Jiyun Mountain.
Soaring up to 600 zhangs, its terrain is imposing.
In the depths of the mountain lies the strongest underworld faction in Panguan, Jianbei Mountain City.
Jianbei Mountain City, the Palace of Hate, and Tianyu Tower are together known as the three major underworld factions of Panguan.
Cold-hearted and self-willed in their actions, these three factions carry out deeds that are morally wrong and lawlessly evil, making them the most dreaded and despised by those in the righteous martial world and orthodox factions.
Among the three factions, Jianbei Mountain City holds even more power, being the master of the underworld for many years.
The primary reason for this power lies in the current city master of Jianbei Mountain City, "Sword-carrying Old Man". This old man is unquestionably powerful, invincible in battles, and has been holding the title of the most powerful person in Panguan for fifty years. The number of righteous and evil masters dying at his hands is innumerable.
His most extraordinary skill seems as if he could anticipate his enemy's attacks, intercepting them midway. Without exception, regardless of how skilled or quick his opponents are, this technique undeniably exceeds the realms of reactive strikes.
However, how he manages this remains a mystery to all.
Among those close to him, his eldest disciple is the one who's always inquisitive, always assuming that the Sword-carrying Old Man still has more tricks up his sleeve that he hasn't taught him. However, Old Man replies, saying it is merely because he possesses a spiritual sense that goes beyond that of an ordinary person.
Now, this first man of Panguan is reaching the end of his life.
...
At the top of Jiyun Mountain, houses are scattered about in clusters, closely packed, almost like a small city.
In the deepest recess, in a dimly lit room with a fluttering white ribbon, an elderly man lies on the bed, his eyes are blank yet peaceful.
His wrinkles are as shriveled as a dried tangerine peel, a distressing symbol of the ruthless onslaught of time. Age spots blur on his face, his complexion ashen. His once robust body now withered like a old tree, his once intimidating bright eyes are now dull and muddied. His once strong hands are now skinny and emaciated, altogether showing signs of a man on the verge of death.
The man was none other than Fù Jiàn, the old swordsman. He was now a hundred years old, which was, of course, a long life compared to the average mortal. However, he was ultimately no match for the passage of time.
In his youth, Fù Jiàn was fond of luxury and power, and loved being the center of attention. After becoming the top man in Pán Nation, his nature gradually mellowed, and he finally let go of his obsession with fame and wealth. Therefore, his palace was quite spartan. There was nothing more than a table, a chair, and a bed, not even an extra stool.
His beloved One-Sided Love Sword, which he never parted with, had long been handed down to his most accomplished second disciple.
Fù Jiàn, the old swordsman, lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, with a complex expression on his face, lost in his thoughts.
Meanwhile, on the floor not far from the bed, eleven or twelve men, women, elderlies, and youngsters kneeled. They were all important figures from the Jian Bei Mountain City.
In the front row, two people knelt side by side. On the left was a man in his thirties, tall and sturdy, with a narrow face, deep-set eyes, and a calm demeanor. He was dressed in a royal blue brocade robe, which made him look somewhat aloof. He was Leng Qianqiu, Fù Jiàn's eldest disciple.
Despite being only thirty-five, Leng Qianqiu was already one of the most famous masters among the middle-aged generation in the Pán Nation. Known as the Sword Tyrant, he loved power and had an extremely independent character. His ruthless killing intent surpassed even that of Fù Jiàn in his youth. Many sorcerers predicted that if Leng Qianqiu were to take over from Fù Jiàn as the new ruler of Jian Bei Mountain City, the tripartite underworld situation in Pán Nation would swiftly destabilize, triggering another massive wave of bloodshed in the martial arts world.
Next to Leng Qianqiu was Fù Jiàn's third disciple, the "Lady in Red" Shu Chuchu. She was Fù Jiàn's later-life disciple, only twenty-four this year, and had fully inherited her master's mellow nature, having no interest in power.
Of course, no words were needed to describe Shu Chuchu's appearance. She was dainty and beautiful; her most captivating aspect was her red dress that hovered like fire, seemingly a fairy in the flames from afar. She was pursued by many, but being of noble character, she was unimpressed by all.
Behind the two were both men and women, old and young, all maintaining subdued auras and solemn expressions but hinting at their wilfulness.
Everyone had been kneeling for over half an hour. Fù Jiàn had not spoken a word, but no one dared to show signs of impatience. Even though Fù Jiàn was close to death, he could still take most of their lives in a few moments.
