Chapter 58: The Beautiful, Powerful, and Tragic Cannon Fodder Villain—My Father Is a King (11)

Afterward, Qin Ye personally visited the mountain gates of the Four Great Sects one by one.

Among these Four Great Sects, one was guarded by a Divine Weapon Master, another by a Grandmaster, while the remaining two had neither a Grandmaster nor a Divine Weapon Master in residence.

In comparison to White Horse Temple and Crane Tower Pavilion, the Four Great Sects were considerably weaker.

He never visited the final sect, Shuiyue Nunnery.

On the surface, Shuiyue Nunnery had no Grandmaster—no supreme figure capable of determining the fate of the world. Their most formidable fighters were simply Masters. Yet, their ranking surpassed the Four Great Sects, for their network of connections was vast, and they had powerful supporters.

Behind them stood formidable individuals. Sang Lanxin’s martial aunt, years ago, chose to sacrifice herself to feed a demon, and the one who enabled this was none other than the Sacred Lord of the Demonic Sect.

As for Sang Lanxin herself, she once lived in seclusion for months with Yan Wushuang, the most skilled martial artist under heaven. Yan Wushuang had vanished from the martial world for many years, as if he had melted into obscurity. Still, a select few knew that Yan Wushuang was not only alive, but thriving. He had wholly cast aside the affairs of the martial world, choosing to live in utter seclusion, as ordinary as any commoner.

Yet, if ever disaster befell Shuiyue Nunnery, and Sang Lanxin sent word, who could say whether Yan Wushuang would end his exile and return to the world of rivers and lakes?

Thus, no one dared provoke Shuiyue Nunnery.

White Horse Temple maintained a cordial attitude toward them, and after all, Shuiyue Nunnery could claim a shared heritage with White Horse Temple.

Crane Tower Pavilion, on the other hand, was indifferent: “I amuse myself in the dust of the world; you scramble for fame and fortune. We each play our own game.” Not on the same track—why bother with them, as long as they don’t cause trouble for me?

As for Qin Ye, he simply had no desire to truly force Yan Wushuang out of retirement, and so indirectly fulfilled Qiu Lingsu’s wish.

Qin Bing, after all, was merely a first-rate martial artist; he couldn’t defeat Qiu Lingsu, a true Master, much less Yan Wushuang, the greatest martial artist alive.

A child with a dream, wishing only for a family reunion—what fault is there in that?

Naturally, Qin Ye chose to fulfill the child’s wish. He would wait until the boy achieved true mastery.

Speaking of the Seven Divine Weapons, among them was a pair of gauntlets, famed for their brute strength and power.

Qin Bing had no interest in swordsmanship; he wanted to become an external-style martial artist, tough and mighty, just like the burly man who had hunted the original Qin Ye upon his arrival in this world.

For him, no Divine Weapon was more suitable than the Invincible Gauntlets.

Qin Ye’s forces were now searching everywhere for the Invincible Gauntlets. Once found, he would simply beat someone up and hand them over to Qin Bing.

As for the Demonic Flute, Qin Ye had secretly tucked it into Xiao Jiang’s pack.

Xiao Jiang was a perfect match for the Demonic Flute, which was quite fond of him as well. Besides, it was always wise to have a trump card up one’s sleeve to avoid panic in times of trouble.

Having spent some time in Qin Ye’s company, both the Demonic Flute and Tai’a Sword had become far more spiritually aware, and could now instinctively protect their master if danger arose.

Qin Bing, who had once been a soft and adorable child, had grown up single-mindedly determined to become a mighty, resilient fighter.

He wanted nothing else, claiming that any other possession would distract him from his path, undermine his resolve, and prevent him from achieving unity of mind and body in his pursuit of external mastery.

Qin Ye had no objections—so long as the boy was happy.

Having paved a smooth road for his son, Qin Ye now found himself unexpectedly idle.

In the end, he decided to follow along, planning to play the role of a kindly old guardian for Qin Bing and Xiao Jiang.

His ever-loyal subordinates were left bewildered:

Weren’t we told not to send anyone to protect them in secret?

Then what, exactly, is the master up to now?

Qin Ye, clad in his villain’s attire, spent his days lurking in the shadows, observing from afar—resembling nothing so much as a creepy old man.

The martial artists who slaughtered the villagers of Baiyu Mountain were members of the assassin organization known as Starplucker Pavilion.

Except for the most powerful sects, like the Seven Great Sects, none could possibly safeguard an unclaimed Divine Weapon.

Everyone knew the risks of going after a claimed weapon—no one could defeat a Divine Weapon Master. But when it came to unclaimed weapons, a mysterious confidence gripped people: what if destiny intended the weapon for them?

With such thoughts, news of an unclaimed Divine Weapon would always draw waves upon waves of martial artists, each convinced they might be the chosen one.

Only a handful could maintain clarity and recognize their own limits.

Most, emboldened by this strange confidence, believed themselves to be heaven’s favored. After all, what if, upon arriving, the unclaimed weapon instantly recognized them as its master?

Then they’d gain unparalleled power, marry a fairy or saintess, and become a hero admired by all.

