Chapter Eight: My Name is Liu, and I Live on Peak Number Eight

Naturally, Liu Pan was helpless under the stares from all around him—who could blame them, with such a strikingly conspicuous broadsword strapped to his back?

Truth be told, Liu Pan could have left the Desolate Blade in the small cottage atop Peak Thirteen. Yet he simply could not rest easy. After all, everyone on Peak Thirteen knew he possessed such a blade, and his battle with the Jackal just yesterday had only fueled the curiosity of many regarding the weapon on his back.

If he left the Desolate Blade behind, once someone’s curiosity got the better of them and they sneaked into his room, it would surely become a troublesome affair. At present, aside from its overall silhouette, the blade appeared to be nothing but a weathered plank of wood from any angle.

A ninth-rank martial artist carrying a “rotting plank”? The inattentive might think he was being ridiculous, but would the shrewd see it that way?

Thus, to avoid any mishap, Liu Pan chose to carry the Desolate Blade with him wherever he went. Though this made him appear ostentatious and drew the ire of those who disliked him, it was still far preferable to exposing the blade’s true nature.

Inside the dining hall, even as unfriendly eyes lingered on him, Liu Pan felt no concern. For the sect had rules; no fighting was allowed in the dining hall. Or rather, brawling within would incur a most severe penalty.

Yet, while blows were forbidden, provocation was not. It was not long after Liu Pan took his seat that someone, unable to contain himself, strode over with ill intent.

“Hey, newbie, huh? That blade on your back looks pretty good. Hand it over, let me take a look.”

A flippant voice rang out, and Liu Pan looked up to see a foot planted on the bench across from him.

He raised his eyes slightly and took stock of the newcomer: a young man of about twenty, dark-skinned and scrawny, reminiscent of a monkey. At this moment, the man had one foot on the bench, one hand resting on his thigh, and the other crooked at Liu Pan, beckoning with a finger—a posture that positively screamed “looking for trouble.”

Liu Pan frowned imperceptibly at the man’s antics, but said nothing, simply lowering his head to continue eating.

He was well aware of what this monkey-like youth was after. New disciples were often unfamiliar with the rules; all too often, it was in the dining hall, where fighting was forbidden, that they lost their cool and responded to verbal taunts with violence—the consequences of which went without saying.

Clearly, this skinny monkey assumed Liu Pan was a newcomer, unfamiliar with the rules, and that the broadsword on his back was far too conspicuous. So he sought to bait Liu Pan into breaking the rules and facing punishment.

But the monkey’s cunning ploy fell flat.

Contrary to what he might have expected, the monkey grew angry, for Liu Pan’s calm disregard was too much to bear—as if he did not even exist.

To senior disciples, nothing was more intolerable than being ignored by a junior. After all, they were older, had entered the sect earlier, and had been cultivating longer.

Yet, despite all their hard work, some new disciples possessed such astounding talent that they surpassed their seniors in a matter of months—or, worse, arrived already stronger than them.

How could the seniors’ hearts remain untroubled? To toil so long, only to be outdone again and again by those around them, and then by a stream of new arrivals—such was a bitter fate. It was enough to drive some to despair and ruin.

Liu Pan understood this pain well; he sympathized, but could do nothing.

As for why he still ignored the monkey despite knowing this pain? Simply because the monkey had brought it on himself. Had he not provoked Liu Pan first, he would not have been ignored.

Nonetheless, the monkey would never see it that way. Retracting his beckoning finger, he leaned forward, his face clouded.

“You’ve got guts, kid! Tell me, what’s your name and which peak are you from?”

The monkey, having lost face yet unwilling to leave, was clearly determined to keep pressing the issue. Liu Pan’s expression grew icy.

“Get lost.”

With a cold bark, Liu Pan jerked his head up.

He had already been in a foul mood, about to part with the Desolate Blade, and now this monkey had provoked him again and again—so how could he possibly be polite?

His sudden outburst startled the monkey, drawing the attention of nearly everyone in the hall. For a moment, the monkey almost lashed out reflexively, but he remembered where he was and forcibly suppressed the urge.

