Fengyun Wuji carried the bloodied boy in his arms, leaping lightly down from the rooftop. He found an inn, knocked on the door, and waited. When the door creaked open, the inn's attendant peeked out, his eyes falling on the boy drenched in blood. Without a word, he shrank back and began to shut the door.
"Sorry, we're full," came the nervous voice from behind the door.
Fengyun Wuji slid his sword—formed from the essence of the Fifth Sword Gall—between the door and its frame, jamming it open.
"Are you sure you're full?" he asked coolly. With a flick of his fingers, a large yellow banknote shot out like a dart, embedding itself deep into the doorframe. He had picked it up at the Nightbright Villa on a whim. Though he had long since entered the Fasting Realm and no longer needed food, his experience before ascension had taught him a simple truth: money opens doors. Many problems could be solved with silver.
As expected, before the attendant could reply, a gruff, authoritative voice came from inside. "Let them in."
Clearly, the innkeeper himself had spoken. The attendant dared not object and stepped aside.
Fengyun Wuji stepped into the inn, the dazed boy silently following behind.
"A fine room," Wuji ordered calmly. "Fetch a doctor. Clean this young man up. Prepare a good meal. That banknote should more than cover it."
The attendant hesitated, glancing awkwardly at the embedded note. "Sir, this…"
Fengyun Wuji flicked his finger again. A sharp crack echoed as the note popped free from the wooden door. The innkeeper's eyes gleamed with sudden interest.
"Take our guests to the best room," the innkeeper said promptly.
As Wuji stepped inside, he glanced up to the second-floor balcony, where several rough-looking men lounged, watching with hawk-like eyes. His gaze turned sharp and cold. Moments later, a series of footsteps echoed hurriedly away, doors slammed shut, and the second floor fell silent.
Those who roamed the martial world might not all be strong, but they usually had a sharp eye for danger—those without it rarely lasted long. Wuji's effortless display had made those with bad intentions reconsider. They could tell: this man was not to be trifled with.
Following the attendant, Fengyun Wuji and the boy entered a simple but clean room. The boy's internal injuries were already mostly healed—Wuji had seen to that—but the external wounds still looked gruesome. Those required a physician.
Soon, an elderly doctor arrived, medicine box in hand. He inspected the boy, cleaned the wounds, applied ointments, and stitched the deeper cuts using sheep-gut thread. Throughout the process, the boy remained silent, his eyes blank, expressionless even in pain.
When the doctor finished, he collected his payment, gave a few instructions, and departed. Not long after, a servant brought in a meal—roast chicken, a pot of wine, pigeon, peanuts, and a few other dishes.
"If you're hungry, eat," Wuji said, settling on the open windowsill. "I've already tended to your internal injuries. A bit of wine and meat won't do you harm."
The boy sat motionless at the edge of the bed for a long while. Then, as if making a decision, he stood, walked to the small table, and grabbed a roast chicken. He tore into it ravenously, tears streaming down his face as he ate.
Wuji leaned against the window, watching the twilight deepen. A light drizzle had begun to fall outside. The streets were nearly empty now, lanterns swaying in the wind outside the neighboring inns. From his perch, he could see a large banyan tree at the street corner, its sprawling branches casting a wide canopy over the cobblestones below.
"What's your name?" he asked, still gazing outside.
The boy said nothing, continuing to eat. Wuji assumed he would remain silent—until the boy suddenly grabbed the wine pot, took a long swig, wiped his mouth, seized the sword at his waist, and stormed out the door.
A scream rang out.
Outside, red sprayed across the white paper covering the room's sliding door. Fengyun Wuji's eyes narrowed slightly. With a flick of his sleeve, a thread of true energy silently flowed through the air, entering the boy's body without his notice.
Rain fell harder. The patter of droplets filled the quiet air. Wuji sat still, quietly admiring the rain—such delicate beauty was rare in the Primordial Era.
Then, from outside, came the sound of frenzied sword strikes. Wuji looked toward the source and saw the banyan tree trembling violently, leaves cascading like a green waterfall. Faint flashes of sword light flickered among the branches.
Wuji scanned the area with his divine sense. It was the boy—he was beneath the tree, practicing with wild desperation. His strikes were fierce, but lacked precision. Cruel, but clumsy. His swordsmanship was clearly unrefined, and what style he had learned seemed to come from no proper school.
With a sigh, Wuji stepped down from the window, landing behind the boy as softly as a feather.
Crack!
A bolt of lightning flashed—no, a burst of sword light from Wuji's hand, dazzling and blinding in its brilliance. The sheer force of it made the boy spin around, eyes blazing like a wild beast's in the flash of thunder.
"Do you want to learn?" Wuji asked, turning as he walked slowly into the night. Behind him came the sound of crashing wood—the enormous banyan tree collapsed with a deafening roar. Branches shattered. Leaves flew. Only the bare trunk remained, riddled with tiny holes where the rain punched through like needles. Bark peeled off, revealing a core that had been pulverized into dust.
The boy stood frozen in the downpour, rain running down his face. Then, suddenly, he dropped to his knees and bowed, awkward and stiff.
In a hoarse, faltering voice, he murmured, "M-Master…"
Wuji sighed and paused. "What is your name?"
"Mu… Huanran… Please, Master… teach me…"
He bowed again, forehead striking the wet stone with a heavy thud.
This boy was clearly a martial fanatic. At his sect, he must have rarely spoken, spending all his time training. From how halting his speech was, it seemed he hadn't spoken in a very long time. Wuji couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy—for once, he too had been just like this: a madman for martial arts, lost in his own path.