On the high platform—
A faded blue robe fluttered in the wind.
The clamor below gradually subsided. People gazed at the storyteller, confusion tinged with a faint unease.
The Jingtanmu (Storyteller's Gavel) was raised.
Crack—!
The entire hall fell silent.
A hoarse voice slowly spread:
"Red robes are too bright, unworthy of a youth's blood;
Golden halls are too narrow, unable to contain bones of truth."
Each word was desolate.
The listeners felt a chill in their hearts.
"That day…"
"In Spirit City, before the Pope's Hall!"
"In the singles match of the Spirit Master Tournament, Lord Sword Wine crushed Shrek's twin Martial Souls…"
"In the team battle, Lord Sword Wine alone stood against the Spirit Hall's Golden Generation…"
"The Supreme Pontiff sat high upon her divine throne, her voice thundering with judgment: Li Zhexian, half a year ago, you slaughtered my Spirit Hall's seventeen deacons!"
"And then—those elusive Titled Douluo appeared, four of them, all to shield Lord Sword Wine!"
"Who could have foreseen—Lord Sword Wine too bore twin Martial Souls!"
"With his fourth Spirit Ability unleashed, a single sword nailed the Supreme Pontiff to the divine mountain!"
"To defy Titled Douluo while but a Spirit Ancestor—Lord Sword Wine is truly a peerless genius, unmatched through the ages!"
"But such a world-shaking Spirit Ability… could it come without a price?"
"Lord Sword Wine…"
"…fell."
From noon until sunset, the story's twists and turns drew gasps again and again from the crowd.
Some swore they could almost see that youth in white robes—sword flashing like frost, defeating all rivals.
But as the story sank into tragedy, sorrow thickened.
The storyteller's aged eyes were streaming with tears.
The audience below was now deathly silent.
A single sword nailing the Pope to Spirit Hall's divine mountain… and Lord Sword Wine, dead.
Shock and emptiness weighed on the hearts of Heaven Dou's people.
That white-robed youth who had always feasted with heroes at Fragrant Pavilion, yet laughed and joked with common folk—seemed to vanish along with the heart-stirring story
The storyteller ignored the rising murmurs behind him.
Hunched and trembling, he stepped down from the platform and shuffled toward the pastry shop he often visited.
"One packet of cloud cakes."
"Eh, old sir, you've finished early today. Surely Lord Sword Wine must have brought the championship back to Heaven Dou City, yes?"
The storyteller's lips twitched into a faint smile.
"Of course."
Carrying the warm paper packet, he returned home.
It was a small courtyard—not large, but tidy. Green tiles on the roof, blue bricks on the walls.
Standing outside, he raised his head to the fresh eaves, calloused hand brushing against the brick wall.
Then, silently, he entered.
He handed the cakes to his babbling infant grandson.
Then rummaged out a worn bundle, frayed and crumbling, and began to pack coarse clothes for travel.
His son and daughter-in-law stared, stunned.
"Father, where are you going?"
Without turning back, the storyteller replied:
"To travel Heaven Dou and Star Luo… to tell stories."
"What?!"
The exclamation burst out.
"Father! At your age? How can your body endure that?"
"You've told enough of Lord Sword Wine's stories already…"
His son rushed forward.
The old man's hands paused, but he did not look up.
"I know… Spirit Hall has shown kindness to Spirit Masters of the world."
"But that kindness was never meant for an old man who lives by wagging his tongue."
"I'm just a storyteller…"
"It was Lord Sword Wine's reward that let me buy this new home."
"It was Lord Sword Wine who didn't mind my chatter, who allowed me to tell his stories in front of crowds."
"And it was Sword Wine Lord who personally came to support me, allowing me to, in my final years, still wear the red robe and have one glorious moment."
His voice rose, trembling.
"What will Spirit Hall proclaim of what happened at the Pope's Hall?"
"How will they twist it, smear it, turn black to white? I do not know."
"But I've told stories my whole life. I know this—when enough people repeat a story, black can be painted as gold, falsehood passed down as truth."
"I cannot fight, nor heal."
"All I can do… is carry this mouth of mine, walk every corner of Heaven Dou and Star Luo, and speak the truth as it was."
"So that people will remember—that our Heaven Dou once had such a youth, brilliant beyond compare."
"Father—you've gone mad!"
His son's voice was hoarse with anger and fear.
"An old man wandering the continent? What if you meet a spirit beast? What if you run into bandits?!"
"What if—what if Spirit Hall's Spirit Masters hear you? Do you wish to die?!"
Slowly, the old man turned.
The furrows of his face were calm.
"Your mother is gone. You have your own family now."
"I am old. In this world, there are things more important than life and death."
His son's lips parted.
But looking into his father's eyes, shining with a light never before seen—
The words died in his throat.
The house felt heavy, suffocating.
Knock, knock—
Knock, knock—
Just then—
The courtyard door shook with a knock.
A voice carried through the dusk:
"Sir, please open the door!"
Perplexed, the son pulled it open.
Outside stood the Spirit Master who had earlier delivered the bloodstained scroll.
He had changed clothes, but weariness clung to him. Only his eyes blazed bright.
He did not enter. Standing at the threshold, his gaze cut past the son, landing upon the old man with his travel bundle.
"Sir, I heard all you said just now."
"I may not have received Lord Sword Wine's kindness as you did…"
"But that day, outside the Pope's Hall, I saw everything with my own eyes."
"A genius like Lord Sword Wine deserves to be written in the history books in bold, indelible strokes."
He drew a deep breath, chest rising and falling.
"I will go with you!"
"I'll walk the lands of Heaven Dou and Star Luo by your side, telling Lord Sword Wine's story!"
"With this Spirit Master's robe upon me, common rabble won't dare come close!"
"You tell it—I'll protect you!"
"And perhaps, in the future…"
"When the chronicles record Lord Sword Wine's legend…"
"…they will also inscribe our two humble names."
The setting sun burned molten gold.
The Spirit Master's shadow stretched long across the ground.
And in its glow, the old man's clouded eyes shone bright with pride and gratitude.
Clutching the tattered bundle tight, his lips trembled before he finally uttered one word:
"…Good!"
Night descended.
In the small courtyard of green tiles,
Two figures merged into the deepening dark, gilded by a faint, stubborn light.
Thus began a journey—measuring the continent with their footsteps, etching legend into memory with their voices.
...
One month later.
The northern border of the Heaven Dou Empire.
By a forest of cold pines, snow lay thick and white.
A lonely tavern stood half-buried in the wind and snow.
The wind carried snowflakes, trying to sneak through the window cracks—only to be shut out as a hand inside slammed the shutters down.
"Young man, you look unfamiliar, not from Cold Crow Fort, are you?"
The proprietress dusted off her hands. Her plump figure swayed with her steps.
A perfume thick with cheap powder and something indefinable lingered as she moved.
Her hips swayed as she crossed to the corner table, where a youth sat cloaked in thick black fur, a wide-brimmed hat shadowing his face.
"This northern border is a hell of ice—cold enough to kill a man. Even Spirit Power mercenaries can't survive without coal to burn."
"But the coal's poisonous, so you've got to keep the windows open."
"Wind and snow blow in—it must feel so unwelcoming, dear guest~~"