The world of the martial arts…
For the moment, a chilling calm reigned. Yet, the martial world is founded upon two terrible pillars: blood and the blade. When the appointed time arrives, the blade must leave its sheath, and it will inevitably thirst for blood.
Jiangling City stood at a crucial nexus, a prosperous town built upon the confluence of major trade routes. Its position as a vital hub of transport ensured a steady influx of wealth and a significant presence of powerful merchants.
Serving as a key artery between the east, west, north, and south of the Middle Kingdom, the city was perpetually bustling with trade, punctuated by the passage of martial artists and heavily armed security convoys.
However, Jiangling City possessed a unique distinction owed to one man—a native son, born and raised within its walls.
He was known for his pure heart, kindness, and formidable martial skill. He championed the virtuous, scorned the wicked, and helped all who crossed his path.
His name was Southern Mountain Palm, Thunderous Fury.
Yes, my friend. Southern Mountain Palm, Thunderous Fury. He had begun his solitary roam through the jianghu at the age of twenty and was now close to sixty.
After four decades spent under the shadow of the sword, he had finally retired, living a quiet life among his dedicated disciples.
Then, one day, the entire city of Jiangling was rocked by a horrific revelation. Southern Mountain Palm, Thunderous Fury, was found dead in the very flower garden of his own estate. There were no wounds on his body—save for five distinct, dark holes bored into his head, from which blood slowly, agonizingly trickled. It was the signature of a brutal, cold-blooded martial technique. The killer's skill was undeniably supreme.
After all, Southern Mountain Palm, Thunderous Fury was no common man; he was a top-tier master, a legend of exceptional internal energy and mastery of the most advanced, hard-style techniques. For such a titan to be slain with such chilling ease, there was no need to question the killer's terrifying prowess.
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The Jingshen Sect
The Jingshen Sect had always stood at the pinnacle of the martial world, its reputation rivaling ancient, celebrated orders like Shaolin, Wudang, Emei, and Kunlun. By some, it was regarded as the single brightest, most unassailable star in the martial constellation.
The Sect's strength was immense, with major branch headquarters spread throughout the Middle Kingdom, each commanded by highly skilled martial masters. Their Sect Leader, Gao Yanglie, was a figure of exceptional power, his "Ghost-Subduing Forked Fist" technique renowned for its intricacy and deadly effect.
Then, the unimaginable happened: all four major Jingshen Sect branch headquarters in the Jiannan region were simultaneously annihilated. Not a single survivor remained. Every corpse bore the identical, ghastly hallmark: five holes in the head.
The Jingshen Sect was arguably the most powerful faction in the entire martial world. To provoke them was worse than stirring a thousand hornets' nests. Yet, the killer had openly and arrogantly challenged them.
Only a madman would dare provoke such a colossal power. Or perhaps, the killer's martial skill surpassed even that of the Shaolin Abbot himself?
In response, the Jingshen Sect's top fighters, including the formidable Sect Leader Gao Yanglie himself, descended into the jianghu to investigate.
The entire martial world spiraled into turmoil. The grim cycle of blood and steel had begun anew. The stench of blood filled the very air.
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Shao Sang, The Reaper of Blades
The Reaper of Blades, Shao Sang, was the preeminent assassin in the dark currents of the martial underworld.
His name alone was enough to silence a crying child and make stray dogs tuck their tails in fear. His chilling motto was simple: "One swing of the blade, one life taken."
Countless high-level martial artists had fallen before the sheer deadliness of his "Eighteen Deadly Blade Techniques." His movements were ruthless, brutal, and every single stroke was aimed for a decisive kill.
A man whose blade would not rest until it drank blood—yet one evening, he could no longer draw his weapon. Because his head had been cleanly severed from his body.
His severed head was found mounted upon the Jade Bridge in Haokan City for all to see. And upon that head—five holes.
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The old Chinese sage Fu Jianxian once declared, "Time is like a farmer's scythe." Time does not wait. It marches forward relentlessly, does it not?
Hour by hour, day by day, like the scythe cutting through the rice stalks, the present becomes the past, and the future becomes the past. Such is the inevitable, inexorable passage.
The world was swathed in mist. Soon, the sun would rise, timidly attempting to pierce the thick haze. It was the season when days grew short and nights became long and cold.
A young man walked slowly along a forest path, his head bowed in private thought. His hair was a wild mess, strands falling across his shoulders. His clothes were filthy, covered in layers of ingrained grime.
He looked like a starving beggar—or perhaps a wandering madman. His face was grotesquely ill-formed, with strange, wide features and unusually long fingers, lending him that disturbing resemblance to a monkey.
