Chapter 17: Fates Collide in the Tavern

Jing Zhe’s presence here had a reason.
With his reclusive Sword Sovereign nature, leaving Tai Shu Sect’s snowy Tianshan was no small matter.
Something urgent must have driven him.

He was out for revenge—heading to the Northern Kingdom’s Ten Thousand Demons Sect.

Here’s the issue.

To reach the demon clan’s territory in the north, he had to pass through Baijing City.

Jing Zhe arrived on clouds, planning to storm the Ten Thousand Demons Sect and take his enemy’s life.
This was just a pitstop for tea before moving on.

When Zong Ji wrote One Sword to Immortality, he crafted Jing Zhe’s story for maximum impact.
The protagonist’s life was, in a word, tragic.

Jing Zhe’s mother was of the demon clan, a remnant of their divine bloodline, bearing a sacred treasure.

At seven, her identity was exposed, drawing thieves’ greed.
Her grand family was slaughtered overnight, blood flowing like rivers.
Jing Zhe fell from young master to street beggar, his spirit root destroyed, a prodigy cast into the abyss, enduring mortal suffering.

For revenge, he relied on sheer willpower, joining Tai Shu Sect, the top sect.
He plunged into an icy pool to reforge his spirit root, enduring agony to restore his cultivation.

As a protagonist, his talent cheat was massive.
Once his spirit root was fixed, his strength skyrocketed.

Such astonishing talent caught the eye of Tai Shu Sect’s Sword Demon.
With ulterior motives, Sword Demon took Jing Zhe as a disciple.

Sword Demon had only two disciples: a stern master and a gentle senior brother, giving Jing Zhe a rare sense of warmth.

Just when he thought his suffering was over, fate struck again.

Sword Demon Yi Jue was a facade.
His true identity was the Ten Thousand Demons Sect’s leader, the dreaded Night Demon Venerable, the mastermind behind Jing Zhe’s family massacre.

Night Demon Venerable took Jing Zhe as a disciple with a scheme in mind.

Jing Zhe was born with a sword bone, naturally halfway to the Heartless Dao.
Such talent sparked envy.

Decades ago, Night Demon Venerable was wounded by Master White Feather of Ziguang Temple, leaving a lifelong injury.
Now, he coveted Jing Zhe’s body for possession.
Worse, Yi Jue later realized Jing Zhe was the sole survivor of that massacre.

Though the family was destroyed, Yi Jue hadn’t found the treasure he sought.
He suspected Jing Zhe had it.
Posing as a kind master, he lurked like a viper, waiting for Jing Zhe’s cultivation to peak before attempting possession.

His gentle senior brother was no better.

Yi Mo, the young master of the Ten Thousand Demons Sect and Yi Jue’s eldest son, seemed warm and caring.
But beneath that smile was a scheming heart, jealous of Jing Zhe’s talent.
He sowed discord, subtly making Jing Zhe’s life miserable.

Half the cannon fodder Jing Zhe faced at Tai Shu Sect was Yi Mo’s doing.

In short, Jing Zhe entered a den of thieves, mistaking foes for family.
When Yi Jue tried possession, Jing Zhe cleverly sensed the trap, absorbing half his master’s cultivation instead.
Before Tai Shu Sect, he exposed Yi Jue’s Demon Venerable identity.

But the relic from Jing Zhe’s mother, a legendary treasure, was stolen by the fleeing Demon Venerable.

No wonder Jing Zhe trained relentlessly, emerging from seclusion to storm the Ten Thousand Demons Sect with his sword.

Poor guy.jpg

As for why Mu Ye was here…

As Wuji Sect’s top disciple, Mu Ye had recently been trounced by Zong Ji, propelling the latter to fame in a humiliating way.

It’d only been days since his public defeat by Zong Ji.
Too ashamed to face his master’s teasing, Mu Ye couldn’t return to his sect.

So he ran away.

His excuse was lofty:
“I’ve touched the Saint-tier threshold. I’ll return soon, no worries.”

Cutting off all communication, with just himself and his blade, Mu Ye, in gray robes, set off to wander the world.

And so, by sheer chance, the three met in this tavern.

This tavern was renowned, a thousand-year-old Baijing institution.
Its brewing techniques, refined over generations, produced unmatched purity, making it a city hotspot.

Though Mu Ye wore a conical hat, Zong Ji recognized his old rival instantly.

Come on, that swaggering walk, that defiant tone when tossing spirit stones—who else but Mu Ye?

Not everyone had such a punchable aura.

Seeing Jing Zhe already had Zong Ji on edge.
Now with Mu Ye, he was in full panic.
He pulled his hat lower, shrinking into the corner, sipping quietly.

He didn’t dare speak.

His voice was too distinctive.
If Mu Ye noticed, he’d charge with his blade first.

“Sir, we’re full. Mind sharing a table?”
As Mu Ye stepped in, the server approached, all apologetic smiles.

“Whatever.”

The blade master’s voice was low, lacking his usual arrogance.
That defeat must’ve hit hard.

Zong Ji sighed lightly, taking a sip, sneaking a glance at the scene.

Footsteps followed, with the server’s eager voice: “Over there, that table has just one guest…”

Which table? Which one?

Zong Ji froze, scanning the packed seats nearby.

No way.
It couldn’t be that table, right?

“…Sir, mind sharing with this gentleman?”

“Sir? Sir?”

The server reached Zong Ji, asking loudly enough to draw attention.
Nearby cultivators, mid-chat, turned curiously.

Zong Ji: …

Accept or refuse?
If he agreed, Mu Ye would sit opposite, spotting him instantly.
If he refused, he’d have to speak, risking exposure.

A lose-lose situation.

Zong Ji, stone-faced, shook his hat slightly, wishing he could vanish on the spot.

“If this guest isn’t willing, please wait a bit, sir.”

The server hadn’t expected rejection.
This cultivator had ordered a ten-year Pear Blossom White, clearly no pauper.
Not wanting trouble, the server smiled apologetically, turning to the intimidating gray-robed blade master.

“Sir, perhaps…”

“Hold it.”

The blade master, fingering his hilt, suddenly straightened.

Mu Ye had only come for the famed Pear Blossom White.
But a glance caught a familiar figure, igniting his fury.

“Zong Ji!”

The gray-robed blade master gritted his teeth.
He’d recognize Zong Ji’s ashes, let alone this guy in a hat, thinking silence would hide him?

His roar shook the room.
What was a few curious glances became every eye locked on the corner.

Including the white-clad Sword Sovereign, sipping tea with ethereal calm.

That name was just too famous.

Zong Ji: …

Instinctively, he drew his black-and-gold fan, snapping it open with a “whoosh,” infusing it with spiritual energy to block any attack from Mu Ye.

No surprise there—nine out of ten times they met, Mu Ye charged with his blade, slashing first, talking never.

Unexpectedly, Mu Ye didn’t rush.
He stood there, his face slightly sour.

Only then did Zong Ji notice.

His gaze slid down, smacked by his own past handiwork.
The fan bore four bold, vigorous characters, glittering with gold-flecked ink.

World’s. Greatest. Ever.

He’d inscribed it after descending Longevity Cliff, smug about becoming the world’s top.

Zong Ji: …
This aggro? Locked in tight.