Zhou Martial Arts School.
Zhou Xingtong stroked the joint where his right arm had been severed, falling into memories for a time.
The previous era—more precisely, thirty-eight years ago.
Those earth-shaking upheavals still remained vivid in his heart, as clear as images projected from a film reel.
The glorious and colossal imperial power of Great Yue had crushed Great Yuan's mighty True Blood, yet now it had already melted away in avalanches.
"How long has it even been? There are practically no people left who want to practice martial arts." Zhou Xingtong looked somewhat desolately at the weapon rack standing to one side of the martial arts training room.
Some of the weapons on it had already begun to rust.
No one studied them, no one practiced, and naturally, no one maintained them.
For the first few years, he had maintained them diligently. Now, though, he had grown sluggish and weary.
"Better drink." As Zhou Xingtong recalled the days of his youthful high spirits, he tipped his head back and poured the liquor from his gourd into his mouth.
"Old Zhou." The door was suddenly pushed open, and the white-haired Old Daoist in a worn Daoist robe slowly strolled in.
The moment he entered, he saw his friend clutching a gourd and drinking himself into a stupor. His expression darkened.
"You old bastard, your illness has only just gotten a little better and you're already drinking yourself senseless. Are you trying to die?"
He snatched the liquor gourd from Zhou Xingtong's hand and took a drink himself.
"Better let this Old Daoist help you share the pain."
Zhou Xingtong was not annoyed. A few days ago, he had fallen gravely ill and nearly breathed his last. If the Old Daoist had not come visiting with his disciple, he might have