Zhenwu Mountain.
Like a divine sword piercing the clouds, the mountain rose steep and majestic. In ancient times it had been known as Shenjian Mountain, but ever since Dragon Mountain Daoist won it through a wager and rebuilt the True Martial Sect here, the name had slowly faded from memory.
Now, all under heaven knew it as Zhenwu Mountain.
Located at the border between Qingzhou and Yunzhou, Zhenwu Mountain stood within the territory of the Great Yan Dynasty. Carrying Ning Qi in his arms, Dragon Mountain Daoist traveled unhurriedly, stopping occasionally to feed the infant. As a result, the journey took longer than usual.
When they finally reached the foot of the mountain, Dragon Mountain Daoist let out a quiet sigh of relief.
This was his domain.
Along the way, he had remained vigilant, wary of possible pursuit. But now it seemed the mastermind behind the massacre truly believed the child had perished in the flames of Snow Plum Manor.
That assumption would become their greatest mistake.
Dragon Mountain Daoist lowered his gaze to the infant in his arms, his expression resolute. For the time being, Ning Qi's identity must remain concealed. Until the boy had enough strength to protect himself, revealing his existence would only invite disaster.
Ning Qi, meanwhile, curiously observed the towering mountain before him.
During his time following Dragon Mountain Daoist, he had quietly pieced together an understanding of this world from scattered conversations and sights along the way.
This world resembled the feudal eras of his previous life, ruled by the Great Yan Dynasty. Yet unlike any dynasty he had known before, this land was governed not only by emperors—but by power.
Martial Artists.
Those who pursued the Martial Dao possessed strength and lifespans far beyond ordinary people. At the lowest levels, they could shatter stone and tear apart fierce beasts. At higher realms, they could project Sword Qi across hundreds of zhang, cleaving rivers and severing mountains.
And Dragon Mountain Daoist—his Master—clearly belonged among the latter.
This realization filled Ning Qi with both awe and reassurance. Though he had begun this life as an orphan, he had at least gained a powerful protector.
As they advanced, figures soon appeared along the mountain path.
A group of Daoists descended to greet them, their auras steady and refined. Among them were young men, youths, and a lone female Daoist dressed in plain robes. All halted and saluted in unison.
"Greetings, Master!"
Dragon Mountain Daoist nodded faintly.
These were his eight True Disciples—each one a talent refined through years of cultivation. They represented the future of the True Martial Sect.
"Wentian," Dragon Mountain Daoist said, turning to the honest-faced young man at the front. "How have matters in the sect been?"
This was Luo Wentian, his Eldest Disciple.
"All is well, Master," Luo Wentian replied respectfully. "The Inner Sect disciples cultivate diligently, and no issues have arisen."
The True Martial Sect housed hundreds of disciples, divided into Outer Sect, Inner Sect, and the eight True Disciples who stood before him.
Dragon Mountain Daoist smiled faintly. "Diligence is good. But cultivation must also know balance."
"We will remember your teachings."
Their gazes soon drifted—inevitably—to the infant in Dragon Mountain Daoist's arms.
Particularly curious were Ye Qinghe, the Third Disciple, and Qin Yun, the youngest among them. The two exchanged glances before grinning and waving playfully at Ning Qi.
Ning Qi responded by calmly rolling his eyes.
That reaction only made them laugh harder.
Dragon Mountain Daoist did not prolong the suspense.
"This child's name is Ning Qi," he said evenly. "From today onward, he is your Ninth Junior Brother."
Silence followed.
Then surprise spread across every face.
True Disciples were not accepted lightly. Each of the eight present had earned their position through years of effort—except Qin Yun, who had entered the sect ten years earlier as a once-in-a-generation talent.
And now, an infant?
Moreover, the ninth seat carried special meaning within the True Martial Sect.
Could this child truly be extraordinary?
Despite their questions, no one voiced doubt.
"Congratulations to Master on gaining a worthy disciple!" they said together.
Dragon Mountain Daoist merely smiled.
Qin Yun was already unable to contain himself. He eagerly took Ning Qi from Ye Qinghe's arms and gently poked his cheek, laughter ringing in his voice.
"I'm finally not the youngest anymore!"
Then he declared confidently, eyes bright with ambition:
"Our True Martial Nine Sons are complete! Give Junior Brother eighteen years, and we will shake the Great Yan Dynasty together!"
Laughter erupted.
Even Dragon Mountain Daoist's eyes shone with anticipation.
The concept of the True Martial Nine Sons came from the ancient True Martial Legacy itself—nine individuals, united in fate, capable of contending with a Martial Saint.
That was how the True Martial Sect once stood unshaken across generations.
And now… destiny seemed to stir once more.
Ning Qi listened quietly, a faint smile forming on his lips.
These Senior Brothers and Sisters seemed… good.
Perhaps life on Zhenwu Mountain would not be so bad after all.
Time passed swiftly.
Half a year later, Ning Qi had fully integrated into the True Martial Sect.
His growth shocked everyone.
Fueled by abundant Innate Qi, his body developed far faster than normal. At only six months old, he could already walk steadily and speak clearly, earning him the title of child prodigy among the disciples.
What they saw, however, was only the surface.
In truth, Ning Qi was devouring knowledge at a frightening pace.
Unable to cultivate martial arts due to his immature body, he turned instead to the sect's archives—astronomy, medicine, formations, Feng Shui, tactical arts. Nothing escaped his grasp.
With max-level comprehension, knowledge did not accumulate—it crystallized.
Even Dragon Mountain Daoist had no idea that his youngest disciple had already laid foundations far deeper than most martial artists would achieve in a lifetime.
Yet despite all this—
One thought continued to trouble Ning Qi.
Eight years old.
That was the age at which most people's bone structure fully formed.
Eight years was too long.
Far too long.
Standing beneath the towering peaks of Zhenwu Mountain, Ning Qi clenched his small fists.
"There must be a way," he thought calmly.
"A faster way.