…
"Qianqiu, after I die, you will become the master of Jian Bei Mountain City", Fù Jiàn finally spoke. His voice was faint and weak, but the majesty of his words allowed no room for doubt.
"Yes, Master!"
Leng Qianqiu responded solemnly, a sigh of relief flashed in the depths of his dark and profound pupils.
This was what he had always dreamed of. Finally, he did not have to wait too long. Although the old man Fù Jiàn had long handed over all the affairs of the mountain city to him, without the identity of the city lord, for him who was obsessed with power, it was always a knotty issue.
If the old man Fù Jiàn did not pass the city lord title to him for a long time, or passed it to someone else, Leng Qianqiu did not know what he might do.
The old man Fù Jiàn seemed to see through his mood, and pulled a somewhat bitter and helpless smile on his face like old tree bark, and said kindly, "Child, there will come a day when you will be like me, see through all the mundane power affairs, no longer linger, but just feel that everything you pursue now is but a joke."
Upon hearing this, Leng Qianqiu finally shows sadness on his cool face. His body starts shaking slightly. He suddenly recalls that he once was an orphan and it was the old man Fù Jiàn who brought him up the mountain and carefully taught him, which led to his success today. In his heart, the old man Fù Jiàn was both a mentor and a fatherly figure, but his confusion and remorse had only started when the old man withheld the title for too long, gradually weakening their bond.
"Master——"
Leng Qianqiu lets out a sorrowful cry, kneels and takes few steps forward towards the old man Fù Jiàn, his eyes trembling slightly.
"If there truly comes such a day, I will not hesitate and choose the most appropriate successor for our mountain city. But before that, let me indulge in the joy and satisfaction that power brings me!"
Even if obsessed with power, Leng Qianqiu does not think he has done anything wrong. He is tenacious, steadfast and unyielding in his self-dedicated path.
The old man Fù Jiàn extends his withered palm, grabs his hand and smiles, "Qianqiu, you really are a lot like me. I too once thought the same way.”
Leng Qianqiu remains silent, his face mournful.
"I pass my position onto Qianqiu, anyone has any objections?"
The old man Fù Jiàn sternly questioned the crowd behind Leng Qianqiu and Shu Chuchu. With a suddenly cold, majestic aura emanating from his turbid eyes blooming with brilliance, it was intimidating and enveloped in a chilly air.
Everyone shudders, exchanging glances before quickly and orderly affirming, "No objections!"
The old man Fù Jiàn scans everyone one by one, and finally nods slightly. He doesn't issue any additional warnings. He believes that his senior disciple can handle anything that comes their way.
A moment later, the old man turned to Leng Qianqiu and said, "After my death, when Lihan Demon Palace and Tianyu Tower, as well as those so-called righteous guys receive the news, there will certainly be a stir. Qianqiu, I'm entrusting this to you. When it's time to be ruthless, remember, don’t ever show mercy!"
By the end of his speech, the murderous aura was brimming, showing the domineering spirit of a hero.
"Master, don't worry. I’ve never learned to show mercy," Leng Qianqiu responded icily. The sorrow on his face had been tucked away, replaced with the coldest indifference.
The Old Man who Carries the Sword nodded in satisfaction and looked at his youngest disciple, "Red-Clothes Girl" Shu Chuchu.
“Master.”
Before the Old Man Who Carries The Sword could say a word, Shu Chuchu knelt down. Her hands, as pure as white jade, had already taken hold of the old man’s. Upon feeling his cold body temperature, she injected a pure internal force into him.
Although her face bore a lovely smile, it was filled with sorrow; pitiable as tears glistened in her eyes.
"Chuchu, after my death, wherever you want to go, just go," his voice was unusually gentle. The Sword Carrying Old Man had always been very indulgent towards his only female disciple. He added, "If you're tired or wronged, come back. I believe Qianqiu and Junmei will stand up for you."
Upon hearing this, Shu Chuchu's tears fell like pearls off a snapped thread. She nodded continuously but could not find the words to speak.
Her feelings for The Old Man Who Carries The Sword were equally complex. With her pure innate nature, she managed to remain untainted despite being in a mired situation. On one hand, she was grateful to the old man for accepting her as a disciple and teaching her literacy and martial arts. On the other hand, she detested the darkness and ugliness of the Sword North Mountain Sect. If not for the old man’s deteriorating health, she would have left long ago.
The Old Man Who Carries The Sword, shaking his head with a wry smile, said self-deprecatingly, "In my life, I have been called sinister, evil, cruel, and cold-blooded. Yet, of the three disciples I have, two are unlike me. It really is a great joke!"
Everyone remained silent.
"Where is Junmei now?"
