’ of chaos. “Spectral Swordsmanship only serves to muddle Point Cang’s vision. Do not ever turn away from Sunshot.” His master’s words grew slower, softer. “And so, Nung-o… you must show them. Awaken Point Cang to the truth of Sunshot once again.”

Make them understand what Sunshot truly is.

“Yes, Master! I will do it! I promise! Only… please…”

A few days later, his master passed away. He smiled to the very end—and Nung-o did not weep. Instead he laughed, wildly, desperately, until that same smile was etched forever into his own face.

*Master… I will fulfill your last command.*

Now Nung-o was the only disciple in all Point Cang who still practiced Sunshot. He took on all the duties of the outer sect—tasks that were never meant for someone of his standing. For martial artists, training was everything; great sects like the Nine Greats never burdened their core disciples with chores, for time to cultivate was already scarce.

“Disciple Nung-o… your stubborn devotion to Sunshot means you will never rise through our ranks. At the very least, you may serve to nourish those who actually progress.”

It was wrong to assign such work to the Foremost Sword’s own student, especially one with such extraordinary talent—but the command came from the sect leader, acting on Myeong-wol’s counsel.

“Disciple Nung-o accepts the order.”

Years slipped by like water. Nung-o remained an outer-sect disciple, still tending to menial tasks.

*Master… I did not truly understand back then. Why did you reject Spectral and hold so fiercely to Sunshot? What harm could there be in an art that is easier, faster, and still leads to greatness?*

But now he understood.

*Things are changing so deeply, Master.*

Once, Point Cang had cared for nothing but the sword—just as Shaolin cherished compassion and righteousness. That was no longer so. Point Cang had begun to want more.

*They think they can give less of themselves and still gain everything. They are wrong.*

Point Cang had never hesitated to use any means to reach the Dao—but the direction of their striving had shifted.

“From now on, our sect shall support the Divine Healer’s work.”

They began escorting a man who claimed to be the greatest healer’s disciple to the homes of the wealthy. He offered no proof—but the staggering sums he donated made proof unnecessary.

“We shall bring neighboring sects under our influence. Disciples, act for the good of our order.”

Point Cang had once sought only the sword, never power. Now it sought authority in the world beyond its mountains.

“We shall debate the nature of the Dao. We shall build temples and study the true way of Point Cang.”

Point Cang had drawn from both Buddhism and Daoism, yet its path had always been the sword. No longer. Sunshot and the Spectral derived from it—they had come to believe that light, the shared thread binding them, was all they needed to pursue.

*Master… you were right. I will keep my promise.*

“Nung-o, you are summoned.”

“I hear and obey.”

He accepted every order without resistance—silent, uncomplaining, leaving no room for reproach. Once in a while, the sect leader, feeling a flicker of pity, would ask: “Still you refuse to yield?” And Nung-o would answer only with a quiet smile.

Ten years of living apart, shunned by everyone else. Yet within him, the spirit of Sunshot burned bright.

—

Swords hold many things, as swordsmen have always said—and so they speak to one another through them.

*Crack!*

The sound split the air like thunder. It seemed impossible that a single thrust could carry such force.

*Strikes like lightning itself.*

“I… I thought I was dead.”

“…That is strange. You did not move to avoid it.”

Nung-o’s blade rested perfectly still at Yang-hui’s throat. Yang-hui had made no effort to dodge the all-piercing stroke—and Nung-o had pulled up short, leaving not even the faintest mark. Both displayed skill beyond the ordinary.

“Remarkable. There is something different about it.”

“Is there? At its root, it is the same.”

Sunshot strove to pierce light. Spectral sought to divide it. One might say the light was the same—but it was not.

“There is no mastery of self in it.” To shoot the sun, to pierce it, one must become the arrow that leaves the bow. That was the self-mastery Point Cang demanded.

Nung-o’s hand trembled slightly as he asked, “Why did you not dodge?”

“There was no need. And you—why did you hold back?”

“Because you did not move.”

Their exchange was brief, almost like a koan—but it was enough. They had traded only one form, yet they understood each other perfectly.

“There is a cult called the Sun-Moon Holy Cult. I smell its taint all over Spectral Swordsmanship.”

“I thought as much. So it was never truly your own creation.”

“Brother Nung… I have a debt to settle with those bastards. It seems they have been working their way into Point Cang. Will you stand with me?”

“I would hear more first. Tell me of this Holy Cult… and my name is not Nung.”

“Discarded it, did you? Then Brother N