Chapter 1182
Deep in the secluded woods, a long walk from the village, stood a ramshackle hut that looked ready to collapse at any moment.
For the boy, that hut was his entire world.
A mother who had once been a courtesan but now sold her body to survive each day, wasting away from illness.
And the boy, whose sole reason for living was to protect her. Their world consisted of just the two of them.
"Cough, cough."
The sound of a dry cough pierced through the thin walls, and the boy's face darkened.
His mother's illness grew worse with each passing day.
Yet, her beauty had not faded, and men with lecherous desires never stopped coming to that rotting hut.
Whenever they did, the boy would crouch outside like an animal on the cold, hard ground.
The sounds of breathing and the presence of unfamiliar men that seeped through the cracks of the door slowly gnawed away at his soul.
He pinched his own thigh and clawed at the dry earth with his nails.
Drip, drip.
Beneath his nails, flesh tore, mixing blood with dirt, but he felt no pain.
Only the icy Killing Intent burning in his eyes.
I want to kill them.
A pure white Killing Intent bloomed in the boy's pupils.
Everything inside—this world that had made his mother like this—
Creak.
Just then, the door opened, and a man stepped out with a smug grin.
The boy, still crouched, glared at him with murderous eyes.
"You little brat. Can't even look straight, huh? Always pulling this shit."
The man raised a meaty fist, but the boy's gaze only grew sharper, his eyes narrowing like blades.
"Tch, should've known better than to talk to you."
Hitching up his pants, the man spat and muttered under his breath,
"I only held back for your mother's sake."
Then, humming, he walked away from the hut.
Blood dripped from the boy's nails, and his eyes turned deathly pale.
"Cough."
Another dry cough echoed from inside.
In an instant, the Killing Intent that had filled the boy's eyes vanished as if it had never been there.
"Mother!"
As if he had never worn such a venomous expression,
the boy dashed inside with the most innocent face in the world.
Beyond the open door, his mother smiled weakly, her face pale.
The boy threw himself into her arms.
This embrace, worn down by sickness and exhaustion, was the warmest and safest refuge in the world.
Let this warmth last forever.
Let Mother's coughing stop.
Every night, the boy prayed to the heavens.
If gods existed, he believed they would listen.
Then, one day—
The village—no, the entire city of Chengdu—was in an uproar.
Rumors spread that a legendary figure, a Blade Master whose name was known throughout the martial world, had arrived.
People whispered his name with a mix of reverence and fear.
Even those in the village who had once fancied themselves swordsmen flocked to Chengdu just to catch a glimpse of him.
By the time those rumors reached the boy's ears—
"Hack—"
A vivid streak of red bloomed across a white handkerchief.
She had finally coughed up blood.
The woman who had been silently watching this unfold hardened her gaze, as if she had made a decision.
"Let's go to Chengdu."
His mother was different today.
She took out her best clothes from a dusty chest, dressed herself, and applied powder over her pallid face.
Once the signs of her illness were concealed, she looked nothing short of a celestial maiden.
The boy, excited, tightly grasped his mother's small hand.
"This is the place?"
Upon arriving in Chengdu, the boy's eyes widened.
His mother had led him to the most expensive inn in the city, a place he had never even dreamed of stepping into—Drunken Immortal Pavilion.
As they crossed the threshold, the floor was paved with polished ebony wood so glossy it nearly blinded him.
The delicate fragrance of expensive dishes lingered faintly in the air.
Most of the guests inside were wealthy merchants or martial heroes.
They either chewed their food in complete silence or sat as still as stone statues, barely daring to breathe.
Faced with this bizarre sight, the boy instinctively clutched his mother's sleeve.
In this scene unlike anything he had ever seen, she was the only thing that felt real.
Tap, tap.
Without hesitation, his mother walked toward the innermost staircase leading to the third floor.
But the moment she tried to set foot on the third-floor steps, a steward dressed in silk robes appeared like a ghost, blocking her path.
Behind him stood two burly attendants, rigid as screens.
"You may not enter."
The steward's voice was polite but cold as ice.
His eyes swept over the woman's fine attire, the faint traces of illness hidden beneath,
and the boy's shabby appearance with undisguised contempt.
"The third floor has been reserved in its entirety by an esteemed guest. Whatever your business may be, you are not permitted here. Turn back."
The attendants took a step forward, exerting silent pressure.
As gazes from all around converged on them, the boy felt his face grow hot with embarrassment.
Yet his mother showed not the slightest sign of shrinking back.