Staring at Liu Pan’s frosty gaze, the monkey’s expression flickered. He longed to teach this upstart a lesson, but—

After a moment, he spat bitterly, “You’ve got guts, kid! But this isn’t over. Just you wait!”

With that, he stalked out, heedless of the mocking glances that followed him.

Many in the dining hall recognized the monkey, and seeing him driven off by Liu Pan, most of the senior disciples realized Liu Pan was not one to be easily manipulated. Those who had entertained similar designs quickly abandoned their schemes, and the attention on Liu Pan diminished.

Liu Pan had never cared for their stares, and with even fewer now, he was all the more content to ignore them.

As time passed, more people trickled in, most of them new disciples, judging by their curious glances.

After nearly half an hour, Liu Pan finally saw the one he was waiting for—a man with a resolute face, clad in a black short robe, a broad-bladed sword slung across his back.

This was the man he sought.

Liu Kuang, too, was somewhat curious about the dining hall. Yet, before he could take in his surroundings, a vaguely familiar figure appeared before him.

“What are you doing here?” Liu Kuang was momentarily taken aback, a hint of confusion in his eyes.

“That’s not important,” Liu Pan smiled. “Do you have a moment? Let’s step outside for a talk.”

Liu Kuang had always wondered why Liu Pan had helped him during the Liu clan’s competition. After the event, he tried to find Liu Pan for answers, but the latter had vanished, and he’d assumed the Second Elder had “dealt” with him. To meet Liu Pan here in the Baiyang Sect—how could he not be surprised and puzzled?

“Very well, let’s talk.” After a moment’s hesitation, Liu Kuang nodded. Liu Pan had helped him before; there was no reason to refuse.

“By the way, which peak do you live on?” Liu Pan asked as they walked out.

“Peak Eight,” Liu Kuang replied offhandedly.

At this, Liu Pan’s lips curled slightly. He turned and called out to the senior disciples in the hall, “If any of you happen to see that monkey who greeted me earlier, please inform him that my surname is Liu, and I live on Peak Eight.”

His abrupt announcement brought the hall to a standstill, and even Liu Kuang was momentarily stunned. Before he could react, Liu Pan had already pulled him outside.

The moment they stepped out, Liu Kuang frowned deeply, realizing Liu Pan’s words might bring him trouble.

“It’s nothing,” Liu Pan waved off his concern, then pointed to a grove beside the dining hall. “Come, let’s talk over there.”

Liu Kuang frowned even more but, unable to make sense of it, followed Liu Pan into the trees.

Once inside, Liu Pan scanned the area. Confirming they were alone, he finally unstrapped the Desolate Blade from his back.

He tore away the thick wrappings, revealing to Liu Kuang what appeared to be a rotting plank.

“What’s this?” Liu Kuang stared in disbelief; the blade that had looked so imposing on Liu Pan’s back was, in truth, so pitifully decrepit.

Liu Pan smiled, unsurprised by his astonishment. Stroking the strange snowflake emblem on the blade, he fell silent for a moment, then exhaled deeply and handed the weapon to Liu Kuang.

“Take it. It’s yours.”

His words were calm and steady, his eyes meeting Liu Kuang’s.

Liu Kuang frowned, and if not for the seriousness he saw in Liu Pan, he would have thought it a joke.

He accepted the “rotting plank,” his frown deepening—it truly felt like nothing but a piece of useless wood.

But why?

He looked up at Liu Pan, baffled. What was this all about?

“Drip your blood on it to bind it. You’ll understand afterward.” Liu Pan offered no explanation, only the instruction.

After all, if he’d simply claimed this plank was a spiritual artifact, Liu Kuang would have likely smacked him with it.

Drip blood to bind it?

Liu Kuang was dumbfounded, staring at Liu Pan and then at the plank as though he’d seen a ghost.

Only after a long moment did he realize Liu Pan was not joking in the slightest.

After a brief hesitation, Liu Kuang set the plank on the ground and drew the broad-bladed sword from his back.