Forgotten Tale of Jianghu

The shade of the bamboo and trees was truly cool and refreshing.

Zhen Yi found himself lost in thought. Training in martial arts within a small forest near the Shadowmoon Reaper Sect, he had paused when the setting sun faded, and darkness slowly crept in. As the rustling of sleeping wild boars echoed through the calm night, he stopped practicing and let the coolness of the bamboo shade wash over him. It was in that moment — with the soft sounds of nature blending into the quiet evening — that he realized how comforting the silence was.

The burning sorrow within his chest seemed to ease, if only slightly. The shade of the trees and the soft grunts of the wild boars, oddly enough, offered a brief sense of serenity. Even the falling snow, cold and relentless, gave him a fleeting moment of peace.

Sorrow — yes, the scorching sorrow that seared his heart. It had taken root a year and a half ago. The regret that lingered in his life like an unrelenting flame. It wasn't just regret — it was the bitter sting of realizing, for the first time, what it meant to be a hired blade, a mercenary bound by blood and duty.

That sorrow flared six months after he had taught Xin Long martial arts.

He had trained Xin Long not out of kindness, but for the benefit of the sect — a tool sharpened for their cause. Yet, over time, he found himself drawn to the young man's brilliant mind, his relentless dedication. Without realizing it, a spark of admiration had crept into his heart. He had begun to wish Xin Long could truly become his disciple. It was a foolish thought — but a sincere one.

But things never unfolded the way he wanted.

The cold, lifeless look in Xin Long's eyes told him one thing: he was never seen as a master. No matter how much he taught him, Xin Long never once acknowledged him as a teacher. In those two years, the word "Master" had never escaped Xin Long's lips. His indifferent gaze, his calm words — Zhen Yi had long accepted that the title he secretly longed to hear would never be spoken.

And that unspoken truth burned him, a fire that refused to be extinguished.

Yet, Zhen Yi did not blame Xin Long.

In Xin Long's mind, he was nothing more than a sect member passing down techniques for the organization's gain — never a teacher, just a tool of the sect.

Every time Xin Long left for a mission, Zhen Yi's heart would be gripped by a silent, burning anxiety.

Yes. It was the kind of fire that only arose from the concern a master had for his disciple.

Only when Xin Long returned safely to the sect — sometimes accompanied by the Illusion Master Wei Wei — did that fire within him finally die down.

Hot and cold, burning and cooling — his heart was in constant turmoil, yet he never let it show. Even someone as keen as Xin Long never noticed the silent storm within Zhen Yi. He had no choice but to keep it hidden.

In their sect, forming emotional bonds was a dangerous thing. The rules were clear — attachments were a weakness, a threat. If anyone ever noticed Zhen Yi's concern for Xin Long, it could bring unnecessary trouble upon the young man.

That was why Zhen Yi remained distant. It wasn't a choice — it was a necessity.

"Hah…"

The cool shade of the bamboo offered only fleeting comfort.

It had been a week since Xin Long left.

Zhen Yi sighed softly, his chest heavy with a weight that wouldn't lift.

A week — yes, he knew the exact number of days. He had counted every single one.

He didn't know what mission Xin Long had been sent on. It wasn't for him to know. According to the sect's rules, only the leader — Murong Jing — had the right to assign and understand each mission. No one else was allowed to ask questions.

So, where had Xin Long gone? Zhen Yi didn't have the answer.

"Hahaha… I've been standing right behind you this whole time, and you didn't even notice. What are you so lost in thought about, huh?"

A mocking voice broke the silence.

"Let me guess… thinking about your precious disciple again?"

"Chirp… chirp..."

"Chirp chirp..."

As Zhen Yi sank deeper into his thoughts, a sudden burst of laughter from behind jolted his body.

It wasn't just the unexpected voice — it was the sound itself. The laughter carried an unmistakable undercurrent of internal force, a deep resonance only those with profound martial cultivation could produce.

That voice didn't belong to an ordinary man.

Even the sleeping birds in the nearby trees fluttered awake in panic, their wings beating sharply against the air — a sound Zhen Yi registered immediately.

He slowly turned around.

There, standing with a grin on his face, was none other than the sect's deputy leader — Kong Sunmu.

Though his lips curled into a smile, his eyes were cold — the same lifeless gaze one used when observing a helpless animal, a predator watching its prey.

Yes… Zhen Yi recognized that look.

It was the same look he had worn countless times when gazing at those weaker than himself.

Had his concern for Xin Long already been exposed?

Kong Sunmu's words echoed with a cruel undertone.

"What's wrong? Cat got your tongue because I struck a nerve?" he chuckled, his voice still laced with that unsettling internal force. "Teaching that boy your family's precious Fire Internal Force Technique — oh, that says plenty about how you really feel about him..."

His smile sharpened.

"You can try to hide it all you want, Zhen Yi… But your actions speak louder than your silence…"

The words slid into Zhen Yi's ears like a knife.

Yes — the Fire Internal Force Technique was a secret martial art, passed down through his family line. Though the palm strikes themselves weren't the most advanced, the cultivation method for channeling Fire Flame was among the top-tier internal arts.

The fact that Zhen Yi had chosen to pass this knowledge to Xin Long…

It was a silent confession — one he hadn't even realized he'd made.

Kong Sunmu had seen right through him.

"Hoo…"

Kong Sunmu's voice broke the silence, dragging out the sound like a long exhale.

"What exactly do you want to happen here?" he asked, his words slow, deliberate… "Your eyes… they're the eyes of someone looking at prey…"

He chuckled softly, a sinister edge beneath the sound.