Dreams are necessary, after all; whether they come true is a matter to consider only after one dares to dream.

Starplucker Pavilion considered itself discreet, but news of the Divine Weapon had nonetheless leaked out.

Years ago, the leader of the Righteous Alliance in the hot southern lands, along with Swordsmith Manor, had faded into forgotten history.

As a result, everyone coveted the Divine Weapons, but no one considered how, if the weapon did not choose them, they could possibly protect it.

Divine Weapons—existences that could tempt even Masters.

Thankfully, there were only seven such weapons under heaven. Otherwise, the martial world would be ruled by Divine Weapons, not by martial artists.

Qiu Lingsu had searched for years for any clue about Qin Ye, who had infiltrated the sacred headquarters that fateful day, but found nothing at all.

She cursed her subordinates as useless, yet she herself could not leave the mountain. She needed the frigid snows of the sacred headquarters to suppress the madness brought on by practicing the Demonic Dance.

On the mountain, she nursed her deep hatred, longing to flay Yan Wushuang alive.

But should she descend, she would likely become a raving lunatic.

So Qiu Lingsu had no choice but to rely on her subordinates.

Fortunately, only the highest ranks knew this secret; otherwise, she might lose even her remaining followers.

If she couldn’t leave the mountain, so what if they betrayed her? Could she chase them down herself?

If she did descend, Qiu Lingsu might revert from the seasoned saintess of the demonic sect to the naïve girl she once was.

Or become the virtuous wife, cooking for Yan Wushuang.

Or perhaps a mother-to-be, tenderly caressing her belly, radiating maternal warmth.

Such instability was dangerous, but easily exploited. Escaping from her would be all too easy.

Moreover, the bulk of Qiu Lingsu’s power had already been quietly absorbed by Qin Ye, though she remained oblivious.

Back then, Ren Jinchou personally took the order to hunt Qiu Lingsu, expecting to confront Yan Wushuang and test the mettle of the most promising hero of the righteous path.

Instead, Ren arrived to find only Qiu Lingsu, her strength greatly diminished by pregnancy.

They all hailed from the same demonic sect—a pack of old foxes. Qiu Lingsu might wish to play tricks, but Ren Jinchou trusted not a word from her lips.

Upon meeting, he promptly destroyed her martial arts.

They called themselves the Sacred Sect, but in their hearts, they knew—they were the Demonic Sect.

What bonds of loyalty or honor could one expect from the demonic sect? Don’t be absurd.

Their training ground was bloody and brutal. Only those ruthless enough to trample others and ceaselessly build their own strength could survive.

The difference between righteous and demonic factions? The righteous cannot kill wantonly—they need an excuse. The demonic act as they wish.

Apart from that, there’s little to distinguish the two, except among the younger generation.

Young heroes brim with ideals—upholding justice, slaying demons, protecting the innocent—impulsive, passionate, naïve, with a clear-eyed foolishness.

So very easy to deceive.

Qiu Lingsu was, in fact, the disciple of the Sacred Lord.

The Sacred Lord, who had suppressed Yan Wushuang’s predecessor, unified the demonic path, and was revered by all as the Sacred Lord.

When the Sacred Lord ruled, even the left and right guardians obeyed without question.

As the Sacred Lord’s disciple, even after betraying the sect, Qiu Lingsu was not killed outright. Ren Jinchou dared not act on his own; he merely destroyed her martial arts and brought her back for the Sacred Lord to judge.

That caution proved wise.

Even after her betrayal, Qiu Lingsu claimed she sought revenge on Yan Wushuang and would stop at nothing to kill him.

She dared to say it, and the Sacred Lord dared to believe her, granting her a second chance.

Was this not favoritism?

Had it been any previous saintess, betrayal would mean only the head returned—no need for the body.

Qin Ye learned all this only after thoroughly undermining the Sacred Sect’s foundations.

Qiu Lingsu devoted most of her energy to harassing Shuiyue Nunnery; sending people to search for her son was but a minor pursuit.

Qin Ye needed do little—Qiu Lingsu would always come up empty-handed.

This martial world was vast. The Seven Great Sects and the Demonic Sect each ruled over their own major cities.

Within their own domains, they were as sovereign as any feudal lord, just as every sect was a fiefdom within a feudal empire, with the Seven Great Sects as overlords.

Yet in reality, the Seven Great Sects could scarcely manage the affairs of the minor sects beneath them, even if they had the will or strength to do so.

No joke—the demonic disciples might be ruthless, but even they refrained from killing their own in their territories, reserving their chaos for the lands of the righteous.

They could raise havoc; the righteous could not—otherwise, how would they differ from the wicked?

More than a decade had passed since Qiu Lingsu’s searing hatred was born.

So much time, in fact, that the younger generation scarcely remembered Yan Wushuang at all, and the once foremost hero had vanished from the world’s stage.

No one spoke of him, no one knew his story. Some even believed that, after battling several Masters and Grandmasters alone, Yan Wushuang must have been gravely injured and was forced into seclusion—perhaps dying of his wounds years ago.

Otherwise, how could anyone believe that a man of Yan Wushuang’s power would willingly abandon the martial world, living as an ordinary man in utter obscurity for so many years?