Chapter 1
The First Steps of a Grotesque Youth at the Foot of Mount Wuhsan
Mount wuHsan…
It stood, an unmistakable, towering pinnacle, renowned throughout the martial world for its daunting height and profound history. Legend had it that countless years ago, the supreme masters of the martial arts realm had clashed upon its very peak, battling for the title of the martial world's number one—a savage, unbroken contest that lasted seven days and seven nights.
Not far from the mountain's majestic foot nestled a modest village. Though barely seventy households strong, its position at a crucial crossroad ensured a relatively comfortable living for its inhabitants. The frequent martial arts competitions held on Mount Hua's summit transformed the village into a bustling waypoint, keeping the villagers' meager wallets from feeling too bitter a pinch.
It boasted two respectable eateries and a single, surprisingly clean inn—a standard of living quite advanced for such a small settlement. Given the constant flow of martial artists passing through, the villagers had long since grown intimately familiar with the customs and colorful temperaments of the jianghu (the martial world).
A shallow stream, a mere thread of water, embraced the small village. In the rainy season, its current would briefly surge, but for the rest of the year, it was rarely deeper than a man's knee. Beside its quiet bank, a thirteen-year-old youth tended to his grazing ox.
This boy was a sight to behold, adorned with features that, when taken together, made for a disconcerting picture: a slightly prominent forehead, wide, bulging eyes, large, protruding ears, thick lips, a subtly hunched back, and arms that seemed disproportionately long compared to the average person. To the hurried eye, he might easily have been mistaken for a monkey.
His name was Wu Jiao—or, to the entire village, "Little Monkey" Wu Jiao. Few ever called him by his given name; he was simply Little Monkey. Sometimes, cruelly, they would tease him as that ugly little monkey. Yet, the boy never grew angry. He understood, did he not, that a name was merely a simple label, a tool of convenience for others to remember him by in their daily interactions.
Orphaned and poor, Little Monkey lived only with his eighty-year-old grandfather. Their poverty forced him into a life of exhausting, ceaseless toil: fetching water, chopping wood, herding the ox, and washing clothes for anyone in the village who would pay. He barely scraped by, supporting his aging grandfather in an existence that was little more than surviving.
His ill fortune extended beyond mere financial hardship; his physical form was a born affliction. His shoulders were stooped, his arms were longer than average, and his legs, in contrast, were noticeably short, giving him an uncanny resemblance to an actual monkey. Though his heart secretly yearned for the martial arts, his very anatomy was deemed unsuitable for training. Two years prior, a passing swordsman named Golden Dragon Blade Li Pai had observed him and declared, without a shadow of a doubt, that the Little Monkey would never succeed in the martial path.
"Hah... The weather is unbearably hot. Herding the ox in this season is a trial."
The intense heat made every drawn breath feel as if it were laced with scorching air. The discomfort was overwhelming, and Little Monkey couldn't help but sigh a soft complaint.
"I need a sip of water and a quick nap."
With this thought, he stretched out on his back beneath the nearest tree. It was then, from the riverbank, that an old man began to approach the shade where the boy lay.
Calling him an old man was almost too generous; he looked more like a traveling beggar. His hair hadn't been combed or washed in ages, falling in wild, matted clumps around his shoulders. His clothes, thick with dirt and grime, bore the accumulated filth of many years. His thin slippers revealed his heels, which protruded a good inch or two beyond the soles.
Little Monkey felt a surge of pity for the old man. Ironically, he was pitying someone when his own clothes were arguably worse. He wore no shirt at all—not because he didn't want one, but because he couldn't afford one—and only a small bamboo hat offered protection from the relentless sun. His lower half was covered by only the barest scrap of cloth. At an awkward, in-between age, the boy never thought to be ashamed of his appearance.
Being naturally kind-hearted, he focused only on the stranger, who looked exhausted from a long journey.
"Grandfather, please sit down. The sun is too strong. Have some water—it's cool water I brought specially from home."
Offering the man a place to rest, Little Monkey extended his water gourd.
"Ah, you have manners, my young friend. Your spirit is good, truly good. But your face… it is a harsh sight. And your physique is truly ill-formed. That is a considerable drawback, indeed."
