Forgotten Tale of Jianghu

Kong Sunmu smirked.

"Hah… losing control just because I mentioned your precious disciple?"

He laughed, his voice dripping with mockery.

"Who would've thought a mercenary killer like you would care so much for a disciple? Honestly, I'm surprised..."

"Whoosh— Whoosh— Whoosh—"

But before Kong Sunmu could finish his taunt, Zhen Yi was already in motion.

He surged forward using the Body Shifting Technique, his figure blurring into a streak of flame and shadow.

Without hesitation, he unleashed the Seventh Palm of the Fire Palm Internal Force Technique — Ashen Fire Split.

It wasn't a defensive move — it was an attack. A ruthless first strike.

Because Zhen Yi understood one thing clearly — escape was impossible.

If he couldn't outrun them, he would drag at least one of these assassins to hell with him.

His palm, blazing like a dying star, roared through the air — a strike meant not just for survival, but for mutual destruction.

His blazing red palm, aimed straight at Kong Sunmu's chest, slashed through the air with overwhelming force. Yet, Kong Sunmu twisted back, leaping away — the palm strike hit nothing but empty wind.

The moment he launched his attack, Zhen Yi noticed the assassins behind Kong Sunmu — Luo Tuo and the others — tightening their grip on their weapons. They encircled him in a deadly formation, like wolves cornering a wounded beast.

Their eyes… Zhen Yi saw it clearly — the way they looked at him, not as an opponent, but as a pitiful creature already marked for death.

Zhen Yi didn't hesitate.

Even though his palm had struck nothing but air, he pressed forward. With a single step, he shot toward Kong Sunmu again. This time, he unleashed the Eighth Form of the Fire Palm — From Fire to Moon.

His strike split into two — one palm shooting for Kong Sunmu's chest, the other for his head.

A double-layered attack.

The move was a deception — the first palm an illusion, a shadow strike meant to mislead the enemy's eyes. If Kong Sunmu blocked the fake palm, the real one would land squarely on his body.

And even if Kong Sunmu somehow managed to guard against the real palm, the residual force of the shadow strike would still lash at his defenses, leaving him vulnerable.

There was no perfect way to counter it.

Yet, just as Zhen Yi's palms raced toward him, Kong Sunmu twisted back once more, narrowly escaping the attack.

Once again — his strike hit only air.

But Zhen Yi's shadow palm didn't stop — the aftershock chased Kong Sunmu, following him like a relentless flame.

If the enemy mistook the shadow palm for the real one, the true strike would land squarely on their body. Even if they managed to block the real palm, the lingering force hidden within the shadow strike would still lash at them, leaving behind a painful aftershock.

Kong Sunmu had no way of perfectly countering the attack.

And yet — before Zhen Yi's palm could even reach him — Kong Sunmu twisted his body once more, leaping back.

The palm strike hit only air.

Still, the shadow palm didn't stop — like a vengeful flame, it pursued Kong Sunmu's retreating figure, its force slicing through the air with a violent hiss.

At that moment — a flash of steel.

Zhen Yi's sharp gaze caught sight of a blade slicing downward, aimed directly at his extended right hand.

Wu Ji's sword.

It came from above, its edge gleaming with murderous intent — a precise strike, seeking to sever Zhen Yi's arm.

And then — the whisper of wind.

From his side, a sudden, silent thrust — Wei Li's Grass Shadow Blade, a slash so swift it seemed to cut through the very air itself. The blade aimed straight for Zhen Yi's torso, a clean strike meant to split him in half.

Behind him, the faint sound of a weapon piercing through the wind — was it Shao Yi's spear? Or perhaps Luo Tuo's three-pronged dagger?

The forest air seemed to hum, heavy with the sound of hidden weapons rushing toward him from every direction.

The circle was closing.

"Whiss-whiss…"

"Phaung."

"Thuk."

"Ah—"

Zhen Yi raised his arm, stepping off with one foot, leaping into the air to evade the incoming weapons.

Even mid-air, he caught sight of Kong Sunmu thrusting out his right palm — a shadow palm strike flying toward him with ruthless force.

At the same time, a sword's edge sliced downward from above, sharp and unwavering — a blinding arc of death.

It was as if his enemies had predicted his every move — knowing exactly where he would dodge before he even made the leap.

Then — from behind.

A three-pronged steel weapon, thin as a thread yet deadly as poison, shot toward his chest — tied to a near-invisible wire of tempered steel.

Piercing pain.

The weapon struck through his ribs, stabbing into his chest. The pain was so sharp, so sudden, that a single groan escaped his lips.

"Ah—"

Blood burst forth as he yanked the three-pronged weapon out, the crimson spray staining the air.

His balance faltered—and with a broken movement, he fell back toward the ground.

"Thuk."

As he fell back to the ground, the moment his foot touched the earth—

A spear burst from behind, slicing through his back and tearing out through his chest.

The pain—unbearable.

Yes.

It had pierced from behind, the blood now streaming down his chest—a crimson river running along the cold, unforgiving spearhead. The agony surged, sharp and unrelenting, so fierce it shattered his ability to stand.

His vision blurred, the world slowly dissolving into a hazy mist.

