Chapter Four: A Single Thought Poised to Change the World

Chapter Four: A Thought That Will Change the World

Within Mount Cumulus, the sound of wailing and flute-playing echoed through the air.

An hour after seeing Fang Junmei, the old man with the sword at his back passed away, departing this world from old age. The death of a figure of such power could not be treated lightly; even though everyone knew that once the news spread, the other two underworld giants of the Pan Kingdom—Palace of Sorrow and Rainfall Tower—as well as the orthodox sects, were bound to make their moves.

Leng Qianqiu displayed extraordinary skill during the funeral rites, turning the mountain into an iron fortress, with defenses both overt and covert so numerous that any assailant, should they dare to strike, would surely return empty-handed.

Yet none of these matters concerned Fang Junmei.

As a son, after burying the old man alongside Leng Qianqiu and Shu Chuchu, Fang Junmei shut himself away in his room, remaining inside for two or three days without emerging, as if entering a long period of seclusion.

...

The room was shrouded in dim light.

In a high corner of the wall, a spiderweb stretched askew, and upon it a mosquito beat its wings desperately, trying to escape the web’s grasp—only to entangle itself deeper and tighter.

Just an inch or so away, a spider crept closer, its gaze cold as a blade.

Fang Junmei sat cross-legged on his bed, his head slightly tilted, two elegant brows furrowed as he watched the scene unfold. His eyes held the curiosity and astonishment of a child just beginning to discover the world.

It was only after the old man had been laid to rest that Fang Junmei finally had the chance to carefully contemplate the mysteries of the Three-Breath Divine Stone.

Normally, for a top martial artist like Fang Junmei who had entered the Innate Realm, focusing the mind on the five senses would greatly heighten their acuity, making the external world seem to slow down, allowing for clearer perception of fleeting traces.

But the Three-Breath Divine Stone offered far more than that.

First, there was range: the old man had said three hundred paces before his death, but that was relative to his profound internal energy. Fang Junmei could sense less than a hundred paces now; he estimated that the deeper one’s energy, the farther the distance one could sense.

Then, there was time: as long as he channeled energy into the stone, everything within three hundred paces would slow down. Though it lasted only three breaths, if energy was supplied continuously, this feeling of slowness could, in theory, last forever. It was as if he had entered another world, beyond words to describe.

Unfortunately, with Fang Junmei’s current strength, even exhausting himself completely would only allow him to use it ten times. Afterwards, he would have to wait for his energy to recover before he could use it again.

Finally, there was relative speed: no matter how quickly things unfolded outside, the stone would always grant those three slow breaths. The old man had crossed swords with countless experts—some with astonishing speed—but not one whose strike was fast enough to render the Three-Breath Divine Stone ineffective.

In the world of martial arts, speed conquers all.

The purpose of speed is to leave no trace for the opponent to seize; if a move can be caught, it means a flaw can be found, a counterattack launched, and the tides of life and death reversed.

“It’s a fine thing, but even without its aid, I have faith that within ten years, I will be invincible in the martial world, surveying the mountains at a glance. I doubt I’ll ever need to use this more than a few times in my life.”

Withdrawing the energy from the stone in his hand, Fang Junmei pulled back his gaze and murmured to himself, a hint of desolation about him.

He had always been precocious; after the old man’s passing, he felt even more world-weary. The stubble at the corners of his lips seemed to have grown thicker in just a short time, lending him the air of a mature man—though he was only twenty-five years old.

He rose and opened the door.

...

Fang Junmei stood with arms folded, leaning against the doorframe, gazing at the distant indigo mountains. Fine rain fell, shrouding the scene in mist. His eyes were somber and calm, yet before he knew it, his thoughts drifted to the world beyond these mountains.

As he thought of the world outside, a sharp light gradually kindled in his eyes. He reached inside his robe and drew out a piece of green jade, split in two. The sword-shaped half still glimmered faintly.

Gazing at the jade, the memory of that battle of immortals surfaced in his mind once more, crashing over him like a tempest, leaving his heart pounding.

“I want to see the world beyond these mountains. Yes, I should go out and see it. I want to witness a vaster sky!”

