Forgotten Tale of Jianghu

The crowd's murmurs swelled as two swordsmen stepped onto the stage.

"Northern Star Kun Wu..."

"Golden Brush Warrior Wu Ming..."

"Whish… whish..."

Names echoed through the air, blending with the clamor of onlookers. The noise slipped into Xin Long's ears — not that he recognized either name. Northern Star Kun Wu? Golden Brush Wu Ming? These names meant nothing to him.

It was only through the crowd's frenzied shouting that he could match the names to the fighters. Kun Wu stood to his right, and Wu Ming had taken his place on the opposite end of the platform. With his eyes fixed on the stage, Xin Long sharpened his focus.

The duel began at the slight nod of approval from the leader of the Wudang Sect. The two warriors lunged forward — one wielding a gleaming blade, the other twirling a Golden Brush. Their strikes clashed in a flurry of motion, each move calculated, each counter swift.

Xin Long's gaze never wavered. He didn't just watch — he memorized. Every shift of their stances, the angles of their attacks, the rhythm of their defense — all of it was imprinted in his mind.

"Mother's Sorrow..."

"Boundless Grief..."

"Maternal Grace..."

"Wayward Wrath..."

Wu Ming chanted softly, his Golden Brush slashing through the air in sync with the verses, his moves flowing like a deadly dance. Each word seemed to guide his strikes — swift, precise, and unrelenting. Kun Wu, with his sword, parried the blows, his movements steady yet slowly slipping into a defensive stance. Bit by bit, he was being pushed back.

Xin Long noticed it immediately — the shift in momentum.

Kun Wu was losing.

The duel unfolded with ruthless grace. As Wu Ming whispered another line, his rod lashed out, striking Kun Wu's right wrist with a fierce crack. The blade wavered in his grip. Without a pause, Wu Ming's weapon arced upward, tracing another vicious path through the air — a golden blur that hovered just above Kun Wu's head.

The outcome was clear.

Kun Wu's defeat was only moments away.

The first move, Mother's Sorrow, was a rapid and unforgiving attack — likening Kun Wu to a Wayward Wrath, his sword cast away as if disciplining a disobedient son.

The next strike, following the mantra of a mother's sorrow, symbolized a mother showering her defiant child with gentle yet sorrowful blossoms — as Wu Ming's Golden Brush hovered above Kun Wu's head, poised to fall like petals from a grieving mother's hand.

Watching Wu Ming's fierce yet poetic attacks unfold, Xin Long couldn't help but inwardly acknowledge the skill behind them.

As soon as Wu Ming finished the series of moves and leapt back three steps, his opponent defeated, he bowed respectfully—a silent gesture honoring his fallen rival.

"Hah… it's Golden Brush Warrior Wu Ming…"

"Whish… whish… whish!"

Cheers erupted from the crowd of martial artists watching the match. Their roaring voices echoed below the stage, and the thunderous applause pounded in Xin Long's ears.

Kun Wu stepped down from the stage, his face clouded with humiliation. Xin Long noticed it at once—the visible strain of shame etched into Kun Wu's expression.

Of course. To lose in such a disgraceful manner before showcasing his full strength—before even landing a decisive strike—was a humiliation no martial artist could easily endure.

Xin Long clenched his jaw and, without hesitation, used his qinggong technique to leap onto the stage.

Watching Wu Ming recite the names of his techniques with each strike, Xin Long thought to himself—it wouldn't be difficult to defeat him. The way Wu Ming's moves matched the names he shouted made his attacks predictable, easy to dodge.

"Senior Wu Ming, may I have the honor of exchanging martial arts with you?"

The moment Xin Long's feet touched the stage, he clasped his fists and bowed slightly, addressing Wu Ming with courtesy.

Of course, every martial artist knew—exchanging martial arts was just a formal way of issuing a challenge.

The crowd below the stage murmured. No one seemed to know his name.

"The black-clad martial artist…."

He heard the voices shouting, drawing attention to his dark robes.

"The black-clad martial artist?"

Xin Long muttered under his breath, his expression unreadable.

Without another word, his hand slid to the sword at his waist. With a swift motion, he drew the sword from its sheath, his right arm extending forward in a steady, battle-ready stance.

At the same time, his left hand reached behind his back, pulling out the dagger always hidden at his lower back. Gripping the hilt in reverse, he aligned the dagger's blade along his forearm—a seamless blend of offense and defense.

His left hand, holding the dagger, settled behind him—ready to strike or defend at a moment's notice.

"Dagger…" — yes, that's right. This dagger is one of the most important weapons in his life. With it, he had once cut down many beasts, and because of it, some creatures had met gruesome ends. He had even used this very dagger-whip to split open their chests and rip out their hearts. A weapon soaked in blood — that much was certain. That was why he always carried it with him, never letting it leave his side.