The old man spoke plainly, taking the gourd from the Little Monkey and gulping down the water in a single draft.
In truth, anyone with a discerning eye would have recognized the man, despite his beggar-like appearance, as a top-tier martial artist. He showed no sign of weariness from his long journey, and his movements possessed a subtle, effortless lightness. But Little Monkey was naive. He saw only a simple, harmless old man and offered his compassion and cool water. Had he been wiser, he might have immediately thought to ask the old man for a gift or a lesson. But alas…
The old man, sensing the boy's guileless honesty and simple nature, felt a wave of sympathy.
"My boy, your bone structure doesn't suggest you could excel in the martial arts," the man said. "Tell me, then, what is it you truly yearn for?"
"I know my build is unsuited for it, Grandfather," Little Monkey replied with humble sincerity. "But I don't know why, I am crazily, madly passionate about the martial arts."
"You are simple-minded, and your face is poor. You are truly an unfortunate soul," the old man declared. "Well, let's consider this an encounter of fate. I will guide you on how to correctly breathe, sit, and sleep."
Little Monkey was utterly bewildered. Sleeping, sitting, and breathing—were these not innate skills that humans were born with? To require instruction on such basic acts would seem the height of foolishness. Yet, he dared not speak. The beggar's face, as he spoke those words, was solemn and serious; he was clearly not joking.
"My boy," the old man commanded, "clear away the dead leaves from the patch of grass where you are sitting."
Little Monkey dutifully swept the leaves clean.
"Now, lie down on your side on that grass. You may think this is something you don't need to be taught, but I have four phrases for you. Memorize them." The old man recited:
"Temporarily forget all thought. Observe the flow of blood within the body. When the mind is calm, understanding blossoms. Where the heat of intention is strong, coldness must vanish."
Little Monkey repeated the four phrases four or five times until they were committed to memory, though their meaning remained utterly cryptic. The old man then elaborated:
"Listen, my boy. When you prepare to sleep, do not let your thoughts wander. Keep your mind clear, then lie down on your side. In this position, maintain a steady breath."
The old man then proceeded to instruct Little Monkey on how to focus his mind and use a regular breathing pattern to draw out a deep, internal strength.
The boy tried to follow the beggar's instructions. At first, his thoughts were chaotic and restless, making sleep impossible. Gradually, however, he learned to drive away the mental noise. After a long while, his mind grew clean and clear, and he felt a warm energy slowly rising within his lower abdomen. Then, at last, he fell into a deep, peaceful slumber.
Summer, monsoon, and winter rotated in an endless cycle. The dead leaves fell, only to be replaced by the fresh buds of spring. Rain showered down, and frost embroidered the earth with ephemeral beauty. The wheel of time turned relentlessly onward.
Three years passed. The great healer, Time, had visibly transformed Little Monkey, Wu Jiao, into a youth on the verge of manhood. What had he done during this long period? He had not wasted a single moment. He had tirelessly practiced the breathing, sitting, and sleeping exercises the old beggar had taught him. Before rising, before sleeping, before eating, and during his midday rest—whenever a free moment appeared, he dedicated himself to the disciplined practice.
For the Little Monkey, who had resigned himself to never rising above the level of a common man, the slightest improvement was cause for pure delight. A human being may lack luck or intelligence, but with unwavering will, persistent effort, and diligence, they are bound to reap some reward. The methods taught by the old beggar had demonstrably benefited him. His focus became sharper. He grew stronger. His movements were lighter and swifter. He no longer tired easily.
In truth, the old man had bestowed upon him the genuine internal strength cultivation method of the Quanzhen Sect. He had laid the foundational cornerstone for Little Monkey to become a true martial artist.
The Quanzhen Sect's name had once shone as brightly as the sun and moon during the time of its founder, the hermit Wang Chongyang. The sect's martial arts were considered boundless; the deeper one delved, the more profound they became—a well that offered new insight with every attempt to fathom its depth. Other famous techniques, like the Dragon-Subduing Palm, reached an ultimate peak where no further practice was possible. The Quanzhen technique, however, was endless, offering fresh discoveries with every cultivation. Yet, its profundity also led to its decline, and in later years, the sect and Wang Chongyang's teachings had faded into obscurity.
