Chapter Sixty-Two: United Against the World's Greatest Villain

Chapter Sixty-Two: Uniting to Confront the World's Most Notorious Villain

Wu Hong did not linger long at the Li residence, nor did he bring Li Yunda or Wang Er along, fearing that this journey might implicate them. Blackwood Cliff lay on the western frontier of the Great Qian Dynasty, once the notorious lair of the great villain, the Invincible East. But ever since the Invincible East entered the Heavenly Book Cavern and vanished without a trace, Blackwood Cliff had fallen into the hands of a rising star known as Little Dongfang.

No one knew the true identity of this Little Dongfang; only that, over the course of a year, his martial prowess had soared, defeating many famed figures of the martial world. Wu Hong did not travel on foot this time. Though his walking speed was swifter than riding, his status made such an extraordinary feat unthinkable. Instead, Wu Hong borrowed a fine steed from Li Yunda—a thousand-li horse—and journeyed day and night. In just a few short days, he covered ten thousand miles, drawing ever closer to Blackwood Cliff, despite the vastness of the Great Qian realm.

As he drew near, he encountered more and more martial artists along the road—most of whom harbored some grudge against him. It was a testament to how infamous Wu Hong had become; who knew how many misdeeds the impostor had committed in his name? Wu Hong resented Wang Liang and his ilk for venting their frustrations on respected figures of the martial world simply because they could not find him. Their actions were truly vile. Yet, as for the impostor who had long masqueraded as Wu Hong, he could not, for the life of him, fathom what greater enmity could drive such relentless, targeted vengeance. Was it one of Lady Zhao’s subordinates, perhaps? There was no way to know.

Wu Hong’s mind was a tangle of thoughts as he finally arrived at the foot of Blackwood Cliff one day. The sight that greeted him was astonishing—tens of thousands from the martial world had already gathered, all intent on crusading against Wu Hong.

He found lodging at the Penglai Inn, a small establishment now packed to capacity. Several groups shared each large table; most were old acquaintances, and with a simple exchange of names, their identities and deeds became clear. Even those with past enmities refrained from open conflict, for there were over ten thousand government agents present at Blackwood Cliff. Though martial artists lived by the blade, few wished to make enemies of the imperial court. Thus, despite the crowds, the inn was free of discord.

Upon entering, Wu Hong found not a single vacant table, so he had no choice but to seat himself at a three-person table. His current appearance was unrecognizable—those who had known him before would never suspect his identity. Once, Wu Hong had been thin and sallow; now, his skin was bronzed, his complexion healthy, and his features smooth—such a transformation defied recognition.

Yet, as he took his seat, the three men opposite—a tall one, a thin one, and a short one—grew inexplicably tense. Clearly, the assumed name he used now, “Hong Wu,” was as notorious as ever. Wu Hong’s invincibility had been the stuff of legend in the small world; tens of thousands had witnessed his might. Those who entered the Heavenly Book Cavern were, after all, the most famed or promising figures of the martial world.

Wu Hong’s arrival brought an abrupt hush over the once-boisterous Penglai Inn—so silent that the drop of a pin could be heard. “I never imagined I was so famous,” Wu Hong thought, understanding at once that most present had heard tales of him or witnessed his exploits within the small world of the Heavenly Book.

The three martial artists at his table forced awkward smiles upon hearing his words. “Hero Hong’s reputation in the martial world is second to none,” the thin one managed, his face strained. Wu Hong’s expression was a touch uneasy. “With Hero Hong leading the way, that villain Wu Hong is sure to be torn limb from limb!” added the stout one, eager to recover after seeing Wu Hong’s reaction to his friend’s words.

Wu Hong laughed heartily, his amusement genuine. The others at the table, and throughout the inn, joined in the laughter. They well knew Wu Hong’s story—how, in the small world, he had battled and defeated his impostor, a tale that had become legend among martial artists. All assumed Wu Hong was here to destroy “the other him.”

Yet only Wu Hong understood the true irony of his laughter: all these martial heroes, intent on his destruction, did not realize that “he” was right before their eyes, listening as they boasted of tearing him apart. It was almost absurd.