Blood from both his chest and back mingled, soaking his clothes, darkening the air with its scent. His body—painted red, drowning in his own lifeblood.

Through the haze, his eyes locked onto Kong Sunmu standing before him—

A faint, cruel smile. No pity. No hesitation.

Even through the pain, he clenched his teeth, his mind refusing to crumble. He summoned the last scraps of his strength, his voice hoarse and raw—

"May you escape these traps… and break free, Senior Disciple."

As his final cry echoed, the gleam of Wei Li's Grass-Shadow Sword darted toward his waist—a merciless, slicing strike meant to cut him in two.

He saw it.

A flash of silver moving for his neck—the deadly sound of a three-pronged steel weapon hurtling down from above.

Then—

A cold blade arcing toward his lower body—Wu Ji's sword, aimed to sever what remained.

His scream…

Fading.

And then—

Far away, in Kunming City, a faint voice, almost a whisper, escaped Xin Long's lips—

"Master…"

…

"Master."

Xin Long...

He was at the Blood Lotus Tavern, just across from the Golden Princess Inn at the edge of Kunming City, quietly having his meal. Suddenly, the entrance burst open, and a young man rushed in, breathless, his voice cracking with desperation as he called out to an older man in his sixties seated at the front of the tavern.

"Master!"

It was a call filled with trust — the voice of a disciple seeking guidance and protection. But to Xin Long, such a title meant nothing.

There was no 'master' in his life.

During his once-joyous childhood, his parents were the only figures worthy of such respect. They had taught him both literature and the healing arts. Then, fate's cruel hand dragged him into the clutches of the Shadowmoon Reaper Sect, where survival meant bloodshed. The so-called 'masters' there were nothing more than tools to sharpen a killer's blade. He had never acknowledged them as his teachers — he never needed to.

Even Zhen Yi, the man who had taught him the Fire Internal Force Technique, was a puzzle he could not solve. Their relationship was never one of master and disciple, only a cold exchange — knowledge in return for loyalty to the sect. Under Zhen Yi's brutal, relentless training, Xin Long learned to endure pain and mask his true thoughts behind indifferent words and frozen stares.

And his father — his only true master — remained missing, a distant shadow in his chaotic life.

Xin Long's gaze shifted back to the young man who had stormed into the tavern.

Sweat glistened on the youth's pale face, a sign of his frantic haste. Clad in white robes, with a sharp blade strapped to his back, his identity as a martial artist was evident at a glance. The tavern fell into a brief, uneasy silence as the boy's desperate cry echoed, the other patrons stealing cautious glances at him.

Xin Long noticed the way the others' eyes subtly followed the young man's every move. Yet, his attention remained on the man seated at the front — the so-called 'master' — whose calm, measured voice finally broke the silence.

"What happened, Tai Zhong?"

A group of martial artists around his age stood in a circle, their faces calm — too calm. Were they truly composed, or was it all a facade? Only the young man before him would know the answer, Xin Long thought. His back was turned, so he hadn't witnessed the subtle shifts in expression or posture.

"Brother, along with four others and Master Xu's fiancée, Jing Jing, were ambushed in the town center… No one dared to step in... Two of the brothers are severely wounded... Master, please, come stop them..."

As those words spilled from the young man's lips, his eyes flickered with desperation — a plea for his master's protection. But just as quickly, a wave of shame and unease swept across his gaze. Yes… That shame. Xin Long recognized it at once. It was the humiliation of running for help while a woman — Jing Jing — was still caught in the fray. The young man couldn't mask it. Their close proximity allowed Xin Long to clearly see every fleeting emotion.

Realizing Xin Long was watching him so closely, the youth clenched his jaw and cast his gaze downward, the muscles in his face tightening.

"How bold — attacking the disciples of Coiling Dragon Tai Shan Hu?"

The voice, sharp and laced with fury, sliced through the tension. It belonged to none other than Tai Shan Hu himself. Upon hearing that one of his disciples was gravely injured, his worry mingled with his anger, and his words burned with barely restrained rage.

Without hesitation, Tai Shan Hu rose from his seat, grabbed the young man — Tai Zhong — by the arm, and stormed out of the restaurant.

Xin Long watched them leave.

A master's concern for his disciple…

Was this what it looked like?

Tai Zhong… He had heard the name before — a famed martial artist, neither fully aligned with the White nor the Black Faction. Tai Zhong was renowned for wielding the Dragon-Coiling Vine Whip.

Yet, the Tai Zhong he saw now carried no weapon — not even a trace of one. The Dragon-Coiling Vine Whip… What kind of weapon was it? Xin Long had never seen it before and knew nothing about it.

Xin Long's mind snapped back to the present. Without hesitation, he pulled a few silver coins from his sleeve, placed them on the table, and darted out of the shop.

The night was already cloaked in shadows, the street illuminated only by the flickering lanterns lining the road. Their faint glow revealed the two figures ahead — Tai Zhong and his master — moving swiftly through the dimly lit path.

There was no time for hesitation. Xin Long followed without a second thought. Knowledge of immeasurable value awaited him… and so did she — the woman destined to be the wife of the man he hunted.

With a cloth wrapped around the lower half of his face, he vanished into the night.

End – 33