That Little Monkey had been granted this rare, lost internal cultivation technique was a matter of tremendous fortune. Even a fool, after all, may occasionally receive a lucky break.
Nonetheless, he had no ambition to enter the jianghu. His only thought was to live a simple, quiet life as an ordinary human being. But then…
The final words of his only relative, his beloved grandfather, brought about a momentous change in his life. That dying wish would prove to be a powerful gust of wind, sweeping the boy, like a fallen yellow leaf, into the churning currents of the martial world.
Little Monkey's grandfather was a man plagued by chronic illness. His skin was parchment-pale, devoid of lifeblood, and he was constantly wracked by violent, near-fatal coughs. In his final moments, the grandfather imparted his last will. His voice, strained by death's approach, was hard, resolute, and tinged with rage. It trembled with fierce emotion, yet at the same time, was choked with sorrow.
"My grandson, listen closely. I am not your birth grandfather. Do not be sad because of this, and do not lose heart. Know this first: I loved you as if you were my own blood. You were born under a curse of bad luck, but I always believed you were a child who brought good fortune to me."
The old man spoke each word distinctly, his voice shaking with effort.
"You are not alone in this world. You have a true grandfather and grandmother who refuse to acknowledge you as their own. Gongsun Yang, the Grand Master of the Gongsun Family, and Lady Qing Yong, they are your true grandparents. (There are five great martial arts families: the Gongsun, the Muyong, the Tang, the Shang, and the Shihao.)"
"I was the senior attendant to your mother, their youngest daughter, Gongsun Yong'er. About seventeen years ago, while traveling in the jianghu, your mother fell victim to a villain. She was defiled. That evil man's martial arts were too profound, and your mother could only endure his actions. After he absconded with her for about a week, he abandoned her at the gate of the Gongsun compound, having sealed her blood vessels."
"A few months later, you were born. The Gongsun family is famous in the martial world not just for their skill, but for their outstanding beauty. Because your features were so starkly different from theirs, your family deemed you a monstrous omen and a curse. They refused to accept you as their son or grandson and conspired to end your life! I intervened to protect you, and for that, I received a severe internal injury from the Grand Master himself. Now, that same wound is about to claim my life." The old man choked on his words, breaking into a ragged, violent cough that caused his eyes to roll back. With that, his life force departed, and he breathed no more.
Tears welled in Little Monkey's eyes. His lips were pressed into a tight, grim line, and his fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white. At that moment, the heavens seemed to share his agony, unleashing a furious, torrential downpour. Little Monkey stood motionless beneath the blinding rain, his body rigid. The water streaming down his face—was it rainwater, or tears? His already unsightly figure, drenched and unmoving in the storm, was as horrifying as a vengeful ghost.
His grandfather, the only kin he would ever recognize, the one who had loved him unconditionally, was dead. He was an illegitimate child, a son born without a known father. His father was a vile man who had violated and abandoned a woman. His mother and grandparents had rejected him and plotted to eliminate him from this world. He knew, without a doubt, that he had to leave this village.
He needed to know the truth. Was his father truly a villain, or did some unknown circumstances drive him to commit such a crime against his mother? Why had his mother been so cruel to the son of her own womb? He had always heard that a parent, whether blessed or cursed by their child, was bound to love them. But now…
He would confront his mother and ask her face-to-face why she had been so heartless. This was the reason he had to abandon the village.
He would find his father and mother, ask the questions that burned in his soul, and then retire to the solitude of the mountains and valleys, far from the hypocrisy of the civilized world.
Yet…
Human life is a strange and convoluted affair. Within the pure, kind, and simple heart of the Little Monkey, a hidden flame of resentment had begun to fiercely glow, unnoticed even by himself. Does not the human spirit, after all, harbor the innate, raw instinct of a wild beast? The unexpected turning point in the life of the insignificant Little Monkey would, in time, send massive, echoing ripples throughout the entire martial world.