Infinite Fire Record

Chapter 12: Out of Anger

Peach Blossom Island, just after spring, where the earliest blossoms had begun to bloom.

The March breeze carried the faint fragrance of flowers, accompanied by the soft flutter of birdsong. Along the stone path, clear water flowed through natural springs, creating a quiet and serene atmosphere. A trace of black hair swayed slightly, caught in the air by a lingering chill, surrounded by silence.

A smooth, jade-like hand reached out, gently brushing the strands back into place.

“Alas! Tian’er, do not fight with your father. After all, he is your father!”

The voice carried a trace of sorrow, its tone bleak and heavy with sadness.

The black-haired man furrowed his brows slightly. The silver-white flame at the center of his forehead seemed to burn with intensity.

“Humph…” The Imperial Sky let out a cold snort, a sharp smile forming at the corner of his lips. “Father? Interesting. Not fighting? Even more interesting. Mother, all these years, have you ever regretted it?”

Huang Rong froze at his words, a trace of crystal shimmering in her eyes. She let out a long sigh, but no answer came.

A bitter weight settled in her heart. Was it regret, or was it not?

Imperial Sky turned his head, his gaze sharp and unreadable. A cold glint flashed in his eyes, and he scoffed inwardly. That expression… it is fine not to say anything. Because I already understand. The Song Dynasty’s culture is too conservative, crushing women beneath its weight. My mother has endured for years. Let her wait just a little longer. Once I am fully prepared, then I will kill.

His heart turned icy cold, his eyes carrying a bloodied intent. A killing desire had already begun to brew.

With a wave of his sleeve, he sent three feet of peach blossoms swirling into the air, then strode forward.

Huang Rong sighed, her beautiful eyes clouded with sorrow as she followed behind him.

The bamboo house loomed ahead. Within the hall, calligraphy and paintings adorned the space, carrying a refined yet solemn atmosphere.

Three figures stood inside. A large man, thick-browed and dark-skinned, bore the appearance of a rugged farmer. An old man, with pale silver hair and a black beard against gray skin, sat with his eyes tightly shut—a blind man at first glance. Lastly, a young girl, no more than ten, stood with a curious glint in her eyes and a faint smile at the corner of her lips.

Three reactions met the approaching figures. The girl watched with intrigue. The man regarded them with disdain. The blind man remained indifferent.

As the two figures entered, the room’s focus shifted to a single person.

Imperial Sky.

His sword-like brows and deep black eyes radiated an imposing chill, sharp as an autumn wind. Yet within their depths flickered an intense intelligence. His lips curled faintly, his presence striking.

The large man narrowed his eyes in disapproval, a hint of reproach forming at his mouth. “Tian’er, your mother sought you out. Why are you so late?”

Imperial Sky remained silent, his gaze cool as he looked toward the drifting calligraphy within the hall.

“Hmph…!” The blind man snorted, his black staff striking the floor. “Your father is speaking to you. Why do you not answer?”

Imperial Sky glanced at him, his expression unreadable. Then, with a cold and mocking tone, he replied, “I do not know why I was summoned here today. If it is merely to meet, I understand. You do not wish to see me. I, naturally, do not wish to see you.”

His words sliced through the air like a cold sword, striking deep into the hearts of Guo Jing and Ke Zhenxian.

Ke Zhenxian tightened his grip on his staff but exhaled heavily instead of striking. “Jing’s child, you speak to him.”

Imperial Sky studied Ke Zhenxian with mild surprise. He had expected the old man to lash out immediately, his temper erupting like a thunderstorm. Instead, Ke Zhenxian only sighed.

Guo Jing had been raised on Confucian principles, etiquette ingrained deep within his marrow. For him, someone like Imperial Sky—a child of demonic origins—could never be liked, let alone loved. Otherwise, he would not have attempted to drown him at birth. In the Song Dynasty, a birthmark was considered an omen of ill fortune, and the silver flame on Imperial Sky’s forehead, combined with his ice-like hair, had filled Guo Jing with instinctual disgust.

Ke Zhenxian, though stubborn, had lived his life labeled a monster. His eccentricity kept him from fully embracing rigid etiquette. He did not like Imperial Sky, but neither did he outright hate him.

Imperial Sky’s gaze glinted with amusement, his cold demeanor tinged with something almost playful.

His lips curled faintly in mockery as he turned his gaze toward Guo Jing.

Though Guo Jing was his father in name, there was no true connection between them. Imperial Sky’s existence was due to the “Bone Spirit Cold Fire”—his body had formed within Huang Rong, borrowing her blood to take human shape. In the end, he was only the son of Huang Rong, with no ties to Guo Jing.

Now, his expression remained frigid, his eyes unwavering.

Guo Jing frowned, the distaste clear on his face. With a flick of his sleeve, he spoke in a cold tone. “Tian’er, you are ten years old now. It is time you learn some martial arts. Take this.”

He casually tossed out a book.

Imperial Sky caught it with one hand. As his eyes scanned the cover, a wave of anger surged within him.

The book was titled The Long Fist of the Great Ancestor.

This boxing style had been around for centuries—a simple technique created by Song Taizu. While in the hands of a master like Qiao Feng, it could reach astonishing heights, at its core, it remained a basic martial art. In the Song Dynasty, even commoners knew a few moves from it. To offer this to him was nothing short of an insult.

Humph…! Imperial Sky sneered inwardly, his thoughts turning cold. The Great Ancestor’s Long Fist? Such a crude technique. It is decent as a foundation, but without an internal heart method, it remains nothing but a farmer’s tool. Guo Jing, to mock me like this—one day, I will repay you.

His lips twisted into a cold smile. Without hesitation, his right hand lifted, summoning a crimson wind. A surge of heat flared into existence.

Blazing Palm!

A palm struck, generating a wind pressure so fierce it felt like the breath of a volcano.

The wind howled. The book burned.

In mere moments, it was reduced to ash.

With a flick of his sleeve, Imperial Sky sent the ashes swirling into the air, shaping them into a sword of flying dust. It shot forward, aimed straight at the large man before him.

Guo Jing’s eyes widened in disbelief. His grip tightened on his beard, unknowingly snapping a few strands. The anger on his face was undeniable. “How dare you!”

The ashes, like peach blossoms in March, fluttered softly to the ground.

Guo Jing raised his right hand—but then, slowly, he lowered it.

“Humph…!”

Imperial Sky snorted coldly—a warning. Without another word, he turned and strode away, releasing a long whistle as he left.

His voice echoed with poetic verse:

White wine newly ripe, mountains returning, Yellow chicken pecks millet, autumn grows fat.

Call the child to cook the chicken, and drink white wine, Children sing and laugh, tugging at robes.

I seek drunken song, and with sunset dance, I shall match the heavens, defying fate.

Not too soon, I set forth on my path, Laughing at the skies, leaving all behind.