Chapter One: My Name Is Fang Junmei

Cloud-Piercing Mountain.

Rising two thousand feet high, its peaks stood in majestic splendor.

Within its vastness lay the most formidable underworld sect of the Pan Kingdom: Sword North Mountain Fortress.

Sword North Mountain Fortress, the Palace of Bitter Regret, and Heavenly Rain Tower—these three were hailed as the greatest dark sects of the Pan Kingdom.

Their ways were cruel and unrestrained, indulging in all manner of evil and lawlessness, earning the deepest hatred and wariness from orthodox sects and righteous martial artists alike.

Of the three, Sword North Mountain Fortress was the most powerful, having dominated the underworld for many years. The chief reason for this supremacy was the current Fortress Lord, the Old Man with the Sword on His Back. His strength was unmatched, his might unrivaled; for fifty years, he had reigned as the foremost figure in Pan Kingdom, with countless heroes and villains falling at his hand.

His most infamous skill was his uncanny ability to anticipate his opponent’s moves, intercepting them mid-strike—no matter how swift or subtle the attack, not a single adversary could evade his grasp. The secret behind this art far surpassed mere speed or reflex; it was a mystery none could unravel.

His closest disciple often asked him about this, believing the old man had withheld some secret technique. But the Old Man with the Sword on His Back always replied: it was nothing but a spiritual intuition that surpassed the ordinary.

Now, this unrivaled man was nearing the end of his days.

…

At the summit of Cloud-Piercing Mountain, buildings clustered together like a small city.

Deep within, in a dimly lit chamber where white drapes fluttered in the gloom, a tall old man lay on a couch, his gaze vacant yet serene.

His skin, wrinkled like dried orange peel, spoke of time’s merciless passing; age spots dotted his face, all vitality faded, and the once robust frame had withered like an old tree. The eyes, once bright and commanding, were now clouded; the hands, once powerful, had grown so thin and frail as to evoke pity. He was a man at death’s door.

This was the Old Man with the Sword on His Back, now a hundred years old. Compared to ordinary mortals, his life was indeed long, but even he could not defy time.

In his youth, he had loved luxury and power, craving limelight. Yet after becoming the greatest in Pan Kingdom, his desires faded and he grew indifferent to fame and gain. Thus, his palace was furnished with utmost simplicity—a table, a chair, a bed, and nothing more; he begrudged even a single stool.

As for the longsword that had never left his side, he had long since passed it on to his most favored second disciple.

The Old Man with the Sword on His Back lay staring at the ceiling, his expression intricate and unreadable.

On the floor nearby, eleven or twelve disciples knelt—men and women, young and old—all of them the most important figures in Sword North Mountain Fortress.

At the very front, kneeling side by side, were two disciples. On the left was a man in his thirties: tall, with a long narrow face, high nose, and deep-set eyes. His expression was calm yet harsh, and he wore a robe of royal blue, his bearing cold and austere. His name was Leng Qianqiu, the old man’s eldest disciple.

Though only thirty-five, Leng Qianqiu was already a famed master of his generation, known as the Sword Tyrant. Obsessed with power, his heart was ruthless—perhaps even more so than his master in youth. Many believed that, should he succeed as Fortress Lord, the balance among the three dark sects would soon be shattered, and the martial world would once again be bathed in blood.

Beside him knelt the old man’s third disciple, the Lady in Red, Shu Chuchu. She was the master’s last disciple, only twenty-four years of age, who had inherited his late-life detachment. Kind-hearted and pure, she cared nothing for power.

Her beauty was beyond compare, her figure graceful, her face as radiant as a goddess. Most striking was her flowing red dress, as ethereal as fire, making her seem a fairy born of flames. Many suitors pursued her, but none won her favor.

Behind these two knelt others—men and women, young and old—all with reserved auras and solemn faces, though hints of arrogance remained.

They had knelt for half an hour. The Old Man with the Sword on His Back had yet to speak, but none dared show impatience; even now, he could kill most of them in mere moments.

…

“Qianqiu, after my death, you are to become the Fortress Lord of Sword North Mountain.”

At last, the old man spoke. His voice was frail but still brimmed with authority, brooking no dissent.

“Yes, Master!” Leng Qianqiu replied gravely, a flicker of relief passing through his deep black eyes.

This was his long-cherished desire, and at last the waiting was over. Though his master had already entrusted him with all fortress affairs, lacking the title of Fortress Lord had always gnawed at his heart. If the old man had delayed the succession, or passed it to another, Leng Qianqiu could not say what he might have done.

The old man seemed to sense his inner turmoil, and a wry, helpless smile creased his withered face. He spoke gently, “Foolish child, one day you will see power for what it truly is, as I have—an empty pursuit, a passing joke.”

At this, sorrow welled in Leng Qianqiu’s cold expression. He shuddered, suddenly recalling that he was once an orphan, saved and raised by this very man. In his heart, the old master was both teacher and father, and it was only the long delay in succession that had bred resentment and dulled his affection.

“Master—” Leng Qianqiu cried, shuffling forward to the old man’s side, his eyes quivering.

“If that day should come, and you lose all desire for power, choose the most worthy successor for our fortress. But until then, savor the joys and satisfactions that power brings.”

Even in his obsession, Leng Qianqiu did not feel himself in the wrong; he was resolute in his path, a rare hero of stubborn will.

The old man grasped his disciple’s hand, eyes smiling. “Qianqiu, you are very much like I was in my youth.”

Leng Qianqiu remained silent, his face stricken with grief.