His three tablemates, seeing the man they believed to be Hong Wu—a leader among the new generation—so cheerful, were immediately keen to befriend him. “Brother Hong! With a master like you personally capturing the Demon Wu, I’m sure the bloodshed will be much reduced! Allow me, Zhang Hu, to offer you a toast!” The tall one addressed Wu Hong as brother, filled a large bowl with wine, and downed it with gusto before pouring another for himself.

Wu Hong frowned slightly—his capacity for wine had always been poor, and this bowl must hold nearly a jin. If he drank it all, he feared he would be dizzy at once. The tall man, seeing Wu Hong hesitate, felt awkward but dared not press him.

Wu Hong looked at him—he knew this was an overture of friendship, and refusing would be unkind. So he raised the bowl and drank it down in one go. To his surprise, the wine was much milder than expected—a coolness spread through his body. What he did not realize was that, given Penglai Inn’s location at the foot of Blackwood Cliff and the ceaseless flow of martial artists, their wine was brewed to be as strong as possible. That Wu Hong found it so mild was entirely due to the transformation wrought by the Yin and Yang Fruit Kings he had consumed; no poison or strong liquor could harm him now. Whatever their strength, these drinks could not compare to the might of the Yang Fruit King.

His tall tablemate, delighted to see Wu Hong drink, toasted him three more times before stopping. This man was renowned for both his love of strong drink and his impressive tolerance, yet after four large bowls, his face was already flushed.

Wu Hong, too, was astonished. When had he become such a drinker? Though the wine tasted weak, in the past even this much would have left him reeling; today, he felt nothing at all. More and more martial artists came to toast him, and Wu Hong responded with perfect manners, giving no cause for complaint.

These rough-hewn men of the martial world found themselves admiring Wu Hong—not only was he a formidable fighter, he was also humble and courteous. Such modesty in another might have seemed false, but in Wu Hong, every word and deed was beyond reproach; never did he let his prowess make him arrogant or aloof.

His scholarly bearing, mingled with the unrestrained spirit of the martial world, quickly won over many. Wu Hong, now in high spirits, chatted with his companions, though the conversation inevitably returned to the campaign against the Demon Wu. Wu Hong simply treated these words as if they were about someone else, drinking freely and forging friendships. One after another, hundreds came to share a bowl with him, yet despite drinking over a hundred bowls, his face remained unchanged and his words coherent.

Many were secretly amazed—such drinking would have overwhelmed anyone, even if they treated wine as water. Yet Wu Hong’s body was now unique; each bowl sent a tremor through him, and the wine instantly evaporated through his eighty-one thousand pores, leaving no trace. The others did not notice, for the moment the wine vapor rose, the heat of his skin burned it away, leaving not a wisp.

All in the inn marveled at Hong Wu’s drinking prowess, sighing that truly, the waves of the Yangtze drive the old before them—how could any veteran hope to compete with such a man, who had gained both supreme skill and a legendary capacity for drink? Some felt a tinge of regret, yet also joy at the chance to befriend such a figure, guessing he would be of great use in the future. Who knew—after the Demon Wu was destroyed, and the contest for the leadership of the martial world began, might not Hong Wu have a part to play?

“Sir, your drinking is impressive. Why not join me upstairs for a talk?” Just as Wu Hong was drinking with the crowd, a voice carried from the private room on the second floor, reaching every ear in the room. Some were annoyed, others dissatisfied, but the speaker’s inner strength was evident: though the door was tightly shut, his voice reached all below—a level of power none present could match.

Wu Hong was startled—what formidable inner power! He stood up calmly, pressed lightly with his feet, and with a single effortless leap, landed on the second floor. The assembly was taken aback—many could leap several meters high, but none could do so as Wu Hong did, with no trace of inner energy stirring within him. They assumed he had mastered some advanced secret art, concealing his energy so perfectly that none could detect the technique behind his movement.

What they did not know was that Wu Hong’s feat was the result of perfect control over his own strength, without the use of any inner energy at all. In fact, he knew none of the lightness skills of the martial world.