As his burning rage slowly climbed, Xin Long noticed the mist gradually clearing. The steady fall of snowflakes seemed to thin, and the cold northern wind blew with a quiet but relentless force — something he both saw and felt.

Then, his gaze fell upon Wu Ming — a man in his thirties — who looked at him with condescending eyes, a sneer playing at the corner of his lips. It was clear. Compared to the other martial artists gathered at this grand event, Xin Long was among the youngest. Was that why Wu Ming smirked and looked at him with such mocking disdain?

Perhaps Wu Ming didn't realize — Xin Long was already brimming with bloodthirst. After all, hadn't he just crushed Kun Wu without breaking a sweat?

Xu Zhu Han couldn't help but smirk inwardly at Xin Long's overly simple and straightforward stance as he held his sword. It seemed laughable — too plain, too unrefined. Yet, despite his mockery, a subtle desire stirred within him — a desire to see Xin Long defeated.

Why?

Because day after day, Xin Long crossed paths with Bai Jing Jing — his fiancé. Though Xu Zhu Han never confronted them directly, he was well aware of their daily interactions, thanks to one of his hidden martial artists shadowing Bai Jing Jing's every move. With each passing day, suspicion and resentment toward Xin Long grew like a slow-burning fire in his heart.

He longed for an opportunity to challenge Xin Long himself — to put him in his place before Bai Jing Jing. If only he could crush Xin Long atop that stage, surely Bai Jing Jing would look upon him with newfound respect and admiration.

Fueled by this hope, Xu Zhu Han's gaze sharpened, watching Xin Long's every move on the platform, eyes burning with unspoken rivalry.

At the same time, the elderly Master Kongshan, observing from the crowd below, noticed the way the young "Black-Clad Martial Artist" held his blade. A faint "Hng" escaped his lips — a sound of surprise, or perhaps unease.

As the words "The Foolish Son Moves Like Fire…" echoed from Wu Ming's lips, the crowd's attention snapped to the unfolding clash.

Wu Ming, wielding his brush staff with practiced precision, launched a fierce attack, the tip of his weapon tracing elegant calligraphy strokes through the air, aiming directly at Xin Long's chest.

Xin Long, his blade extended in front of him, leaped back with a single, fluid motion, narrowly evading the strike. Without hesitation, he shifted right, then lunged forward. His right hand, firm around his blade, swept aside Wu Ming's staff while his left — still gripping the hidden Dagger— darted for Wu Ming's right chest in a sudden, lethal thrust.

Wu Ming's eyes flashed in surprise. His brush staff, poised to strike Xin Long's main blade, faltered for a split second — just long enough for the Dagger to slip dangerously close.

Reacting swiftly, Wu Ming jerked his staff back to block the hidden dagger, his right hand rising toward his upper chest to defend.

Yet in that moment, Xin Long sidestepped to Wu Ming's left and, with a flick of his right blade, slashed upward from beneath Wu Ming's bracer — a brutal, calculated strike.

Observing from a distance, Master Kongshan's breath caught in his throat.

"This… This is the Iron Demon's Steel Hound Palm technique — no doubt about it!"

His mind raced. The way Xin Long used his right hand to parry, then let his left hand strike swiftly at close range — that was a classic Iron Demon maneuver. The technique of using a follow-up attack to cut at the opponent's wrist from below… but here, transformed into a sword technique instead of barehanded combat.

"How could this young man be connected to the Iron Demon?"

Stunned, Master Kongshan's thoughts swirled in disbelief.

Yet, just as Xin Long's blade seemed on the verge of clashing against Wu Ming's bracer, it halted — frozen in mid-air.

Master Kongshan, still murmuring his astonishment over the Iron Demon's technique, blinked in surprise at the sudden stop.

The fierce exchange had lasted but a fleeting moment, a blur of motion and steel.

Before Wu Ming could react, Xin Long calmly stepped back, his body tilting ever so slightly to the side, then swiftly leaped twice in succession — retreating with a smooth grace that seemed almost casual. In a single fluid motion, he slid his long blade back into its scabbard at his waist.

The crowd, still processing the rapid clash, fell into a stunned silence until Xin Long's cold, steady voice broke the stillness:

"Senior Wu, you've lost..."

The words, simple yet absolute, echoed through the hall like a final judgment.

A beat passed. Then —

"Huh? What?"

"He didn't even land a hit! How could he lose?"

"What nonsense is this?"

The martial artists in the crowd erupted into confusion and disbelief, their voices crashing over each other like a wave.

Master Kongshan's sharp ears caught every incredulous whisper, but his gaze remained locked on Xin Long — an icy storm brewing behind those dark, lifeless eyes.