“I pass my mantle to Qianqiu. Any objections?” The old man’s gaze swept over the gathered disciples, his demeanor suddenly stern and cold, his murky eyes flashing with a brilliance few could meet, an oppressive chill radiating from him.

The disciples shuddered and, exchanging glances, quickly replied in unison, “None at all!”

The old man surveyed them one by one, then nodded. He needed no further warning—whatever happened, his eldest disciple would handle it.

Moments later, he turned again to Leng Qianqiu. “After my death, Bitter Regret Palace, Heavenly Rain Tower, and those self-styled righteous fools will surely make their moves. Qianqiu, it falls to you. When the time comes, show no mercy!”

His words brimmed with murderous resolve—a true overlord’s heart revealed.

“Rest easy, Master. Mercy is a word I do not know,” Leng Qianqiu replied coldly, his grief gone, replaced by an icy indifference.

The old man nodded in satisfaction, then looked to his youngest disciple, the Lady in Red, Shu Chuchu.

“Master,” she began, kneeling closer and clasping his frail hand in hers, infusing him with a stream of pure inner force. Though she smiled, sorrow filled her gaze; tears glistened on her cheeks like pearls, her beauty all the more poignant.

“Chuchu, after I am gone, you may go wherever you wish.” His voice was gentle; he had always doted on his only female disciple. “If you ever grow weary or suffer injustice, return here. I trust Qianqiu and Junmei will stand by you.”

Tears fell from Shu Chuchu’s eyes, and she nodded, unable to speak.

Her feelings for the old man were equally complex. She was pure-hearted, unsullied by the world, grateful for his guidance, yet deeply resenting the fortress’ darkness. If not for his failing health, she would have long since departed.

The old man shook his head with a self-deprecating smile. “All my life, I’ve been called sinister, vicious, cruel. Yet of my three disciples, two are nothing like me. What a cosmic joke!”

No one replied.

“Where is Junmei now?” At last, he asked after his final disciple.

Leng Qianqiu’s expression grew solemn as he answered, “Second Brother has been roaming the world alone for five years. He is as elusive as a dragon; not even I know his exact whereabouts, but he’s certainly within the kingdom. I’ve sent our best to find him. Do not worry, Master—he will return soon.”

The old man nodded, a look of utmost complexity flickering in his eyes.

This complexity, even Leng Qianqiu could not fathom—fleeting, elusive, yet tinged with profound regret.

…

Verdant mountains beneath a blood-red setting sun.

In the kingdom’s north, a lawless, bandit-infested region known as Ten Thousand Nets Mountain, there existed a notorious stronghold, Ghost Willow Den. Its inhabitants, hardened criminals, had stained their hands with more blood than could be reckoned. But the treacherous terrain and powerful backers rendered them untouchable, their evil unchecked for years.

Today, Ghost Willow Den was strewn with corpses, a river of blood soaking the earth.

At the summit, all was silent as death; not even birds or beasts dared make a sound, terrified silent by the carnage.

The bringer of death, the one who spilled their filthy blood, was a tall, imposing man. He wore a bamboo hat that hid his features, dressed in a snow-white warrior’s robe, one hand resting on a longsword, the other clutching a wine gourd, drinking with carefree abandon—a figure both relaxed and heroic, his charisma unmistakable.

“Who are you, to dare slaughter our Ghost Willow Den? Do you know of our ties with the Palace of Bitter Regret?”

At the mountain’s peak, two men faced off.

The shout came from a blood-soaked martial artist. Wounds crisscrossed his body, blood spurting from every inch of skin, even his face, making his features barely discernible—a burly, middle-aged man, by the looks of him.

Despite his grievous injuries—clearly sword wounds, inflicted only by a true master—he clung to life.

“My name is Fang Junmei!” The white-robed man’s voice was magnetic and calm. He removed his bamboo hat with a sweep and tossed it aside, the hat tracing a graceful arc before vanishing into the grass.

Revealed was a young man of twenty-three or four, with fair skin, striking good looks, strong features, and especially his eyebrows—thick, black, long and straight as swords, as though painted in ink, lending him an extraordinary handsomeness. His long, jet-black hair was tied in a loose hero’s knot, most of it spilling down his back, wild and wind-blown.

A brilliant, carefree smile played on his lips, revealing pearly teeth, his face radiant as sunlight. In his dark eyes, stars seemed to glimmer, inspiring instant goodwill.

“You are... Fang Junmei of Sword North Mountain Fortress?” The blood-soaked man’s voice trembled with disbelief. That name was too famous, too sensational—a prodigy who, in his early twenties, had already reached the innate realm, one of very few in Pan Kingdom’s martial history. Fang Junmei was widely acclaimed as a sword genius.

“I am Fang Junmei,” the white-robed youth affirmed, his smile brightening.

“We are both of the underworld. Ghost Willow Den and Sword North Mountain Fortress have no quarrel, and the Palace of Bitter Regret holds your fortress in highest regard. Why have you come to destroy us?”

At this, Fang Junmei’s smile grew wider, dazzling as sunlight. “Who says men of the underworld cannot act with chivalry?”

Swish!

Fang Junmei flicked his sword. A blade of blue energy shot forth, swift as thought, striking the man’s throat with effortless grace.

Blood spurted. The blood-soaked man collapsed.

Fang Junmei spared him only a glance. His smile faded, his expression turning cold. He took a long draught of wine, flung aside the empty gourd, and strode away.

Sunlight poured over him, as though illuminating him alone, his figure radiant and brilliant.

Clad in white, sword at his side, horse beneath him, he wandered the world, asking nothing of the future, untouched by worldly dust.

These were the high-spirited, tumultuous years of Fang Junmei’s youth.