At first, his gaze was lost in thought, a new idea blossoming in his heart. But soon, the light in his eyes grew ever brighter, as though it might ignite into flame. The words slipped from his lips without thought.

As he spoke, a tremor ran through his body, as if he had been reborn. The gloom clouding him dissipated, replaced by an unwavering resolve.

Little did Fang Junmei know that this single thought would, in the years to come, change an entire world.

He was a man of swift action. Once decided, he returned to his room, wrote two letters—one to Leng Qianqiu, one to Shu Chuchu—and left them on the table.

But as he set the envelopes down, something made him pause. He shook his head, tore both letters to pieces, and walked out the door.

...

He left the house, heading west. He did not carry an umbrella, striding alone through the fine, misty rain.

Rain fell in sheets between heaven and earth, casting the afternoon in an unusual gloom, as suffocating as the atmosphere over Sword North Mountain City.

Only the white robes draped over Fang Junmei’s frame stood out in the darkness, faintly aglow.

At the mountain’s summit, in this forbidden stronghold, no one walked the paths save Fang Junmei. The silence was absolute.

He moved through the rain, his figure upright yet solitary, his pace unhurried.

Even without activating the Three-Breath Divine Stone, his senses as a top martial artist made him keenly aware of the many watchful eyes—hidden and open—falling upon him, then quickly looking away.

These guards were clearly Leng Qianqiu’s doing, and their intent to keep him under surveillance was unmistakable.

Fang Junmei understood perfectly, his gaze growing deeper.

The stone-paved path was long and narrow; after several turns through covered corridors, he entered a secluded courtyard lush with flowers and grass, their fragrance swaying in the wind and rain, lending the place a feminine air. This was Shu Chuchu’s residence.

By the gate, beneath a lantern, stood two maidservants of some beauty.

“Greetings, Young Master Junmei.”

Seeing him approach, the two maids hurriedly bowed. One stepped forward with an umbrella.

Fang Junmei nodded. “Tell my junior sister I would like to see her and speak a few words.”

One maid went in to announce him, the other held the umbrella above him.

Fang Junmei paused in the rain, then suddenly glanced sharply at the area outside the courtyard. A cold light flashed in his eyes as he shouted, “All of you outside the courtyard, be gone to two miles away! If any of you remain after ten breaths, I’ll start killing—I’d like to see whether Leng Qianqiu will protect you then!”

His voice rolled like thunder, startling the maid beside him; her face blanched and her body trembled.

Beyond the dimly lit courtyard, there was neither voice nor figure, but Fang Junmei’s ears caught at least a dozen faint sounds of movement. Within two or three breaths after his words, they scattered in all directions at great speed.

Fang Junmei gave a cold snort and entered the reception hall.

Soon, Shu Chuchu arrived, still in mourning white.

“Second Brother, what has made you so angry?” she asked gently as she entered, pouring him a cup of tea with her own hand. Her eyes still carried the sorrow of loss, like a blossom after the rain.

A delicate fragrance wafted to his nose, and Fang Junmei’s displeasure slowly faded.

“The hounds under Eldest Brother’s command are growing ever more brazen—they’re even watching the two of us!” he said in a deep voice, taking the cup and drinking the tea as if it were wine, the picture of a man of true temperament.

Shu Chuchu forced a smile at this. Her skills were not the equal of Fang Junmei’s, but she could not fail to sense the strangeness on the mountain; it was clearly not just for defense against outside threats.

“It’s been so long since Eldest Brother and you saw each other, and you’ve never had any conflict. The two of you shouldn’t fall out so quickly,” she said as she closed the door.

“I know his type well—cold, ruthless overlords who will not tolerate a single dissenting voice within their power. Whether it’s you or me, we’re both threats to him. Especially me—my actions these past years have surely long since aroused his suspicion and made me a thorn in his side. Now that Master is dead, he has nothing left to fear.”

Fang Junmei spoke calmly, almost offhand, his expression now composed.

“Master has just passed. Are the three of us really going to turn on each other and destroy a lifetime of his work? If that’s the outcome he wanted, he would have made arrangements for it long before he left us,” Shu Chuchu said, her gaze tangled with pain.

Fang Junmei’s eyes tightened at her words, his elegant brows furrowing. What, in the end, was he to do about Leng Qianqiu?