"Xing Jue!" Old Zhang beamed, relief flooding his features. He knew better than anyone how strong Xing Jue was. A High-Rank Martial Artist might not mean much in the grand scheme of the Xing Clan, but in this small town? Xing Jue was practically invincible. They were saved!
"You!" The young bully pointed a trembling finger at Xing Jue. He couldn't believe that this scrawny kid was the one who had just crippled him. "You're the one who…"
Xing Jue ignored him, walking right past him as if he didn't exist. "Old Zhang, are you alright?" he asked, his voice laced with concern.
"I'm fine now that you're here, Xing Jue," Old Zhang chuckled, patting Xing Jue's hand. He couldn't help but shoot a smug look at the fuming bully behind Xing Jue.
That was the last straw for the young master. "I'm talking to you, you little…" His words died in his throat as Xing Jue turned to face him. A pair of ice-cold eyes bored into him, radiating an aura of pure, unadulterated killing intent.
Fear, cold and primal, gripped him, squeezing the breath out of his lungs. He had terrorized this town for years, faced down his fair share of "tough guys," but he had never encountered anything like this before.
"What … what are you going to do?" he stammered, his previous arrogance gone, his voice barely a whisper.
The tavern's occupants, servers, and the remaining thug alike, gaped at them, their mouths agape. The town bully, reduced to a blubbering mess in front of a teenager?
"Lick," Xing Jue said, his voice devoid of emotion, "the wine."
The color drained from the bully's face. "You … you can't be serious!" he sputtered. Lick the floor?! Word of this would spread like wildfire. It would be social suicide!
Before he could finish his sentence, Xing Jue was upon him. He moved with a speed that belied his age, his fist connecting with the bully's jaw in a sickening crunch. Three teeth went flying.
"You're dead!" the bully roared, spitting out blood and teeth. He saw red, consumed by an overwhelming need to destroy the source of his humiliation. He lunged at Xing Jue.
Xing Jue didn't even flinch. He kicked out, his foot catching the bully squarely in the chest, lifting him off his feet and sending him crashing into a wall with bone-jarring force. The bully slid down the wall, landing in a heap, unconscious.
The tavern was dead silent, everyone frozen in place, stunned into silence. The bully, a Mid-Rank Martial Artist, hadn't even landed a single blow. This young man … he fought with the power of a … a Martial Apprentice!
His gaze, cold and menacing, fell on the two remaining thugs. Their eyes widened in fear.
Without a word, they both dropped to their knees.
"We're sorry, young master," the thugs pleaded, their foreheads practically burrowing into the floorboards. "We didn't know! Please, have mercy!"
Xing Jue suppressed a sigh. He hadn't intended to escalate things to that extent, but that scum had tried to attack Old Zhang, and that was crossing a line. "Get out of my sight," he said, his voice cold.
The thugs didn't need to be told twice. They scrambled to their feet and bolted for the door.
"Hold it," Xing Jue called out.
They froze, their blood running cold. Had they misunderstood? Were they going to pay for it after all?
"Take your trash with you," he said, his gaze fixed on their unconscious leader, sprawled on the floor like a discarded rag doll.
Relieved that they had been spared a more gruesome fate, they quickly hoisted their leader onto their shoulders and scurried out.
An uncomfortable silence descended upon the tavern. The display of ruthless efficiency they had just witnessed had shaken them to their core.
Xing Jue turned back to Old Zhang, a bright smile replacing the menacing frown he'd worn only moments earlier. It was like flipping a switch. "Well, Old Zhang," he said cheerily, "I don't know about you, but I'm famished. How about some of that dinner you promised?"
Old Zhang laughed, the tension leaving his shoulders, and clapped. "Right you are, Xing Jue," he boomed. "Let's eat!" He rounded everyone up, introducing Xing Jue as a former prodigy from the Xing Clan's main house who was sent here for a while. Xing Jue accepted their awed stares with grace. The young serving girl, Xiao Hong, found herself blushing under his gaze.
"Old Zhang," Xing Jue said, picking at a piece of meat stuck in his teeth as dinner wound down, "I think I'd like to spend some time cultivating in the mountains."
Old Zhang blinked. "Cultivating?" Xing Jue was already a High-Rank Martial Artist. Further training wouldn't do him much good at this stage… unless… But that couldn't be… Could it?
"That's right," Xing Jue said, his grin turning sly at Old Zhang's bewildered expression.
Old Zhang weighed his words carefully before responding. "Very well, Xing Jue," he said finally. "Consider the back hills off-limits to everyone else. And if you need anything at all…"
"Thanks, Old Zhang." Xing Jue pulled out a small, triangular, translucent card etched with curious symbols. A Communication Talisman. "Just in case that scum decides to come back," he said with a wink.
Old Zhang accepted the talisman with a chuckle. "You've always been too kind, Xing Jue," he said, shaking his head.
By the time Xing Jue made it back up the mountain, night had fallen. He didn't go to sleep. He'd been waiting for this for too long. He pulled out the ancient book, its cover worn smooth with age, the title emblazoned across in bold strokes: "Wind Devouring Palm." His goal was clear. He had a year. A year to reach High-Rank Martial Apprentice, a year to leave this place behind, and forge his own path.
It was an ambitious goal, but then, Xing Jue had always been ambitious. He craved strength, the power to protect those he cared about, the power to command respect. He wanted to be the strongest. It was a vague, undefined goal, especially given the sheer number of powerful individuals that populated this vast continent, but it was a goal nonetheless.
And so, under the watchful gaze of a million stars, a fifteen-year-old boy, armed with an unyielding determination and a burning desire to prove himself, trained. He trained like a man possessed, pushing himself to the very limits of his endurance, knowing that greatness was born from sweat, blood, and relentless effort.
For an entire year, he trained, his resolve never once faltering.