Forgotten Tale of Jianghu

Just as Xin Long was lost in his own thoughts, a sudden curse echoed from the martial artist sitting directly in front of him.

"Hey, you dog! What are you staring at me for? Hmph, speak up…"

The voice, laced with irritation and anger from being watched too closely, flowed into Xin Long's ears like a soft, calming tune—sweet and almost pleasant. It was the very sound he'd been longing to hear—a furious outburst. The speaker's hand gripped the hilt of the sword hanging from his waist, and his eyes, burning with rage, glared at Xin Long as if ready to strike.

Unbothered, Xin Long gave a slight shrug and casually glanced around the tavern. Curious eyes flickered his way, a silent anticipation brewing in the air. Some expected a fight to break out at any moment, while others—ordinary folk—fumbled and scrambled to slip outside, afraid of getting caught in the crossfire.

He caught sight of their panicked retreat and let a faint, twisted smile creep onto his face. Deep within, he steadied his breathing, subtly channeling his inner strength in preparation.

Xin Long practiced the Fire Internal Force—a martial art with nine levels, of which he had only mastered four. This Fire Internal Force was used in combination with 18 palm strikes, forming what was known as the Fire Palm Technique.

The higher one's internal force level, the greater the impact on one's opponent—a fearsome martial art indeed.

Even Zhen Yi, who had guided him, had only cultivated it up to the seventh level.

However, there was something that Zhen Yi had never considered—a thought that had already crossed Xin Long's mind during the time he was being guided.

He firmly believed that when his experience deepened and his internal force reached greater heights, this idea would eventually take shape.

It was because he did not believe that blindly following a predetermined path would ever lead to true success.

To him, learning from someone did not mean copying their every move—it meant taking what was taught, merging it with his own understanding, and pushing it further, crafting something even more refined.

Yet, there were limits. He wasn't willing to recklessly gamble on something that hadn't been tested.

After all, if he made a single wrong move, the price to pay would be his very life.

"You son of a dog! Instead of answering me, you just shrug your damn shoulders?"

"Whoosh! Whoosh!"

"Clang…"

"Swick…"

The martial artist, enraged by Xin Long's indifference, drew his sword from the scabbard at his waist. With a leap into the air, he slashed downward—aiming to cut from Xin Long's head to his torso.

Reacting swiftly, Xin Long planted his foot firmly on the edge of the table, kicking it back. The chair he had been sitting on slid away, buying him just enough space to dodge the attack. Without hesitation, he pivoted and unleashed the first move of the Fire Palm Technique—"Fire Energy Release." His palm strike landed squarely on the chest of the opponent standing behind him.

"Boom!"

"Ugh!"

The sound of splintering wood echoed through the tavern as the table cracked in two from the sheer force of the strike. The man who took the blow staggered three steps back, his body momentarily suspended in the air before crashing down. Even as Xin Long maintained his stance, he caught sight of another figure from the right—the voice of someone called Brother Shen rang out, breaking the tense silence.

"Ha… Fire Palm Technique!"

The moment he unleashed a single palm strike, the man known as Brother Shen instantly recognized the martial art.

In his heart, he couldn't help but give a silent nod of approval—it seemed this young man had encountered a skilled teacher. Perhaps he was someone with a solid foundation of knowledge.

Without hesitation, the opponent twisted his body mid-air, spinning twice to the side while unsheathing his blade. With both hands firmly gripping the hilt, he aimed to cleave the young man in half from the waist down.

In response, the young man executed the second form of the Fire Palm Technique — the Fire Flame Ignition.

It was a cunning strike, one that masked its true target until the very last moment. Like a coiling serpent, his palm shifted fluidly, first appearing to aim for the opponent's head but suddenly veering toward the chest — or even elsewhere — depending on how the opponent reacted.

Ultimately, the palm strike's trajectory adapted in real-time, making it impossible for the enemy to predict its path. If the opponent attempted to defend their chest, the strike might land on the head directly — bold and unrelenting.

"Fwoosh!"

A faint crimson hue began to spread across his palm, and the moment his strike landed on the opponent's chest, a sharp "Fwoosh" echoed in his ears — a sound as sweet and satisfying as oil igniting a flame.

The second form was clearly fiercer and faster than the first.

The two palm strikes had been unleashed in the blink of an eye — faster than the time it took for a person to bat their lashes twice.

After delivering the blow, Xin Long planted his left hand on the ground for balance and, without hesitation, launched himself forward, closing the distance to the opponent who had already taken the first strike.

Brother Shen staggered backward, his body flung through the air, and when he finally landed, he was on one knee, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth — a clear sign of internal injury.

