Chapter One: Boundless Hatred

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On a summer afternoon, the sun still hung high in the sky, yet the rain was falling even more fiercely.

Annandao, governing the prefectures of Qiuriver and Bronze Moon, lay in the southern waters—a remote borderland of the Qianwu Kingdom.

Annan, Annan—“peaceful south” in name, but in truth a land far from tranquil, overrun by bandits and pirates. Still, the imperial court had dispatched no troops to restore order here.

After all, suppressing these outlaws brought little benefit to the court; it was far better to devote their energies to warring with the Eastern Liang Domain. Moreover, the strength of these bandits was insufficient to draw the attention of Dugu Bancheng, and the officials under him found the task troublesome. No one wished to undertake a thankless job with no profits to be had.

Thus, the name “Annan” became an irony, emboldening the lawless to run even more rampant.

To the north of Annandao stretched wild forests and the Miao South Circuit, separated by the Blackwater River. The river spanned five hundred zhang in width, its current deep and swift—regular boatmen were loath to ferry across it, leaving martial artists to seize the opportunity for profit.

For the people of Annandao, the safest and quickest route to the other twelve circuits was to cross the Blackwater River. Otherwise, they would have to detour through the island nation of Eastern Liang, which was not only costlier but risked leaving them stranded forever on enemy soil.

In Qiuriver Prefecture, Qingyang County, by the Blackwater River, stood Mount No Regret, rising to ninety-three zhang.

Halfway up the mountain, Luo Changning knelt before a stone tablet, his teeth clenched tight. He had been kneeling for a full hour, his back still ramrod straight, his body radiating a fierce tenacity. He was only ten years old, had never seen his father, and half a month ago had lost his mother as well.

His knees had long since gone numb; the sudden downpour chilled him to the bone, yet he had not moved an inch.

He had never practiced martial arts, but his endurance was second to none among children his age! Rain lashed his coarse hempen mourning clothes, tearing gashes in the fabric, but the boy, immersed in grief, seemed oblivious to his own pain and the world around him.

In his eyes, there was nothing but the stone tablet.

From the forest emerged a man in a black cloak and mask, no skin exposed. He strode through the muddy water to stand behind Luo Changning, then, without warning, swung a fist at the boy’s back.

The blow, charged with inner strength, sent Luo Changning’s kneeling body slamming into the stone, blood instantly welling from his forehead. Sprawled in the mud, he tried to see his attacker, but heavy rain kept his eyes tightly shut.

“Are you felled by a single punch? Do you know how powerful your enemy is?” the man’s voice rumbled out, hoarse and muffled as if echoing from within a jar.

Luo Changning, dazed and muddled, heard only the word “enemy” above the rain; nothing else registered.

Struggling to his feet, he wiped rain and mud from his face. When he could finally open his eyes, he tilted his head to look at the masked man. “Cough… Enemy? Who is my enemy…”

“Dugu Bancheng,” the man said slowly, “the Human Emperor of Qianwu, Dugu Bancheng.”

“Dugu Bancheng…” Luo Changning repeated the unfamiliar name, “What grudge does he have against me?”

“The blood feud of your father. Your mother, too, died because of him.” The man seemed to be suppressing something within himself.

“My mother… Didn’t she die of illness?” Luo Changning blinked, blood from his forehead stinging his eyes, but he paid it no mind.

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Luo Changning did not know who this stranger was, but he felt a certainty deep inside. Today, the questions that had long troubled him—the past his aunt had always refused to discuss—would finally find an answer, a reckoning.

Why had his so-called father never appeared after his birth, only for sudden news to come that he had died far away, his body never recovered?

So abrupt was it that no one was prepared. Luo Changning could still remember the despair and grief that hung in the air when the news reached the Su family’s small courtyard—grief from his mother, and… from his aunt as well.

“Your father was Luo Feng, a collateral royal of the former Fengyan Kingdom, and the greatest blade master of the age. His lifelong pursuit was the peak of martial arts. In order to break through to the Tongtian realm, he entered the wild forests seeking opportunity, but was ambushed by old enemies. Though he slew them all, he was gravely wounded, unconscious on the forest’s edge, until your mother, Su Qinqin, rescued him and brought him to the Su estate to recover.”

“Over time, affection blossomed between them. He had resolved to stay by your mother’s side, but Dugu Bancheng launched a coup, war erupted, and as a member of the Fengyan royal family, Luo Feng could not stand idle. In the end, he died on the battlefield. Your mother went mad from grief, her sorrow consuming her, and eventually, she wasted away and died.”

“Therefore, Dugu Bancheng is your mortal enemy. Only by killing him will you be worthy of being called a son.” A note of pain seemed to thread through the man’s voice. “If you wish for revenge, you must learn martial arts; if you wish to learn martial arts, you must bleed. Are you prepared?”

At some point, the rain had stopped. Luo Changning’s hair was in disarray, the wound on his forehead still bleeding, a thin line of red trailing down his face.