This young man was none other than "Little Monkey" Wu Jiao. He had been searching for his missing father for months now.
But how could he hope to find a man whose face he did not know? Searching for a nameless phantom across the vast expanse of China was akin to looking for a single needle in a boundless haystack.
Little Monkey had been wandering for months, yet he never once neglected his internal energy training—the foundational method of the Quanzhen Sect bestowed upon him by the old beggar. A warm energy circulated swiftly and powerfully within his core.
For him, this training was more than discipline; it was a potent measure against starvation. Living hand-to-mouth, hunger was his constant companion. But days without food would turn mere starvation into a fatal crisis.
After practicing the Quanzhen method, his hunger would subside, and his depleted energy would replenish itself. His endurance had improved dramatically, making his endless, nomadic walking effortless—perfect for his life on the road.
Another benefit was a preternatural heightening of his hearing. He could now discern faint, distant sounds with startling clarity.
Then, he heard it—a faint, guttural groan. The sound was so weak that the person seemed on the absolute verge of death. Little Monkey rushed toward the source.
What he saw left him stunned and sickened…
Bodies. So many bodies. A clearing filled with the dead, their demise gruesome and varied.
Some had their heads split wide open. Others had their bellies brutally torn apart, their intestines spilling out onto the dirt. A few had limbs savagely severed.
The most bizarre, haunting detail? Nearly every single corpse bore the chilling mark of five holes in the head. The killer was merciless, an utter monster.
Then, another groan. Little Monkey turned and saw an elderly man, blood streaming from his head, barely clinging to consciousness. The man carried the unmistakable bearing of a leader.
Seeing that the man was still alive, Little Monkey approached him.
"Uncle, what horror happened here?"
Hearing the voice, the man painfully strained to open his eyes. They were already dimming, losing their light.
"Who… are you, young man?"
"My name is Little Monkey."
The man seemed to slump in disappointment.
"Ah… you are not of the martial world."
"That is right. I am searching for my father. I know no martial arts."
The man coughed weakly, his life ebbing away.
"Young man… I am the Master of White Horse Fortress. In my inner vest… are my martial notes… Take them… Then, please… go to the Shaolin Temple… Tell them… the Nine Yin Manual has resurfaced…"
Before he could finish the desperate plea, his head slumped forward, and he breathed his last.
The air reeked of iron and blood. The sun was setting, a vivid red scar on the horizon. Soon, the wolves and scavengers would come, eager to feast on the corpses.
Little Monkey picked up a discarded shovel and dug a large, arduous pit. He gathered the mangled bodies and buried them together.
In time, they would all return to the earth. Wealth, status, martial prowess—what did any of it matter in death? A man's final possession was merely six feet of cold, unforgiving dirt.
His act of kindness had cost him half a precious day. But it was not without reward—among the dead, he found a considerable sum of silver. Enough to continue his journey.
More valuable still were the martial notes of the White Horse Fortress Master. A fresh thorn had been driven into his heart—the memory of the Gongsun family estate. To uproot it, to erase its cruelty from the martial world, he knew he desperately needed to master martial arts.
His body was deemed unfit for training. He accepted this cold fact. But he would not surrender. In time, even a thin, seemingly weak ox could learn to plow the fields.
After completing the burial, he left the grove of death behind him.
Above, the moon began to play among the emerging stars, as if to softly ask: Where are you going now, little human?
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White Horse Fortress
White Horse Fortress had once been a name renowned in the martial world. Its lineage boasted powerful, brave, and deeply heroic martial artists.
The Fortress Master, Chang Manyu's "Cloud-Piercing Palm—Twelve Strikes" was a technique that commanded universal respect.
Now, the master of White Horse Fortress and his comrades lay dead in an unnamed grove. White Horse Fortress had effectively vanished from the martial world.
Little Monkey studied the martial notes as he traveled. They contained the fort master's lifetime of techniques—though only a fragmented fraction.
Still, it was infinitely better than nothing. Little Monkey dedicated himself to mastering the ten unarmed techniques recorded in the notes.
Practice makes perfect. The more sweat he shed now, the less blood might be spilled later. Mastering one skill thoroughly was always superior to merely dabbling in many.
His only other training was the profound internal energy method taught by the old beggar. He practiced it daily without fail.
Now, he had also achieved a fearsome mastery over the ten unarmed techniques from the notes. He could execute them effortlessly, even in his sleep or if he stumbled. He had drilled them until they were completely second nature.
As he walked, he practiced. His new, desperate destination? The Shaolin Temple—the beacon of the entire martial world, and the venerable source of all martial arts.