Walking among desolate hills and graves where foxes and rabbits roamed, the sword-bearing man suddenly stopped before a tombstone. He went over to the stone beside an unremarkable little mound, crouched, and pulled away the vines wrapped around it, revealing its true face. The inscription had blurred; he could make out barely half the characters. The man sighed. "The divine order crumbles, while rites and music flourish. The struggle among the hundred schools is about to begin."
When the man rose, he saw that his disciple, who had yet to enter Zhenwu Mountain and formally pay respects to his master and ancestors, was facing the way they had come. Blood ran from the boy's mouth, ears, and nose, making his dark face look especially fierce and frightening. The boy raised an arm, wiped at it haphazardly, and kept staring in that direction.
The man said, "Ma Kuxuan, by the reason you gave me, you learned that the girl from out of town used the Flying Sword Technique in the alley and joined forces with the Great Sui Prince and a eunuch to kill your first master. You couldn't untie that knot in your heart and had to avenge him before leaving town. I thought that made sense, so I didn't stop you and let you bear the consequences, whether you lived or died. After all, for a cultivator, meeting an enemy on the path like that is both a danger and an opportunity."
But the man's voice hardened. He would not favor the disciple before him merely for his extraordinary talent. "Why did you set your sights on a boy your own age from Mud Bottle Alley? I already told you: we cultivators of Zhenwu Mountain's school of military thought, especially those who follow the sword, must never kill the