Jun Qiguang watched Yao Huaijin disappear into his room, the door closing with a soft click that echoed in the quiet courtyard. For a moment, he stood there, staring at the door, his mind a tangle of thoughts and emotions he couldn't quite untangle. Why had he asked Yao Huaijin to join him at the restaurant? The question lingered, a small, sharp thorn in his consciousness, pricking at his sense of self.
He turned and walked toward the stone table in the courtyard, his footsteps slow and deliberate, each step an effort to regain control over his unruly thoughts. The courtyard was spacious, with neatly pruned trees whose leaves had begun to turn a golden hue in the early autumn. The stone table and chairs, crafted from fine jade-like stone, were cool to the touch, their surfaces smooth and unblemished. He sat down, the silence of the courtyard wrapping around him like a comforting blanket, yet his mind was anything but calm.
His gaze drifted to the trees, the leaves rustling gently in the soft breeze. The vibrant colors of autumn—golden yellows, deep reds, and fiery oranges—seemed to blur as memories from his past rushed to the forefront of his mind, unbidden and unwelcome.
His father, Jun Yongliang, had been a figure of great renown, a cultivator whose name was spoken with reverence across the land. As the direct disciple of Xiao Wei, the sect leader of Wangguanshan Sect, one of the three great sects, his future had seemed bright and assured. But then, his father had fallen in love with a demonic cultivator—his mother, Li Wei. Theirs was a love that defied all conventions, a union that brought together the righteous and the demonic, two forces that were never meant to coexist.
Jun Qiguang remembered his mother's smile, the way her eyes would light up when she looked at his father. They were happy together, despite the world's disapproval. But happiness, he had learned, was a fragile thing, easily shattered by the cruel hands of fate. Xiao Wei, who had once been proud of his disciple, turned against him when he married Li Wei. The sect leader's opposition was fierce, his anger fueled by a deep-seated belief that the marriage would drag the sect's reputation through the mud. The righteous and demonic factions were enemies, destined to clash, never to unite.
His father, however, had not cared for the animosity between the two factions. He had refused to let the sect bear the burden of his choices, and so, in an act of defiance, he had asked Xiao Wei to remove him from the sect. He left the life of a righteous cultivator behind, choosing instead to live quietly with his wife, away from the eyes of the world.
For a few short years, they had lived in peace. But Xiao Wei's resentment simmered, waiting for the right moment to boil over. That moment came when Jun Qiguang was just eleven years old. The memories of that fateful day were etched into his mind with painful clarity. Six masters, sent by Xiao Wei, descended upon their home with the sole purpose of ending his parents' lives. His father, once so powerful, had fought desperately, not for his own life, but for his wife and child.
"Run, Qiguang! Run and don't look back!" His mother's voice, filled with urgency and fear, echoed in his mind even now. And he had run, his small legs carrying him as fast as they could, tears streaming down his face. He had not looked back, not even once, as his parents faced their inevitable fate.
He had stumbled into Xishan Village, a remote place far from the sects and their politics. An elderly woman, whom he had come to call Grandma, had taken him in. For three years, he lived a quiet life, his parents' faces becoming distant memories, though the pain of their loss never truly faded.
Jun Qiguang's foundation had been extraordinarily strong, A Heavenly Spiritual Root with a Divine constitution—a prodigy born once in thousands of years, his father had always said. Even in the small village, he continued to practice the simple cultivation methods his father had taught him. His talent was undeniable, and though his heart was heavy with grief, he found a sense of purpose in his cultivation. But fate, it seemed, was not done with him.
At fourteen, he faced the harsh reality that no place, no matter how remote, could hide him from the past. Wangguanshan Sect found him again, and this time, they sought to destroy him completely. They had seen the potential in him, the threat he posed if he were to seek revenge. But one of the elders, perhaps out of pity or pragmatism, suggested a different punishment. Instead of killing him, they would destroy his Spiritual Roots, Dantians and meridians, reducing him to a mere mortal. "If his Spiritual Roots are destroyed," the elder had said, "he'll never cultivate again. He'll be no threat to us."
And so, they did just that. The pain was beyond anything Jun Qiguang had ever known, a searing agony that left him writhing on the ground, his cries echoing in the empty fields. At that moment, he had thought that death would have been kinder, less cruel. But they had not killed him, and so he resolved not to die. He would survive, and in surviving, he would become their worst nightmare.
The days that followed were filled with unending agony, both physical and emotional. He was no longer a cultivator but a human waste, stripped of everything that had once defined him. Yet, it was in this darkest of moments that he found a new path—a path that led him away from the light and into the shadows. His encounter with the shadow vein cultivation manual was nothing short of a miracle, a gift from the universe that seemed to have chosen him to walk the demonic path.
He threw himself into his cultivation with a fervor that bordered on madness. He neither ate nor slept, his mind consumed with thoughts of revenge. Wangguanshan Sect, with its veneer of righteousness, was a den of vipers in his eyes, and he would stop at nothing to bring it down. He would make them pay for what they had done, not just to him but to his parents. They had pretended to be defenders of justice, but they were worse than demons, and he would expose them for the hypocrites they were.
As these thoughts churned within him, Jun Qiguang's emotions grew increasingly unstable. He could feel the demonic energy within him, coiling like a snake, ready to strike. His eyes flashed red, a clear sign of the dangerous power he wielded. He needed to regain control before he lost himself completely.
Rising from the stone chair, Jun Qiguang left the courtyard and headed toward the outskirts of the town. He needed solitude, a place where he could stabilize his emotions without the risk of being seen. The forest near the town was secluded, its dense trees offering the privacy he required. As he walked among the towering trees, the autumn leaves crunching underfoot, he focused on calming the storm within him.
But even as he sought to regain control, there was a question that gnawed at the edges of his mind, a question that he couldn't easily dismiss. Why didn't he feel the same disgust and hatred toward Yao Huaijin that he felt for other righteous cultivators? By all rights, Yao Huaijin should have been no different from the rest—an embodiment of everything Jun Qiguang despised. But he wasn't. There was something about Yao Huaijin that defied the simple, black-and-white view of the world that Jun Qiguang had always held.
The image of Yao Huaijin practicing his swordplay that morning came unbidden to his mind. He had watched, mesmerized, as Yao Huaijin moved with a grace and precision that seemed almost otherworldly. His sword techniques were not just powerful; they were beautiful, a seamless blend of strength and elegance. Even with just a simple branch, Yao Huaijin had displayed a mastery that Jun Qiguang had never seen before. And in that moment, as he had stood there watching, he had felt something he couldn't quite name—a feeling that unsettled him, that made him question everything he thought he knew.
No, he told himself firmly, shaking his head as if to dispel the thought. It doesn't matter. Yao Huaijin is still a righteous cultivator, and I am a demonic one. Our paths were never meant to cross. Since ancient times, the righteous and demonic factions have walked different paths, paths that were never meant to intersect.
But even as he tried to convince himself, the doubt remained, a small, persistent voice that refused to be silenced. And as he stood in the quiet of the forest, the autumn wind rustling the leaves around him, Jun Qiguang realized that the world was not as simple as he had once believed. There were shades of gray in the black-and-white world he had constructed, and Yao Huaijin was the living proof of that complexity.
For now, Jun Qiguang pushed those thoughts aside, focusing instead on stabilizing his emotions and controlling the demonic energy that surged within him. But he knew that this was only the beginning of a journey that would force him to confront the contradictions within himself—and the growing bond between him and Yao Huaijin, a bond that defied all the rules he had once held so dear.