“Mm,” Han Zhou replied, his voice raspy.
Just then, a sound-transmission paper crane fluttered into the room. Yan Mingqiu raised a hand, catching it between two fingers, and Yun Feng’s voice rang out from within:
“Come to my study at once.”
Yan Mingqiu stood up, his eyes reddened at the corners. “Master is looking for me. I’ll go and be right back wait for me here.”
Han Zhou gave a nod.
Half an hour later, Yan Mingqiu returned, looking thoroughly dazed. He stared blankly at Han Zhou as his master’s words echoed relentlessly through his mind:
“He has recovered his memories. He is the child of the Han family from the Sanyuan Pond—the very same Han family annihilated by your biological father.”
Yan Mingqiu felt as though his brain and heart were being pierced simultaneously by countless needles, blooming with a searing, agonizing pain.
He had thought that even if Han Zhou left after recovering his memories, they would still cross paths frequently in the future. After all, the fastest flying boat on Yucang Peak could circle the entire Central Continent in just ten days.
Yet, cruel fate had played a bitter trick on them. Of all people, he just had to be the young master of the Han family.
Watching Yan Mingqiu’s blood-drained complexion, Han Zhou knew deep down that Yun Feng must have told him about the recovery of his memories.
“Mingqiu, you were spot-on when you picked my name. There really is a han character in it—my name is Han Zhou.”
Yan Mingqiu fixed a deadened, unblinking stare on Han Zhou for a long, silent moment before murmuring, “Han Zhou… I’m sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing to me? You have nothing to apologize for. If anything, I’m the one who…”
Cutting him off abruptly, Yan Mingqiu said, “Han Zhou, leave the mountain today.”
Han Zhou shook his head. “Let me stay a few more days. I want to spend more time with you.”
Struggling to his feet, Yan Mingqiu yanked open a large storage chest, dumping out dozens of storage pouches. He then pulled out a Sumeru ring and swept every single pouch into its luminous space.
“I hear the Heavenly Sword Sect isn’t very well off. Take all of these with you. Use whatever helps with your cultivation, and sell whatever you don’t need for useful supplies.”
Han Zhou reached out to push his hands away. “I can’t accept this. I haven’t even repaid you and Immortal Yunshang for saving my life yet how could I possibly take your things?”
“Take it!” For the very first time, Yan Mingqiu wore an expression of stern severity, his tone brooking no argument.
Lunging forward, he grabbed Han Zhou’s left hand and slid the Sumeru ring firmly onto his ring finger. The moment it was in place, he pulled Han Zhou into a fierce, suffocating embrace.
A teleportation talisman materialized in his palm, which he slapped squarely against Han Zhou’s back. “Chenhan, farewell.”
“I don’t want to leave yet…” Before Han Zhou could finish his sentence, his entire body vanished completely from the spot.
Yan Mingqiu’s arms closed around empty air, just as his heart hollowed out into a desolate void.
Teleported straight to the sect gates, Han Zhou instinctively took a step forward, wanting to head back up the mountain.
Yet, a sobering thought arrested his feet: he still carried the heavy burden of an unavenged blood feud, and at present, he had no future to offer Yan Mingqiu. Still, time stretched long before them—Yan Mingqiu was right here on Qiwang Mountain and wasn’t going anywhere.
“Once I’ve exacted my revenge, I’ll come back for you. When that day comes, I will never leave your side again.” Gazing up one last time at the distant, mist-shrouded peaks, Han Zhou turned around and strode away.
After days of brooding in a slump, Yan Mingqiu seemingly drifted back into his old, coasting lifestyle on the surface.
He pinned a new notice up at his front gate: “The tea on Yucang Peak has all been drunk dry; guests will no longer be served.”
Not only did Yan Mingqiu stop entertaining visitors for tea, but he also refused to step foot off Yucang Peak entirely. Having once possessed a voracious appetite, he completely abandoned the Spirit Dining Hall, surviving solely on bland inedible penance pills day in and day out.
Yet, come the fifteenth of every month, he would invariably don a blazing crimson robe, make his way to the Moon-Embracing Pavilion at the peak of Yucang Peak, and drink until he was dead drunk, after which Yun Feng would have to haul him back.
Four years of this zombie-like routine slipped away. Exactly as he wished, Yan Mingqiu hadn’t gained so much as a sliver of cultivation progress, remaining stubbornly stuck at the early Foundation Establishment stage.
Yan Mingqiu fully expected to drift through the rest of his life in this lifeless daze—until the day Yun Feng walked into his room holding a jade slip and handed it over.
“Next month is the Sect Grand Tournament a once-in-a-century event. Countless grand secret realms will open up during the games. Do you want to go out and experience the wider world?”
“Master, with my cultivation level, going there would just be walking up to get beaten up.”
“Han Zhou is a personal disciple of the Heavenly Sword Sect; he’s guaranteed to participate.”
A brilliant spark flickered to life in Yan Mingqiu’s eyes, though it dimmed almost instantly as he struggled internally. “I’m not going.”
“Don’t worry about having low cultivation. Every participant in the tournament is issued an identity token; the moment you encounter danger inside a secret realm, all you have to do is shatter your token, and you’ll be instantly teleported to safety.”
A wave of temptation washed over Yan Mingqiu’s heart, whispering: That’s right… I don’t need to win any rankings. I just want to catch a glimpse of him just a quick, secret look, and I’ll pull myself right back out. I’ve missed him so much it’s driving me out of my mind!
Thinking it in his heart, the words spilled right out of his mouth. “Alright, but just to be clear ahead of time: I’m definitely not winning any prizes, and I might end up embarrassing you. You’d better mentally prepare yourself, Master.”
Overjoyed to see Yan Mingqiu finally agree, Yun Feng threw all concerns of face and dignity to the winds he refused to let his disciple rot away like a ghost for another day longer.
“Face? What’s face good for? Can you eat it, or can you use it to refine pills? What use is it anyway?”
With a casual flick of his sleeve, Yun Feng etched Yan Mingqiu’s name onto the registration jade slip. “Settled, then. We have half a month left; get your gear ready, and we’ll take the flying boat straight there when the time comes.”
The ensuing half-month transformed Yan Mingqiu into a whirlwind of frenetic activity. He packed and crammed enough belongings inside and outside his quarters to fill an entire flying boat to absolute capacity.
On the day of departure, Yun Feng stared at the flying boat deck, where literally zero square inches of floor space remained open. “Mingqiu, couldn’t you have tossed all this junk into a Sumeru ring? And what on earth are you bringing a bed for? Not to mention this writing desk, and this meditation mat… Did you literally pack up your entire bedchamber and drag it on board?”
“Master, I haven’t left the mountain in ages. Not only am I particular about my bed, but I’m also particular about my entire room without these things, I simply can’t fall asleep,” Yan Mingqiu explained earnestly as he whipped out a cleaning rag and began meticulously wiping down every single item anew.
Though every single one of these tasks could have been accomplished instantly with a simple Dust-Removal Spell, Yan Mingqiu threw himself into the manual labor with manic enthusiasm.
He didn’t dare allow his hands to rest; the moment he stopped moving, unbearable anxiety would take over, flooding his mind with thoughts of Han Zhou a torment that made every single second stretch out like an eternity.
The flying boat traveled at blistering speed, arriving within half a day at Fuhua City, the grand venue hosting the Sect Grand Tournament.
The distance spanning that half-day’s journey was a gap Yan Mingqiu had spent four long years waiting to cross.