"According to the sect's rules, does this mean you're planning to kill me?"

Zhen Yi let out a quiet sigh, his breath steady despite the dangerous undertone in Kong Sunmu's words. His face remained calm, yet his reply hinted at a subtle understanding — a silent acknowledgment of what lay beneath the surface.

For a moment, Zhen Yi saw a faint smirk flicker across Kong Sunmu's face.

But it wasn't just the smile that caught his attention.

Kong Sunmu's gaze sharpened, sweeping the surroundings in a single, calculated glance.

Then —

"Shup, shup, shup."

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed, growing louder by the second.

Zhen Yi's instincts tightened.

Had the sect leader given the order to kill him?

The direction of the footsteps—coming from the path leading back to the sect's stronghold—planted the thought in his mind like a venomous seed.

Though the light was beginning to dim, Zhen Yi's eyes caught a subtle movement—Kong Sunmu's right hand, creeping towards the hilt of the sword hanging from his waist.

Zhen Yi didn't carry a weapon.

He had come to this forested area solely to practice palm strikes, never expecting to be ambushed.

A foolish mistake—and now, a critical disadvantage.

"Whoosh, whoosh…

"Shup, shup…"

From behind Kong Sunmu, the others emerged—swiftly, yet with a practiced, deadly silence.

Zhen Yi watched as the figures came into view, landing with precision behind Kong Sunmu, their movements as fluid as a hunting pack closing in on its target.

Wei Li.

Luo Tuo.

Xiao Yi.

And Wu Ji—the sect leader's personal assistant.

Their expressions were stone-cold, their eyes devoid of warmth.

Each man held a weapon, drawn and ready, their gazes fixed squarely on Zhen Yi—an unspoken threat lingering in the air like a blade at his throat.

It was a carefully orchestrated assassination—that much Zhen Yi realized immediately.

If they attacked him inside the sect's stronghold, the lower-ranked members would inevitably find out. Rumors would spread, and fear would fester, sowing doubt in their hearts about the sect's leadership.

That was why they had chosen this moment—when he was alone, practicing martial arts deep within the forest.

The pieces clicked into place.

Zhen Yi's gaze sharpened as he studied Kong Sunmu and the others. Then, a faint smirk curled at his lips.

"So... a well-planned trap…" he said softly.

A cold voice answered him—emotionless, unyielding.

"That's right..." said Wu Ji. "The sect leader gave the order to kill you... We have no choice."

Wu Ji's stare was as cold as a winter night, his words as steady as a blade.

He was no ordinary man—Wu Ji, the assistant leader of the Shadowmoon Reaper Sect. Renowned for his mastery of the Falling Star Demon Sword Art, he was a feared figure in the dark martial world.

Even more dangerous was the fact that Wu Ji had already surpassed the halfway mark in mastering the sect's signature technique—the Soul-Splitting Blade Art.

Despite being in his sixties, Wu Ji bore a striking and ominous feature—a large, dark crimson birthmark shaped like a blooming peony on his right cheek.

Kong Sunmu's voice broke the silence once more, this time laced with a twisted satisfaction.

"Oh... and by the way, your precious disciple has already been thrown into a death pit..."

He laughed—a cruel, mocking sound.

"Just today, our esteemed sect leader told us the news himself... Not only did he order the assassination of a Dragon-Tiger Rank martial artist, but he also made sure the so-called 'guard dog' standing at his side was dealt with..."

Kong Sunmu's eyes gleamed with vicious delight.

"You should've seen it coming, Zhen Yi... From the moment I learned you'd taught him the Fire Internal Force Technique, I've been waiting for this day..."

He grinned wider, his face a twisted mask of satisfaction.

"Now... my wish has finally come true..."

Kong Sunmu's words burned like embers, but Zhen Yi's expression remained cold.

Beneath his composed exterior, his eyes flared—a silent, burning intensity.

"So I made a mistake joining this sect, didn't I, Kong Sunmu?"

Zhen Yi's voice was cold, yet it crackled with suppressed fury.

"A sect where even its own members dare to plot and kill one another… A sect that would resort to inhumane schemes like this—not to kill me, but to disgrace my disciple's name even in death..."

His eyes darkened.

"Your words and actions tonight are proof enough... You want him dead not just physically, but with a ruined reputation... The disciple who gave his all for the sect… you wouldn't even spare his honor..."

He clenched his jaw, the veins in his neck faintly bulging.

"One day, when the others learn the truth about what you've done—they will rebel against you. Mark my words."

Zhen Yi's voice, once steady, now roared with barely contained rage. His thoughts burned with one truth—his disciple, Xin Long, was as good as dead. This assassination wasn't just about killing him. It was a clear sign that Xin Long's life had already been marked for execution too.

His fury boiled over.

"Flap—Flap—"

The air rippled violently.

Zhen Yi unleashed the Seventh Level of Fire Internal Force. His robes, once still, billowed and flared, quaking with unrestrained power. The sound of his energy surging roared like a distant flame, echoing through the forest.

His right palm now burned a fierce crimson, radiating an intense heat.

All ten eyes—those of Kong Sunmu and the other assassins—widened at the sight, some flickering with shock, others with dark amusement.

Zhen Yi's gaze, burning like embers, locked onto the figures before him. His palm, blazing with the Seventh Level of Fire Internal Force, seemed ready to ignite the very air itself.

The forest fell deathly silent—no rustling leaves, no distant calls—only the simmering hiss of Zhen Yi's searing energy.

Then, without a word, he took a single step forward.

The fight was about to begin.

End – 32