Suddenly, he laughed, his words carrying a hatred far beyond his years: “Hahaha, what of the Human Emperor! Dugu Bancheng, one day, you will die by my hand!”

He had only ever known that his mother went mad from news of a father she had barely known, but no one had ever told him that his father was a hero in the eyes of countless martial artists, a man named Luo Feng.

The greatest blade master in the world—what an honor that was! And Luo Feng had earned this title while still only at the Innate Realm; one could only imagine how profound his understanding of the blade must have been. Had he reached the Tongtian Realm, what glories might he have achieved?

While most martial artists prided themselves on the sword, Luo Feng had forged his own path, carving out a bloody legend with his blade.

Luo Changning had never imagined his father was such a figure—someone even he, who had never practiced martial arts, had heard of and admired, whose name had stirred his blood and filled him with longing for the wider world.

A royal scion obsessed with the martial path, who finally took up arms for his family’s honor and fell on the battlefield—how could one not sigh at such a fate!

“Well said! Worthy heir of Luo Feng! But…” The man’s tone turned mocking.

“But what?” Luo Changning could not see through this man, shrouded from finger to toe, but he knew this stranger was to be the guide on his path of vengeance. He had no choice but to trust him.

“Heh heh,” the man cackled, adding an eerie note to the rain-washed forest, “but I am only a Postnatal Inner Strength martial artist. There’s not much I can do for you. Still, I can be your first master.”

Luo Changning knelt, bowing three times in the muddy water. “Disciple Luo Changning greets Master. A day as teacher, a lifetime as father. I will study diligently and never betray your kindness this day.”

“A day as teacher, a lifetime as father… Do not forget your words today.”

“I will remember.”

On the Yaohua Continent, teachers of the martial way fell into three categories: Master, Mentor, and Instructor.

A martial artist could only bow to one Master in their life—a bond as profound as that between parent and child, both teacher and father. To acknowledge another as Master or join another sect after pledging oneself was to betray one’s lineage, warranting expulsion and universal condemnation.

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Between martial artists and Mentors, the relationship was that of instructor and apprentice—a martial artist could have several Mentors and learn different skills, but must always respect and never betray them.

Lastly, there were Instructors, hired to teach martial arts for a fee—a transactional relationship. Still, most martial artists treated their Instructors with respect, a mark of their bearing and upbringing.

“Very well. From now on, come to this tablet at the third quarter of the Mao hour each day—I will teach you martial arts.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Go back down the mountain now. Your family will be worried.”

“Disciple takes his leave.” Remembering his Aunt Su Meng, Luo Changning hurried away, afraid she would be anxious.

On Mount No Regret, only the man in black remained, every inch concealed, silently gazing at Su Qinqin’s tombstone. After a long time, he removed his cloak and laid it before the stone, lighting it with a fire striker.

He, too, wore coarse hempen mourning clothes, yet the noble aura that clung to him could not be hidden. His eyes were as dark as ink. As if speaking to himself, he murmured, “What I have done today—right or wrong—it must be done…”

Luo Changning hurried down Mount No Regret, weaving through alleys and streets, and was home to the Su family’s small courtyard in less time than it took to burn a stick of incense.

In truth, the courtyard was not small—there were twelve side rooms, three gardens (front, middle, and rear) with a lotus pond, three studies, and two apothecaries. Yet compared to the Su family’s estate in the Miao South Circuit, it was nothing.

The Su family had once been renowned for their mastery of poisons, but their numbers had dwindled, and by the generation of Su Qinqin’s father, Su Zhen, the main bloodline was nearly extinct. Su Zhen, deeply devoted, sired two daughters with his wife but no sons. Rather than remarry, he adopted Su Qinqin’s cousin, Wen Rugong, as his son and taught him the family’s secret arts.

Wen Rugong was exceptionally gifted, a prodigy in the art of poison. Su Zhen had high hopes for him, instructing him with all his heart, but fate was unkind—when Wen was fourteen, both Su Zhen and his wife passed away.

The vast Su estate was left to Wen Rugong, the sisters Su Qinqin and Su Meng, and some sixty-odd servants.

Later, when Prince Wuling—Dugu Bancheng—rebelled, Luo Feng went to war. Less than two months later, the three cousins dismissed the servants and fled to Qingyang County, where they opened a small clinic.

Soon after, Luo Changning was born. But before he could enjoy a mother’s love, news came of Luo Feng’s death in battle; Su Qinqin, still in her confinement, was driven mad, her hair turning white overnight, and she never recovered.

…

“Aunt!” Luo Changning called as soon as he entered the courtyard, spotting Su Meng in the pavilion.

At that moment, Su Meng was gently fanning the little stove on the stone table. Something was cooking atop it, the water boiling with a gurgling sound, the air filled with the scent of ginger and brown sugar.

At his call, Su Meng turned to look at her nephew, who came running toward her.