Chapter 2
The Wayfarer and the Gates of Pride
The world was shrouded in a somber, bruised haze, the sky heavy with brooding clouds that promised a storm yet held their rain. The scent of impending downpour hung thick in the air, carried by a restless, unseen wind. The distant, formidable peaks of Mount Wuhsan had long dissolved into the pale horizon behind him.
Along the twisting, rugged forest path, a solitary figure trudged forward, his steps weary but unyielding—a youth clad in tattered, threadbare robes, his clothing frayed at every edge. A simple bamboo hat swayed against his back, his only loyal companion. This boy, still known by the ignoble name of Little Monkey, had abandoned his humble birthplace, his gaunt gaze fixed upon a single, distant destination: the Gongsun Family estate, nestled deep within the vicinity of the old capital, Chang'an.
In the world of martial arts, the Gongsun name was not a mere title; it was a thunderous declaration. They were renowned for their peerless combat skills, their dazzling, striking beauty, and an air of highly refined cultural prowess that placed them at the absolute pinnacle of prestige. Every scion of the family carried themselves with an innate, almost intolerable arrogance, their pride as unyielding and formidable as tempered steel. They valued honor above all else—to cross them, whether by ignorance or intent, was to invite a relentless, merciless pursuit to the very ends of the earth. The lightest form of retribution they ever bestowed upon an offender was instant death.
Yet, their ferocious pride was not unfounded.
The Gongsun bloodline was said to be blessed with an ethereal grace; the men were dubbed Princes of Elegance, and the women were praised as Goddesses of Beauty. Their martial techniques surpassed even those of the great orthodox sects, such as Shaolin, Wudang, and Huashan. The family's signature skill, The Soul-Stealing Gale Blade, was famed for its fluid, devastating precision, its movements as seamless and inexorable as flowing water.
The current patriarch, Gongsun Yang, and his wife, Lady Qing Yong, had three children. The youngest daughter, Gongsun Yong'er, had once been a legend in the martial world—her brilliance unmatched, her beauty unparalleled. She had inherited the full, deadly depth of her family's blade arts, excelling not only in combat but also in poetry, music, and calligraphy. Her name alone had elevated the Gongsun legacy to staggering new heights.
Yet, seventeen years ago, she had vanished without a trace.
Concurrently, the entire Gongsun family had severed all ties with the broader martial world.
What tragedy had truly befallen her? What profound secrets lay buried beneath their silence?
No one in the jianghu dared to ask.
A curtain of crimson twilight bathed the land as the rich scent of night blossoms drifted on the evening breeze. Birds settled into their nests, and the world eased into a deceptive, tranquil harmony. From a distance, the Gongsun village resembled a great, powerful dragon coiled in slumber, guarding a hidden treasure.
The road leading into the village twisted like a serpent, eventually terminating before the massive gates of the Gongsun estate—a sprawling, palatial compound whose towering entrance and ornate halls exuded an air of untouchable, chilling majesty.
And there, standing before those magnificent gates, was a single, ragged figure.
His face was gaunt, his eyes burning with a quiet, focused fury. His lips were pressed into a thin, white line, as though struggling to seal away a sudden, violent storm of burgeoning emotions.
This was Little Monkey.
A boy who had walked for three relentless months—without martial arts, without wealth, and utterly without allies. How he had survived such a punishing journey, only the unforgiving heavens knew.
A guard emerged from the watchtower, his crimson uniform pristine, his gaze sharp and professional.
"Beggars are not permitted here, boy. Go to the village temple if you seek food. If the masters glimpse your face, you will sorely regret it."
His tone carried a note of reluctant kindness, a flicker of pity for the ragged fool standing before him.
Little Monkey smiled faintly, a thin, humourless curve of the mouth. "Uncle, I have traveled from Mount Wuhsan. I must speak with the Gongsun patriarch. It is urgent."
The guard scoffed openly. "The Master does not entertain mere supplicants. Leave now before you are truly harmed."
"I have questions that demand answers," Little Monkey insisted, his voice hardening slightly. "I will not depart until I receive them."
The guard's patience evaporated. "Very well. If you can move past me, I will escort you to him."
He struck—a palm strike, swift, sudden, and brutally effective.
Little Monkey barely managed to shift his body.
But the guard's fingers twisted mid-motion, driving into the boy's chest like a hardened spear.
A sickening crack echoed in the evening air as Little Monkey was violently hurled backward, a fine mist of blood spraying from his lips.
The guard, Wan Tu—known informally as The Flashblade—was no ordinary fighter. Even deliberately holding back, his focused strike should have been enough to fell, perhaps even kill, a normal man.
Yet, Little Monkey struggled back to his feet, alive.
"You… you possess internal energy?" Wan Tu muttered, his professional shock evident. "But no formal martial skill?"
He sighed, his initial ferocity gone, and tossed a small, dark pill to the boy. "Swallow this. It is the Gongsun family's injury remedy. You will live to ask your questions."
Inside the estate's sprawling, grand hall, three figures were seated upon majestic thrones.
The patriarch, Gongsun Yang—regal, unyielding, a picture of absolute power.
The matriarch, Lady Qing Yong—cold, imperious, radiating an oppressive stillness.
And between them, a woman in her late thirties—her legendary beauty untouched by the passage of time, her eyes like polished, frozen daggers.
Gongsun Yong'er. Little Monkey's mother.
"So," the patriarch's voice boomed, resonating with unassailable authority, "you are his's grandson. The oath-breaker allowed you to live. Be utterly grateful for that small mercy. Leave this place now, and never dare to utter our name again. If you do… we shall silence you forever, and truly."
Little Monkey's voice was steady, astonishingly so. "I require two questions answered. Then I will go."
"First… did my own mother agree to my death?"
"Second… where is my father now?"
A chilling, profound silence descended upon the grand hall, thick as winter fog.
Then Yong'er spoke, her voice like the breath of deep winter.
"I will answer. We all saw you as a curse upon our family name. I wholeheartedly agreed to your death. Only Wu Li's desperate plea spared your life—on the absolute condition you were never allowed to learn martial arts."
"As for your father…" Her delicate fingers tightened into a fierce knot on her lap. "We have hunted that man for seventeen long years. His skills surpass even mine. I was defeated by him in a single, humiliating move."
Little Monkey quietly exhaled.
The thorn of doubt in his heart had finally been pulled out.
Yet, in its place, a new one immediately began to fester—a white-hot, uncontrollable Rage.
The rage of the powerless.
The rage of the utterly abandoned.
And unchecked rage, in the martial world, has only one path: it utterly destroys all that lies in its path, friend and foe alike.