Wandering through desolate mounds and wild hills where foxes and hares roamed, the sword-bearing man suddenly halted before an unremarkable gravestone. He stepped beside a modest burial mound, crouched down, and brushed away the tangled vines coiled around the stone, revealing its weather-worn face. The inscription had long since faded, only a few fragmented characters could be faintly discerned. The man sighed softly, "The divine path has collapsed; rites and music once flourished. Now begins the grand contention of the Hundred Schools."
As he rose, he caught sight of the disciple who had yet to formally apprentice himself to Zhenwu Mountain or pay homage to his ancestors. The youth stood facing the direction they had come from, blood trickling from the corners of his mouth, his ears, and nose, giving his dark face a ghastly, twisted appearance. He raised an arm and wiped the blood away with rough, careless swipes, yet his gaze remained fixed.
The man spoke: "Ma Kuxuan, according to the reason you gave, it was because you discovered that the foreign girl used her flying sword technique to ally with a prince of the Great Sui and a eunuch, and together they slew your first master. This caused an unresolvable knot in your heart, and you felt you must take vengeance before leaving the town. I found this reasoning sound and thus did not hinder you—left you to your own fate. After all, in cultivation, encountering such a formidable foe is both peril and opportunity."
However, the man's voice grew stern. He showed no favoritism despite the youth's exceptional talent. "But why are you targeting that peer from Niping Alley? I've already warned you: As a martial cultivator of Zhenwu Mountain, especially one on the path of the sword, you must never spill innocent blood!"
The youth ignored the question and asked, "Aren't martial cultivators the least concerned with karmic retribution and the whims of fate?"
The man nodded. "A glance through the annals of the past millennium shows that those who turned the tide of chaos with a single arm were often saints of the military path. I say this not to extol my own lineage but to honor the deeds of our forebears."
He fixed his gaze on the boy, unwilling to let him off lightly. If Ma Kuxuan were bloodthirsty and prone to tyranny, what purpose would there be in accepting such a disciple into Zhenwu Mountain? Martial cultivators gain strength through life-and-death battles on the battlefield—always treading the edge of mortality. If they fail to hold fast to their core beliefs, they easily fall into demonic paths. Imagine a cultivator wielding military power, capable of annihilating cities and kingdoms with ease—how terrifying a prospect. The military and Confucian traditions together uphold the peace of the mundane world. Should a respected martial cultivator become morally corrupt, the higher their cultivation and the loftier their courtly rank, the more devastating their influence would be. History is filled with such dire precedents. Winning the hearts of the people is arduous; losing them is all too easy. Though this saying comes from the Confucian sages, many martial generals, well-read in the classics, deeply understand and accept this truth.
The youth seemed to sense the weight in the air. He did not rush to defend himself. Instead, he raised a hand and gently covered his bleeding ear. Pain jolted through him, and he grimaced, sucking in a sharp breath before pulling his hand back and staring at the blood smeared in his palm.
"That boy's name is Chen Ping'an," he said. "His father died when he was very young. The man had been a skilled and honest kiln worker in town, but one day he suddenly dropped dead. His body was never found. Though my grandmother never admitted it, I remember it vividly. It was a stormy night, with thunder and lightning cracking across the sky. The noise woke me, and when I noticed my grandmother wasn't beside me, I crept to the door. Through the crack, I saw my father sneaking back inside, looking both thrilled and terrified. My mother was pounding his back with joy, smiling so wide her face could barely contain it."
The boy furrowed his brow, straining to recall the bleak fragments of his childhood. "Only my grandmother said nothing. She looked angry, scolded my father fiercely: 'You think just because the child's father is dead, you now have a chance to marry her? Have you looked in the mirror? That branch of the Chen family in Niping Alley has always had only one child per generation. You're not afraid you'll doom them all? That the line will be severed forever? And then suffer the wrath of their ancestors' spirits?' She even said, 'Even if you step back and pretend none of that matters, do you really think that woman would remarry you? Do you even know her heart?' My father only grinned sheepishly. He probably felt he'd already done the deed, and the reward was within reach, so why pretend to feel guilt? My grandmother cursed my mother to her face. My mother, no gentle soul, nearly came to blows with her. My father took my mother's side, of course—he'd always been fickle, the kind no neighbor in town liked. In the end, my grandmother collapsed to the ground, beating her chest and crying to the family shrine, wailing that the Ma family had invited a jinx into the house, and the ancestors would never rest in peace."
The man followed the thread of the boy's story. "So, you wish to bear the weight of past sins—of karmic debts you did not incur—so that your grandmother and your parents might have peace?"
Ma Kuxuan bared his teeth in a grin. "I don't care much for my parents. It's only my grandmother I can't let go of. She refuses to come with me to Zhenwu Mountain. She says she must be buried beside my grandfather. If she were to go to that faraway place, several thousand miles away, then either I'd have to carry her urn back myself, or, worse, her soul would have to walk a long and painful road before burial. She's suffered enough in life—she doesn't want to suffer in death."
The man replied, "Understandable, but still unjustifiable. This time, I'll let it pass. There won't be a second."
Ma Kuxuan curled his lip, his face cold. He neither nodded nor objected, gave no assent, no denial.
The man chuckled and added salt to the wound: "So, how did it feel to be beaten and pinned to the ground by someone your age?"
Ma Kuxuan roared in anger, "If that girl hadn't secretly given him a knife, how could I have lost to Chen Ping'an?! I was only using seventy percent of my strength! I was toying with him—like a cat with a mouse—"
The man laughed dryly. "Cat and mouse? Don't flatter yourself. You wanted to kill Chen Ping'an with seventy percent of your power while lulling that girl into dropping her guard. Two birds with one stone. Clever plan, I admit."
The youth flushed with shame, his voice defiant: "So whose disciple are you really?"
The man burst into hearty laughter.
They resumed their journey toward the town. The youth asked, "Compared to Zhengyang Mountain, is Zhenwu Mountain higher or lower?"
The man grinned. "Do you want the truth or a lie?"
The boy rolled his eyes. "The lie."
The man replied, "Then we're about the same."
The boy sighed in sorrow, feeling he'd truly picked the wrong masters—one mysteriously slain in Qilong Alley, the other full of rules and modest talent.
The man said, "Zhengyang Mountain is publicly known as a holy land for sword cultivation, but among the cultivators of Eastern Baoping Continent, its standing falls short of its nemesis, Wind and Thunder Garden. It's not viewed as a first-rate sect—at least, not on the surface. But in truth, Zhengyang Mountain has deep foundations. Only after a feud in the past did they fall into disgrace, while Wind and Thunder Garden produced a sword cultivator of such genius, it forced Zhengyang Mountain into centuries of silent endurance…"
Ma Kuxuan snapped, "No matter how you praise them, it doesn't change the fact that Zhenwu Mountain is inferior to Zhengyang."
The man laughed. "You misunderstand. The difference between Zhenwu Mountain and Zhengyang Mountain… is about the size of one Zhengyang Mountain."
The youth blinked, then broke into a smile, finally catching the man's meaning. "Now that's more like it!"
The man reminded, "A sect is a sect. You are you."
The short-statured youth smirked. "You're the one who misunderstood. I meant that since Zhenwu Mountain is this lofty, once I've mastered the martial path, I won't have to look far for worthy opponents. I won't be surrounded by embroidered pillows and wine…"