The sound drew nearer and nearer.
Soon, Yin Zhiping could make out the words: "Son. My son."
He fixed on the direction—and saw a figure traveling upside down on its hands, moving with tremendous speed. In the blink of an eye it was before him.
Catching sight of Yin Zhiping, the newcomer stopped, righted himself, and sidled close, mumbling, "Are you my son? You're not my son. Where's my son? Number one under heaven. I'm number one under heaven. I'm number one under heaven."
Between the deranged manner and the Innate astral qi clinging undispersed about his body, Yin Zhiping already knew exactly who this was. He simply hadn't imagined he would run into him in this wilderness. What were the absurd odds.
This was the one-time Western Venom, Ouyang Feng—schemed against by Huang Rong into cultivating the Nine Yin Manual in reverse, his mind broken ever since, madness without end.
But his strength was solid, brutal fact.
Ouyang Feng's arrival naturally woke the resting Li Zhichang and the two on watch, Wu Zhiye and Qian Zhitong.
"Senior Brother, this is..."
Li Zhichang looked to his senior brother in confusion. The man before them seemed... unwell.
"Who are you? Who is number one under heaven?"
Yin Zhiping didn't answer Li Zhichang. He put the question to Ouyang Feng instead.
A sane Ouyang Feng was trouble; a mad one was trouble of another kind. If the man latched onto them, the road ahead would not be peaceful.
Yin Zhiping was confident in himself—he judged himself not much beneath Ouyang Feng—but if a fight could be avoided, he'd rather avoid it. He had all these junior brothers here.
"Who am I? I'm number one under heaven. Who's number one under heaven? Right—I'm number one under heaven. Then who is number one under heaven?"
Yin Zhiping exhaled in relief. Ouyang Feng had been successfully talked into a circle. He even felt a flicker of accomplishment—yes, it was kicking a man while he was down, but it did look like no one would have to fight tonight.
Alas, man proposes and heaven disposes. No one alive could chart the wiring of a madman's brain.
One second Ouyang Feng was spiraling through his crisis of self-doubt over who was number one under heaven; the next, his eyes landed on the white-robed Yin Zhiping, the question evaporated, and he seized Yin Zhiping's hand in a grip that would not let go.
"Son! You're my son! You're Ke'er! You're Ke'er!"
The thing was, Ouyang Ke had favored white robes—and Yin Zhiping had come down the mountain in white. Add a face and bearing that stood out from any crowd, and the madman had decided he was Ouyang Ke.
Yin Zhiping looked down at his captured hand, then at Ouyang Feng hopping and bouncing in circles around him. A thousand words churned in his chest demanding release, and in the end they distilled into a single syllable: "...Fuck."
You couldn't blame him for the flower of profanity. Years of Taoist cultivation had reformed most of his past life's "fine habits," but as they say, a leopard doesn't change its spots—the old reflex catchphrase slipped out anyway.
Li Zhichang and the others didn't know what the word meant. In fairness, they were still struggling to grasp the situation at all.
How had Senior Brother Yin gone for one stroll and come back with a father?
Hadn't his family died to bandits all those years ago?
Also—what in the world did "fuck" mean?
"Senior Brother, is this gentleman your... father?"
Li Zhichang's head was one enormous question mark.
"What do you think? Doesn't he remind you of someone?"
Yin Zhiping wanted very much to knock this junior brother over the head. Think, man. What had he ever done to deserve a father like this windfall? His late mother, rest her, had never had a wandering eye.
"Senior Brother, you mean... Ouyang Feng?"
Only then did it click for Li Zhichang. There was indeed such a figure in the jianghu—the same madness, the same claim to be number one under heaven, the same endless search for his son.
The words were barely out before Li Zhichang and the rest of the disciples stepped back in perfect unison, opening the distance between themselves and Ouyang Feng—and Yin Zhiping with him.
Watching his junior brothers execute that single synchronized step backward, Yin Zhiping nearly spat blood.
Truly, his good, good junior brothers...
There was nothing for it. Yin Zhiping gave a small nod, confirming Li Zhichang's guess. He didn't feel like elaborating.
SHING!
SHING!
SHING!
Steel cleared scabbards. Twenty long swords—every blade but Yin Zhiping's—pointed at Ouyang Feng.
"Don't. You're no match for him."
His junior brothers' move came from worry for him, yes—but one had to weigh the actual balance of power.
These twenty junior brothers of his, against Ouyang Feng, didn't amount to a plate of appetizers.
At least a plate of appetizers could fill a stomach...
Li Zhichang and the others watched Ouyang Feng, knuckles white.
None of them registered that Yin Zhiping had said you're no match—not we're.
"Elder Ouyang, I am not your son. My name is Yin Zhiping, disciple of Qiu Chuji of the Quanzhen Sect. You have mistaken me for someone else."
Had it been anyone else, Yin Zhiping would have struck already.
As the Taoist sages taught: if someone gives you trouble, subdue him first and talk after!!!
But this was Ouyang Feng. Yin Zhiping had no guarantee of a clean win.
If the man was provoked into a true rage, Yin Zhiping himself would likely be fine—but these junior brothers were another matter. He had no confidence he could shield them all.
"Impossible. You're my son. Son, your papa searched so bitterly for you. Don't you worry—papa's here to look after you now. No one will bully you again."
The mad Ouyang Feng would have none of it. He ignored the swords leveled at him entirely, clamped onto Yin Zhiping's hand, and would not release it.
Yin Zhiping felt his luck was truly out. If he'd known, he'd never have worn white. Look good, they said. Well, look where dressing up had gotten him—claimed like lost luggage.
Fond of claiming fathers, was he?
Before his martial arts were complete, Yin Zhiping wouldn't have minded acknowledging a godfather like this. Say what you liked, Ouyang Feng was one of the rarest masters under heaven; even Guo Jing couldn't be certain of taking him.
The Toad Skill was ugly, granted—but it was a martial art you couldn't buy.
But that was hypothetical. Now, with true essence coursing through him, Yin Zhiping saw no need whatsoever to acquire this father. Better to save the position for Yang Guo.
Pestered past endurance, Yin Zhiping turned his wrist, caught Ouyang Feng's hand, and with a lift and an outward sweep—borrowing the Taiji unloading technique he'd worked out himself—sent the unwary Ouyang Feng flying.
But this was Ouyang Feng. Mad or not, every ounce of his martial arts remained. A trick like that had only landed because he wasn't paying attention. His right foot braced against the ground; one spin, and he was steady again.
"Ho, son! Not bad at all! Your martial arts have grown while we've been apart. Come—let your father test your progress."
The words weren't even finished before Ouyang Feng squatted low, arms bent and raised to shoulder height, a gukk-gukk croaking rolling out of his throat—the very image of a giant green toad.
His legs uncoiled, and he shot forward.
Yin Zhiping waved off Li Zhichang and the others as they moved to intervene. He didn't draw his sword. He simply went to meet him.
"Zhichang leads from here. We regroup at Xiangyang."
Yin Zhiping's right hand held his sword; his left formed the Vast Heaven Palm, true essence coiling undispersed in his palm, Innate astral qi held and unreleased.
Only after Yin Zhiping and Ouyang Feng had already crossed hands did his voice drift back to them.
Under Yin Zhiping's deliberate steering, the two figures drew farther and farther away...