"Damn it—"
"So this is the bastard who killed Yingjun?"
"And he still dared to swagger into Zhao Village like this?"
At that moment, inside a farmhouse in Zhao Village...
A man in his early fifties stood by a window. Through a crack in it, by the faint moonlight, he watched Li Yun enter Zhao Village, his teeth clenched with hatred.
He was the master of the Zhang Residence and Zhang Yingjun's father.
He was a martial artist himself, but his cultivation was nothing special—he was merely an ordinary Xiantian Martial Artist.
Knowing his talent did not lie in the Martial Dao, he had turned his attention to business. Fortunately, he had a knack for it, and over twenty or thirty years he had built up a sizable estate.
But the wealthier he became, the more keenly he understood that money alone was nowhere near enough in a world ruled by the Martial Dao.
So he had spent a fortune trying to cultivate his children.
He had hoped one of them would attain enough strength in the Martial Dao to inherit the family business and protect it.
Never had he imagined that, just as his own talent for the Martial Dao was poor, his children's would be unremarkable too.
His youngest son, Zhang Yingjun, showed slightly more promise.
So he had devoted even more attention to him.
But who could have expected it?
The more attention he lavished on Zhang Yingjun, the more the boy disappointed him.
He put no effort into the Martial Dao at all.
Instead, he spent his days with his guards and the wastrel sons of Western Mountain Commandery, doing nothing but feasting and drinking or carousing in brothels.
Nothing his father said made a difference.
After Zhang Yingjun heard about the Cloud Mountain Residence, he