Instead, with a faint smile still lingering on her lips, she carefully drew something from the folds of her robe.
It was a small wooden box made of red sandalwood.
Though the dark crimson box bore the marks of long years, it carried no extravagant adornments.
Yet, in and of itself, it exuded an air of dignity.
"What is this?"
"Please deliver only this box to the martial artist residing here."
Her voice was soft, yet unwavering.
"Once he sees its contents, he will know who I am."
The steward shook his head.
"I cannot recklessly deliver an item from someone whose name and origins I do not know."
Then, with an expression of dread, he added:
"If we were to provoke his displeasure, not a single living soul in this inn would survive."
"If you deliver this, such a thing will not happen."
The steward opened the box.
Inside lay a single hairpin, one that appeared quite valuable.
"You want me to give this to him?"
"Yes."
The woman's gaze did not waver.
There was something in her eyes—a strange, persuasive power.
The steward alternated between studying the woman's appearance and the box she held.
The Drunken Immortal Pavilion was a place frequented by high-ranking officials, renowned martial artists, and wealthy merchants.
As such, the steward's discernment was exceptional.
From the woman before him, he sensed the natural grace that only those of noble birth and virtuous character possessed.
And from the box she held, an extraordinary aura emanated.
The steward's mind raced.
No matter how he considered it, the woman's words did not seem like a lie.
"Wait here."
After a brief moment of hesitation, he gestured to one of the attendants.
The attendant carefully accepted the box from the woman and disappeared up to the third floor.
The ensuing silence stretched on, feeling as long as eternity.
The boy swallowed dryly, his anxious eyes lifting to his mother.
After a while, the attendant descended the stairs, hurried over to the steward, and whispered something into his ear.
At once, the steward bowed deeply and stepped aside.
"Please proceed inside, madam. My deepest apologies for the discourtesy."
His mother turned to the boy.
"From this moment on, do not raise your head."
Though bewildered, the boy nodded.
As they ascended the creaking wooden stairs and finally stepped onto the third floor, the boy held his breath.
An absolute silence, as if all the noise from the floors below had been a lie, greeted them.
The vast space—so large it could be called expansive—held only a single table by the window.
Upon it, delicacies from land and sea were laid out in such abundance that the table legs seemed to groan under their weight. Yet not a single dish bore any sign of having been touched.
Like offerings for a ritual, the food had long since gone cold.
A shadow—one who had made the entire third floor his own domain—sat with his back turned, tilting a wine cup in solitude.
Even as the woman and the boy entered, he did not spare them a single glance.
As if nothing existed in the world except himself and the wine in his hand, he slowly let the liquor flow into his mouth.
Gulp.
The sound of the wine going down echoed heavily in the hollow space.
Clack.
Setting the cup down, the man finally turned.
The boy, who had been stealing glances around him, swallowed hard.
He looked like a massive tiger that had taken human form.
Amber eyes that burned like embers, an overwhelming aura that radiated from his entire body, and the enormous great blade—as tall as a man—slung diagonally across his back.
His mere presence froze the very air around them.
"Stay here for a moment."
His mother released the boy's hand and approached the beast-like man.
Whispering something to him, the middle-aged man's furrowed brow deepened like a steep ravine.
Then, his amber eyes shifted toward the boy.
In that instant, it felt as though a sharp blade had pierced his lungs and stabbed straight through his heart.
At the same time, a shudder ran through him, as if all the blood in his body had turned to ice.
Father.
The boy knew.
A name he had never once called aloud.
That man—was his father.
The father who had always been kept a secret... was that man.
The boy's heart pounded.
If his father was such a famous martial artist, why had his mother never sought him out before?
Then, had he come here to see his mother?
But that hope was short-lived.
The middle-aged man shook his head at his mother, his expression as cold as ice.
In his eyes, there was not a shred of sympathy—not a trace of pity. Only ruthless indifference.
"...Let's go back now."
As they left the inn, his mother's shoulders looked smaller, sadder—nothing like when they had entered.
Though his chest ached, the boy accepted the sweet candy his mother handed him and deliberately smiled brightly.
No—he had to pretend to smile.
If he grinned this wide, perhaps his mother's sorrow would lessen, even just a little.
That night.
The mother, who had returned to the hut, secretly called the village laborer she had been close to.
Because she had sensed something in the gaze of her beloved—the one she had longed for all these years—when she saw him during the day.
That look was not a simple rejection.
It was a chilling killing intent, meant to erase the stain that would tarnish his reputation.