Without wasting a second, Xin Long dashed toward him, aiming to end the fight with a final blow.

But as he prepared his third palm strike, the wounded opponent, still clutching his chest, suddenly shouted in a hoarse voice:

"Wait… Are you a disciple of Zhen Yi, the Fire Palm master?"

The unexpected question—coming from behind clenched teeth and labored breaths—froze the young man's right palm mid-air. His hand trembled slightly before he slowly withdrew it, firmly planting both feet on the ground.

With a cold, emotionless voice, he replied:

"I'm no disciple of his… but it's true that he taught me this technique..."

Yes... Zhen Yi was not his master.

He had only learned the Fire Palm Technique because Zhen Yi had instructed him—for the benefit of the sect, nothing more.

Yet, in this very moment, as he exchanged blows, he realized something unsettling—this martial art was far more powerful than he had ever imagined.

Even with his internal force still at the second level, the technique was potent enough to leave his opponent gravely wounded.

What if… what if he mastered all nine levels?

If that were the case, a single palm strike could easily snuff out a life on the spot.

A terrifying thought.

Why had Zhen Yi taught him such a deadly art?

He didn't understand—and he had never bothered to ask.

He recalled the look on Deputy Chief Kong Sunmu's face the day he discovered Zhen Yi was teaching him the Fire Palm.

Displeasure.

Disapproval.

It made him wonder—was this palm technique far more dangerous than he had been led to believe?

Among the martial arts he had mastered, his sword technique only reached the sixtieth form. Compared to that, the Fire Palm Technique—when used in actual combat—felt undeniably more powerful.

This realization unsettled him.

Why had Zhen Yi taught him this technique?

He could no longer discern Zhen Yi's true intentions.

It was true—Zhen Yi had taught him the Fire Palm not because he saw him as a disciple, but for the benefit of their sect.

And yet…

For a martial artist to pass down a technique they themselves had not yet fully mastered — a technique still beyond their own reach — could it have been motivated purely by loyalty to the sect?

Was there not, perhaps, some personal admiration?

Had Zhen Yi taught him not out of duty, but because he recognized his potential — his natural talent and sharp instincts?

In the dark world of martial artists, there were often unspoken emotions, unreadable intentions — things that someone like him, with his limited experience and incomplete understanding of the martial world, could not yet grasp.

Perhaps this lack of understanding was why he had never acknowledged Zhen Yi as his master.

Wasn't that the reason?

The man before him, still clutching his wounded chest, gave a crooked smile at his cold response.

"Zhen Yi's kindness extends to the four of us… You're lucky, kid..."

He sneered, his voice hoarse but mocking.

"Your internal force is weak, we can all see that… Even if you managed to kill one of us… you wouldn't stand a chance against the rest..."

His bloodied lips curled into a faint smirk. 

"Enough of this… Because of Zhen Yi's grace, I'll give you a piece of advice…"

He leaned forward ever so slightly, his eyes glinting with a mix of disdain and pity.

"Strive to strengthen your internal force.... As long as your level remains this low… you're nothing... Just a nobody..."

Though the man's words were harsh, he noticed the subtle trace of sincerity hidden within them.

He almost found himself nodding in acknowledgment… but—

"Let's go."

The voice of what seemed to be the leader of the four rang out.

The injured man, still kneeling before him, clenched his jaw and forced himself upright. With a brief glance at him — neither friendly nor hostile — he turned and followed his companions out of the tavern.

As they departed, Xin Long couldn't help but glance back at the room, taking in the scene.

He noticed the silent stares — the wide eyes of those awed by his martial prowess.

But what caught his attention most was the woman at the corner table — the one who had been speaking about Lu Sanhong and the others. Her face, now twisted with anger, glared at him with fierce intensity.

Why was she so furious?

Her plain face, unadorned and as ordinary as a bowl of bitter herbal tea, stirred no particular feeling within him.

He didn't care to understand her anger.

His mind had already drifted elsewhere — back to Zhen Yi.

There was something about Zhen Yi's intentions that gnawed at him — something that didn't sit right.

He needed time to think.

He didn't want to waste his thoughts on the meaningless stares of strangers.

And so, ignoring the curious eyes still locked onto him, he stepped toward the timid waiter who had been watching the fight unfold from a distance.

"Show me a room..."

His voice was calm, cold — unwavering.

"And bring a bowl of noodles… and a dish of whatever you have..."

Without a second glance at the tavern's lingering gazes, he followed the waiter up the stairs — his steps as steady and silent as his thoughts.

End - 27