The amber sun hung low on the horizon, its dying rays casting long, stretching shadows across the earth. One such shadow clung to the heels of a young boy playing joyfully in the garden.
The seven- or eight-year-old boy suddenly tripped and fell, his knee striking the earth and scraping the skin. Crimson blood welled from the wound. The sight instantly brought tears to his eyes, and his relentless wailing drew the attention of everyone around.
From among the onlookers, a pair of strong hands reached out, gently lifting the small body from the dust.
The boy knew this embrace well. The moment he felt it, his crying miraculously ceased.
"Mengyi (孟义), why weep over such a trifling scratch? Are you not a strong young man?"
"Father... my knee is bleeding."
"A man may bleed, but he must never weep."
The boy looked up, his eyes still glistening.
"Everyone cries when it hurts. Or have you truly never shed a tear, Father?"
The man fell silent for a moment before answering plainly.
"Father... has no tears left to shed."
The boy furrowed his brow in confusion.
"How is that possible? The other day when Mother disciplined me, she cried too. Mother still has tears. Why don't you, Father?"
"When one has no tears, naturally, one cannot shed them."
The boy tilted his head.
"But tears flow from the eyes. Sometimes, even when I just yawn, tears spill out. If you have no tears, Father, doesn't that make you the strangest person in the world?"
The man let out a soft chuckle.
"Perhaps a little strange, but not the strangest. At the very least, there is another out there just like Father."
The boy shook his head.
"I know you aren't the strangest person, Father. You are the greatest master in the martial world."
The man shook his head slightly.
"No one dares to claim the title of the absolute greatest."
"But everyone under the heavens says you are peerless. Even I have heard this since I was little."
"Those are mere rumors of the martial world. Do not believe them entirely."
The boy fell quiet for a moment before asking another question.
"Then, who truly deserves to be called peerless?"
The man gazed into the distance, as if recalling a memory from long ago.
"There might be one... who is worthy of that title."
"Is it Uncle Ouyang?"
"Your Uncle Ouyang is a rare master indeed. His Dragon Scale Art is incredibly profound. Across the entire realm, fewer than ten could stand against him."
"Then what about Mother's throwing knives? Are they peerless?"
The man smiled faintly.
"Your mother's throwing knives cannot yet compare to your grandmother's."
"So, is Grandmother peerless?"
"Your grandmother might be one of the top ten masters in the martial world, but to call her peerless would still be an overstatement."
"Is Grandmother superior to Uncle Ouyang, then?"
"They are masters from different eras. In a true battle, it would be difficult to say who would emerge the victor."
The boy pondered for a moment before declaring confidently.
"In that case, the only one fitting that title is you, Father."
The man shook his head.
"Father... has tasted defeat."
The boy's eyes widened.
"You were defeated, Father? Why have I never heard of this?"
"Many know of it, yet no one ever speaks of it."
"Were you truly defeated, Father?"
"In this life... no one escapes tasting defeat."
The boy fell silent before asking in a hushed voice.
"What was the name of the man who defeated you, Father?"
The man answered slowly.
"Once, people called him... the Merry Meanderer (乐游者)."
The boy murmured the name repeatedly.
"Merry Meanderer... Merry Meanderer... Merry Meanderer..."
The man looked down at his son.
"Mengyi, do you find this moniker amusing?"
The boy shook his head firmly.
"I am etching this name into my memory. Because one day, when I am grown, I will seek him out and reclaim honor for our Shi family."
Shi Muoyong looked at his son's youthful face, silently observing the fierce resolve in his eyes.
Perhaps... this was the very purpose of a man's life.
Though the future might shift and legends might fade, this resolve had already taken root.
And one day, what seemed impossible might just become reality.
Shi Muoyong smiled faintly, his right hand rising unconsciously to touch the left side of his chest.
The phantom pain of that day remained etched deep within his memory.
Within the curtain of dust that day, had that fist advanced even a fraction of an inch further, his life would have been extinguished.
The Nine Heavens Armor Art (九天战甲真气) was not an invincible technique.
Because it... had been broken.
It was broken by a destructive force that could not be absorbed, could not be reflected, and could not be withstood.
That force was absolute.
That power was a fist capable of shattering the Nine Heavens Armor.
That power was...
The Ninefold Heaven-Piercing Fist (九天破拳).
And that man was...
The Merry Meanderer (乐游者), Jin Tianwang (金天王).
A man who only knew how to smile, and knew not how to weep.