Shiver.
Just recalling those tiger-like eyes made her body tremble faintly.
When deep night fell,
the woman pressed her cheek against the sleeping child's, breathing softly.
Her son's warmth, his breath—
she clung to them as if they were the last.
Creak.
The door opened, and the laborer she had seen earlier entered, carrying a wooden frame on his back.
Thud.
The laborer lowered a large bundle from the frame—likely containing the carcass of some beast—and bowed deeply to the woman.
Then, with great care, he lifted the sleeping boy onto the frame once more.
"Take good care of him."
The woman's voice trembled thinly.
"Do not worry, my lady."
The laborer bowed his head silently.
"Please, stay safe."
Instead of answering, the woman held out a small box. Inside was all the money she had saved.
"I cannot accept this, my lady."
"You'll need money to raise a child, won't you?"
She smiled faintly as she spoke.
"I've prepared plenty of spirit money, so I'll have enough for the journey to the afterlife."
At her words, the laborer's expression darkened. He wiped away tears before finally accepting the money.
Thud.
After pressing his forehead to the ground in a final bow, the laborer shouldered the frame and sprinted into the darkened forest.
How much time had passed?
The boy woke to the cold night breeze brushing against him in his sleep.
Before him stretched the unfamiliar scenery of a forest, his body tightly bound to the frame.
"Where is this?"
The laborer walked on without answering.
A foreboding dread seeped into the boy's chest.
"Where's Mother? Where is she?"
Silence.
That silence told him everything.
In an instant, the boy understood.
The cold, ruthless eyes of the swordsman they had met in Chengdu.
His mother's face, drowned in despair on their way back.
"Let me down!"
The boy thrashed like a wild beast.
The ropes bit into his flesh, but he writhed madly, heedless of the pain.
Snap.
By sheer luck, the ropes loosened.
Without looking back, the boy ran toward the hut where his mother waited.
How long had he run?
Just as his breath grew ragged, a thick pillar of black smoke rose in the distant sky.
Then, far ahead, a pair of ghostly lanterns flickered eerily in the dark.
Was it a hallucination?
The lights lingered near where their home should have been before vanishing like phantoms.
The hut was ablaze.
And before the flames, his mother lay collapsed, covered in blood.
"Mother!"
A scream tore from his throat, as though the world itself had shattered.
Her once-clear, beautiful eyes—eyes that had once held the whole world—were now hollow, blackened pits.
The arms that had warmly embraced him were cleanly severed below the elbows.
"The one who just left was him, wasn't it?"
The boy asked through bloody tears.
"The man we met in Chengdu—he did this to you, didn't he?"
His mother faintly smiled.
Then, with the last of her strength, she slowly spread the remains of her arms—from her shoulders to her elbows.
It was both a mother's aching love for the son who must now live alone and her final act of affection.
"My... son."
Tight.
She held him close and whispered in a low voice.
"I loved you... so much."
Thud.
With those words, she breathed her last.
"Ugh..."
In the cold embrace of his lifeless mother, the boy howled in anguish.
"AAAAAH—!"
Why? Why did she have to die?
He had prayed so desperately to the gods.
Even if they took his own life, he had only wished for his mother to live in health.
"Ugh...!"
Bloody tears streamed from the boy's torn eyes. They did not fall to the ground but instead soaked into his own flesh.
Whoosh—
A heavy downpour began to pour from the sky.
The boy's heartrending wails were swallowed by the sound of the rain.
"Haah... haah..."
Then, the laborer who had chased after him grabbed the boy's shoulder.
"Pull yourself together, young master."
"Mother... Mother is..."
"The lady was no courtesan!"
The laborer revealed a shocking truth.
"Though her family had fallen, she was originally a noblewoman from a prestigious household."
He bit his lip.
"When her family was ruined, she sold every last heirloom to ensure the servants could live, then left with nothing but the clothes on her back."
"......"
"I alone followed her to the end. Then we encountered bandits... and when I was struck down by a blade, a martial artist appeared and saved her."
The servant's voice was thick with sorrow.
"But after being poisoned by the aphrodisiac the bandits had used, the lady ended up spending a single night with that martial artist. And that became the beginning of all misfortunes."
Though they barely escaped the bandits, the two were captured by other villains.
In the end, that wicked man forced the woman to become a courtesan.
As her body grew weaker and she discovered she was with child, the brothel cast her out as useless.
With each passing day, the woman—now barely able to control her own body—was driven to the brink of starvation. To save her son,
she used her beautiful face as capital to endure that cruel existence.
