"Useless! Every last one of you!"
At the sight, Xiong Batian's face turned livid. He knew the tide had turned against him.
He stared at Black Wind Stronghold, which he had spent years building, and watched it destroyed in a single day by the young man before him. Deep resentment filled his heart.
How he hated it!
He hated himself for so readily believing Zhao Zhicheng back then, for mistakenly assuming this brat was certain to die after taking his Empty Splitting Palm.
He hated himself for not killing Meng Qingshan with his own hands, giving this brat the chance to rally his forces and rise again.
Xiong Batian clenched his fists until his knuckles whitened. Suddenly, he recalled the past.
Back then, he had been about the same age as the youth before him, and he had begged his master to let him descend the mountain to gain experience.
But his master had believed his thoughts were not yet clear enough and that he should not venture down the mountain, fearing he would become ensnared by the turmoil of the mortal world below.
Yet he had secretly left the mountain anyway.
He had yearned for it so desperately, yearned to see with his own eyes the world below that his fellow disciples described, yearned to carve out a place for himself in the tangled martial world.
But his master had been absolutely right. His character was not yet steady, and he was not ready to leave the mountain.
Having grown up on the mountain, he had ultimately failed to resist the temptations of the dazzling world below. He broke his vows, lost his cultivation, became attached to outward forms, and lost his Zen.
Thus, he dared not return to that mountain, nor face the master who had treated him