The Sword-bearing Daoist heaved a sigh, and finally asked about his last disciple.
With a solemn face, Leng Qiuqiu respectfully replied, "The second brother's been wandering the world alone for five years. Seeing him is like catching glimpses of a mythical dragon — even I can't pinpoint his exact whereabouts. But he's for sure somewhere in Pan country. I have sent the elites of Mountain City to look for him. Master, there is no need to worry. He will be back soon."
The old sword-bearing man nodded his head, a complicated look rising in his eyes.
A complexity that even Leng Qiuqiu couldn't fathom — elusive, ethereal, tinged with deep regret.
…
The mountains tinted green, the setting sun dyed blood-red.
This is the north of Pan country, a perilous place overrun by bandits, called the Ten Thousand Luo Mountain. A faction called Ghost Willow Den inhabited the mountain. Most members of the Ghost Willow Den were flagrant villains who had painted their hands with countless lives' worth of blood. But because of the mountain's dangerous terrain — and the more potent backers behind the den, despite their numerous heinous acts over the years, no one could do them any harm.
Today, corpses littered the Ghost Willow Den, blood flowing like rivers.
At the peak of the mountain, there was not a trace of human noise, nothing but deadly silence. Even the beasts had ceased their cries in terror of the slaughter.
The man who brought death and caused them to bleed their foul blood was a tall, handsome man. His features hidden beneath a bamboo hat, he was clothed in stark white warrior robes. One hand rested on a long sword while the other held a sake bottle. He drank heartily, an image of ease yet valiant prowess emanating from his figure. He was an impressive sight indeed.
"Exactly who are you? How dare you butcher our Ghost Willow Den! Do you even know the relationship between our Ghost Willow Den and the Hall of Spiteful Demons?"
Two men were confronting each other at the top of the mountain!
The shout came from a blood-soaked cultivator.
This man was covered in blood, intense wounds closely covered his body. Fresh blood seemed to burst from every inch of his skin, even his face was no exception. As a result, his appearance was barely discernible, hidden beneath a face covered in scars.
Despite this, the man did not die. He appeared to be sword wounded, only an exceptionally skilled swordsman could achieve such precision.
"My name is Fang Junmei!"
His voice magnetic and soothing, calm and profound. The man in white lifted the bamboo hat worn atop his head and flung it casually aside. The hat traced a beautiful arc in mid-air before landing in the grass.
The man revealed his face. He appeared to be a youth in his early twenties, fair-skinned and handsome, with distinct features. Particularly striking were his two eyebrows -- thick, long as a sword and straight, inked as if with strokes of a brush, extremely pleasing to the eye. His long, black hair was loosely gathered into a 'hero's bun', half of it falling loosely over his shoulders, slightly disheveled, flowing freely with the wind.
An exceptionally brilliant smile hung at the corners of his mouth, revealing rows of snow-white teeth radiating intense warmth. The pupils of his eyes, dark as night, twinkled with star-like brightness, making him instantly likeable.
"So, you're Fang Junmei from the Sword Northern Mountain City?"
The man in the bloody robe asked, not quite believing what he was hearing. This name was too well-known, too sensational. In his early twenties, Fang Junmei had already become a martial arts expert of the 'Innate Realm'. Throughout the history of the River and Lake in the Pan Kingdom, there were not many like him. He was held in the highest regard in the world of swordsmanship, recognized as a genius.
"I am Fang Junmei."
The man in white nodded again, his smile still there, his eyes shining even brighter.
"Belonging to the same underworld, there's no bad blood between us, the Ghost Willow Cave, and your Sword Northern Mountain City. The Palace of Departed Grudges even respects your city greatly. Why did you choose to provoke our Ghost Willow Cave?"
At hearing these words, the corners of Fang Junem's mouth curled up even wider. With a broad sunlit smile, he retorted, "Who says people of the underworld can't uphold justice?"
Whoosh!
Fang Junmei pulled out his sword, and a green sword light separated from the sword body, flitting towards the man's throat. His move was light, agile and natural, free of any hesitation or clumsiness.
Bang!
Blood spattered. The man in the bloody robe collapsed heavily onto the ground.
Fang Junmei slightly glanced at the man, his smile gradually fading, his face growing cold. After taking a long sip of his drink, he discarded the empty pouch and walked away with an air of abandonment.
The sun seemed to only shine on him, casting a resplendent glow on his figure.
Dressed in white, riding a raging horse, living by the sword; uncaring of the future, untouched by the world's dust!
These were valiant and heroic young years belonging to Fang Junmei.