"Mother..."
Tzzzt.
A pure white energy began flowing from the boy's body as he failed to suppress his rage.
"My poor mother..."
And at the very center of his forehead, a faint golden vein stood taut, pulsing with light in the shape of the character "one".
Tap tap. Drip drip.
Simultaneously, streams of white energy began radiating from the boy's body.
The Ten Thousand Transformations Sacred Body.
A physique said to appear perhaps once in ten thousand years.
Born with martial potential surpassing even the Heavenly Martial Body—the greatest martial foundation since the chaos of creation itself.
Kwaaaah—!
The white energy surged upward, piercing through the heavens.
The boy, now weeping tears of blood, demanded:
"Who was that martial artist?"
"Martial artist?"
"That man who came to Chengdu today! He's my father, isn't he?"
The servant shook his head.
"The lady strictly forbade me from ever speaking of him."
"Tell me who he is!"
"This lowly one would rather die than speak."
"What if I die?"
The boy dashed to the kitchen and pressed a gleaming kitchen knife against his own throat.
"If you won't tell me, I'll follow my mother right now!"
What flowed from the boy's eyes were no longer tears.
It was a bloody oath of vengeance.
Tzzzt.
Just then, a sizzling sound came from the hut.
"The lady knew he would come. To save you, young master, she set the hut ablaze and tried to take her own life."
What the servant had carried on his back was the corpse of a sickly child.
The woman had intended to fake both their deaths by burning the hut.
"Young master. Please... live an ordinary life."
"Answer me."
"This lowly one cannot break his oath to the lady. Young master."
"Fine."
Without hesitation, the boy drove the knife toward his throat.
"Young master!"
The servant grabbed the boy's wrist and cried out desperately.
"Then kill me instead!"
"Let... go!"
Enraged, the boy shoved the servant with one hand—sending him flying back about thirty feet.
"Better to die now than live without vengeance!"
As he raised the knife again,
"The Seven Fingers Demonic Blade!"
The servant finally bowed his head and spoke.
"She said his epithet was... the Seven Fingers Demonic Blade."
Seven Fingers Demonic Blade.
The name branded itself into the boy's mind like a searing iron.
"Seven Fingers Demonic Blade."
The boy ground his teeth.
To protect that illustrious name.
For fear of tarnishing that reputation.
He had tried to kill both mother and child.
"Unforgivable."
A woman reduced to tattered shoes and her bastard son.
To a man whose name shook the martial world, they must have been stains to be erased.
That's why he stabbed out those eyes that looked upon him... why he mercilessly severed those hands that reached for him.
The boy swallowed blood-tinged saliva as he glared at the burning sky.
And he swore.
That he would personally kill the man called Seven Fingers Demonic Blade.
That he would slaughter him in the exact same way he killed Mother.
Time flowed like a river.
In a damp, bloodstained underground cavern's stone chamber,
the boy—now a young man—bore no trace of his former innocence, only a shadow of ruthlessness.
Before him sat a mutilated youth with tongue and nose severed beyond recognition.
"He was one of the Eighteen Radiant Souls too, wasn't he?"
The young man whispered as if to himself.
"The Seven Fingers Demonic Blade... that man."
The sole survivor of the Absolute Demon Saber Project.
Seven Fingers Demonic Blade Bu Jan-yang.
That name had become synonymous with terror in the martial world.
They said he alone survived the project,
washing his hands in blood, carving his path through slaughter, personally handling the organization's most dangerous missions.
Until finally,
he became a member of the faction guarding the martial world's greatest secrets.
"Despite having ordinary constitution, he surpassed even the Eighteen Radiant Souls—composed only of the era's greatest prodigies—to become the unprecedented Nineteenth."
Yet the mutilated youth across from him merely giggled, an empty, meaningless sound.
"Abandoning my pitiful mother to that wretched existence is reason enough to die."
The young man's eyes narrowed with blade-sharp killing intent.
"I came here to kill him."
"Keeek."
"By becoming one of the Eighteen Radiant Souls like him... by joining the Martial Alliance."
"Kghht."
"Right. You can't speak. Your Spirit and Mind have completely collapsed, haven't they?"
The young man stared into the hollow eyes of the mutilated youth and spoke softly.
As if making a vow to himself.
"That's why I'm telling only you. The secret I could never share with anyone else."
Crunch. He bit his lip until blood seeped out.
Behind his pupils, his mother's final moments and the blazing hut burned vividly.
"I will definitely kill him."