For the first time in a long while, a chill crept down Kongshan's spine.

In truth, the sword move that Xin Long executed was nothing more than a palm strike technique reimagined as a sword strike. It was one of the many martial arts moves he had mastered. Although others might call it the "Steel hound Palm Strike," Xin Long himself had never known it by that name.

During a fierce battle with the Steel Demon, Xin Long had adapted the defensive postures and attacks of the Steel Demon into a sword technique. It had been a moment of instinctive transformation rather than formal instruction.

At that crucial moment, when the Steel Demon aimed a vicious palm strike at Lu Sanhong's wrist, intending to shatter his arm with a single blow, the Seductress Wei Wei had intervened—thrusting his long sword along the path of the incoming palm strike. It was only due to this unexpected attack that Lu Sanhong's arm had been spared from breaking.

Back then, the Iron Demon had aimed a vicious palm strike at Xin Long's wrist, intending to snap his bracer with a single, bone-shattering blow. However, in a flash of instinct and cunning, Xin Long had thrust his sword along the trajectory of the incoming palm — deflecting the attack by a hair's breadth.

It wasn't a lesson learned through instruction but through survival.

Now, standing on the stage, Xin Long wove that same counter into his swordplay — blending violence and intelligence into a seamless technique.

And yet… he had no idea the move he mimicked was the infamous Iron Hound Palm.

Xin Long's smile was faint, almost imperceptible — a mere flicker at the corner of his lips. The jeers from the crowd below the stage seemed distant, like whispers carried by the wind.

Then came Wu Ming's voice, unashamed and defiant. His words slithered through the air, laced with mockery:

"I'm not even hurt, yet you say I've lost? Isn't that a bit of a joke? Hah…"

The crowd rippled with murmurs — some laughing, others murmuring in disapproval.

But before Wu Ming could launch his next attack, a cold, authoritative voice cut through the noise:

"Stop, young Wu Ming."

It was the voice of the Shaolin Sect's Grandmaster.

His words echoed like a thunderclap, stilling the restless air.

"Face your defeat with courage… If the young man before you hadn't stopped his blade, your right bracer would no longer be attached to your arm…"

The crowd fell into a stunned silence.

Wu Ming's face twisted — an ugly blend of disbelief and anger. His hand, still clutching the writing brush weapon, trembled ever so slightly.

And Xin Long?

He simply stood there — sword already sheathed, his expression cold and indifferent, as though none of this concerned him in the slightest.

The crowd fell into an uneasy silence. Wu Ming, halted by the Grandmaster's words, lowered his head, his body frozen in place — a bitter contrast to his earlier defiance.

Below the stage, the gathered martial artists, once loud and jeering, now stood still, their whispers extinguished by the weight of the Grandmaster's authority.

Xin Long's gaze flicked past Wu Ming, landing on the Grandmaster. The old master's sharp eyes — like those of a hawk — were fixed on him, a subtle glimmer of understanding reflected in their depths.

For a brief moment, Xin Long's mind sharpened. He knows…

The Grandmaster's calm yet unyielding expression seemed to hint at recognition — not of Xin Long's identity, but of his technique. The way his blade had struck, how his movements mirrored long-forgotten martial styles…

From the corners of his vision, Xin Long caught sight of Bai Hongfu and the Wudang Sect's leader both giving small, approving nods, acknowledging the Grandmaster's judgment. Even the Shaolin disciple Xu Zhu Han's eyes were wide with astonishment.

Yet, Xin Long remained unmoved. His thoughts raced beneath his cold exterior.

No one must uncover the truth.

He tilted his head slightly, watching Wu Ming descend from the stage, his back still hunched in silent humiliation.

Then, without a word, Xin Long's hand moved — fluid and deliberate — as he slid his gleaming sword back into its small sheath strapped to his waist. The blade caught a sliver of sunlight, sending a brief flash across the silent arena before disappearing into its home.

He could feel the eyes on him — a hundred silent stares following his every motion.

But to Xin Long, they were nothing more than shadows.

The stage stood still — a silent battlefield before the next clash. Xin Long stood tall, his posture unmoving, waiting for the next opponent to leap forward. His expression was calm, his black, lifeless eyes scanning the gathered martial artists below with a cold indifference.

He did not fear what was to come.

Why would he? This was nothing more than an exhibition match — a playful duel. The true masters of the martial world would not bother to stain their reputations by stepping onto this stage. Only those beneath him, those with something to prove, would dare face him.

This... was exactly what Xin Long had intended when he convinced Bai Hongfu to frame this tournament as a lighthearted competition. A clever trick.

"On the road I walk, anyone who crosses my path is my enemy."

The words echoed in his mind like a silent oath, a cold reminder of the blood-stained path he had chosen.

End – 43