87: Chapter 87 Disgrace!

A strand of cold Internal Energy, like a maggot clinging to the bone, was entrenched within the Meridians of his shoulder blade.

This force was extremely insidious; it not only hindered the healing of the wound but was also slowly and firmly devouring his own Internal Energy.

Nie Shu.

Inside Chen Fan's chest, the fury he had forcibly suppressed, mixed with the chilling realization of being schemed against, erupted.

He had never imagined that the struggles of Jianghu could be so shameless.

Sword Testing Conference, hero ranking list.

What should have been an arena for relying on one's own abilities had turned into a coliseum of conspiracy and schemes.

Uncle Song saw the sudden change in Chen Fan's expression, his heart sank, and he quickly asked.

"What is wrong? Is the Medicinal Pill ineffective?"

Chen Fan slowly opened his eyes and shook his head, but his voice was somewhat hoarse.

"There is his Internal Energy in the wound."

Upon hearing this, Uncle Song's face instantly darkened, enough to wring water out of it.

He was also an old hand in Jianghu and immediately understood the crux of the matter.

"What a fine Soul-Severing Sword! What a fine Nie Shu!"

Uncle Song was trembling with rage; he slammed his palm onto the table beside him, and the table, which was already cracked, shattered into a pile of splintered wood.

"This is bullying! This is simply too much!"

He roared, his chest heaving violently.

"Does he think my Longxing Sect is some kind of place? Are we soft persimmons that they can squeeze at will?!"

"I am going to their sect to demand an explanation!"

Uncle Song flicked his sleeves violently and turned to walk out.

"Junior Martial Uncle!"

Chen Fan quickly rose to stop him.

"Don't worry about it!" Uncle Song didn't look back, his steps quickening. "Focus on healing your wounds! If I don't get justice for you in this matter, then I, Song, have spent these decades in the Jianghu in vain!"

Before the words had even faded, he had already rushed out of the inn lobby and disappeared outside.

Chen Fan's outstretched hand froze in mid-air.

He felt a sense of foreboding well up in his heart.

This is Jian Prefecture, not Yanzhou.

Since Nie Shu dared to use such despicable means, it meant that the people behind him did not regard the Longxing Sect in their eyes at all.

Uncle Song going there, I'm afraid...

...

The waiting time was always exceptionally long.

In the inn lobby, the other Longxing Sect Disciples dared not even breathe loudly; the atmosphere was suppressed to the extreme.

Chen Fan sat cross-legged on the spot, trying again and again to use his Internal Energy to strike at that cold Qi.

But every time, it was like a stone sinking into the sea, and it would even cause a heart-piercing, bone-chilling pain at the wound.

Time passed bit by bit.

One hour.

Two hours.

Until night fell and the lanterns were lit.

At the entrance of the inn, a staggering figure finally appeared.

It was Uncle Song.

He had returned.

However, the towering rage from when he left was now completely gone.

Replacing it was an undisguisable state of disarray and humiliation.

His clothes were somewhat messy, and a few strands of his hair bun had come undone.

The most glaring thing was the perfectly clear red five-finger mark on his left cheek.

That slap had been delivered with extreme force; half his face was swollen high.

Inside the lobby, there was a deathly silence.

All the Longxing Sect Disciples stared blankly at this scene, and an unspeakable sense of humiliation and anger churned in everyone's chests.

Uncle Song did not look at anyone; he lowered his head and walked straight to Chen Fan, his voice hoarse.

"Let's go back."

He paused, as if he had used all his strength, before squeezing out a few more words.

"We... will return to Yanzhou tomorrow."

Chen Fan slowly stood up. He did not look at the injury on Uncle Song's face but asked calmly.

"They said that?"

Uncle Song's body trembled almost imperceptibly.

He closed his eyes and nodded.

Nie Shu's sect, the Duan Shui Sect, did not talk about any Jianghu morality with him at all.

They only said one sentence.

"If your skills are inferior to others, you must concede."

When Uncle Song argued on grounds of reason, saying that Nie Shu's methods were despicable, the Sect Head of the Duan Shui Sect just looked at him with contempt.

Then, there was a loud slap.

"If you dare to say another word, it won't be as simple as just telling you to get out."

A profound humiliation.

This was a profound humiliation that Uncle Song had never suffered in his decades of walking the Jianghu.

Chen Fan's heart sank little by little.

The fury that had just been suppressed was now burning even more fiercely, only the color of the flame had changed from crimson to a ghastly, icy white.

He knew that the slap Uncle Song had received was for his sake.

"Junior Martial Uncle."

Chen Fan spoke up.

"It's alright." Uncle Song seemed to know what he was going to say, and instead patted his shoulder, pulling out a smile that looked worse than crying. "As long as the green hills remain, there is no need to worry about firewood. It's just the hero ranking list; if not this year, there is next year. You are still young; there are plenty of opportunities."

"No."

Chen Fan shook his head.

He raised his head and looked directly at Uncle Song.

"This year, I must go up."

His voice was not loud, but it carried a resolute determination.

Uncle Song was stunned.

"Your injury..."

"I will find a way." Chen Fan interrupted him. "I have remembered the name Nie Shu."

At this moment, Uncle Song felt a sharp aura he had never seen before from this young man who usually looked easygoing and well-behaved.

That was not the rashness of youth, but a kind of pride deeply hidden in his bones and blood that could not be violated.

For the next few days, Chen Fan did not step out of his room for even half a step.

He locked himself in the room and saw no one.

Uncle Song thought he was healing, so he just sighed every day and placed the best medicinal herbs at his door.

Inside the room.

Chen Fan sat cross-legged, but he was not healing.

He gave up on expelling that cold Internal Energy.

Because he knew it was futile.

His consciousness sank into the deep sea of his memory.

He was searching.

Searching for a martial art that would allow him to unleash powerful lethality even while injured.

The martial arts of the Longxing Sect were grand and open, emphasizing the flow of Qi and blood; in his current state, he could not perform them at all.

Fragments of memory kept surging.

Lin Shou's sword technique was too balanced and gentle.

As for Zhao Long, he was not even worth mentioning.

A memory with the scent of blood surfaced in his mind.

Black Wind Mountain, Assembly Hall.

That bandit leader with a face full of flesh, holding a Ghost-Headed Greatsword.

Black Wind Demon.

And the set of saber techniques he relied on to make a name for himself.

Gale Saber Technique!

This saber technique did not prioritize Internal Energy, nor did it prioritize the precision of the Moves.

It only emphasized one word.

Fast!

Ruthless!

Using the fastest speed to strike the most ruthless saber blow, risking one's life against another, going forward without hesitation.

This saber technique was dug out of a pile of dead bodies by the Black Wind Demon; every Move and every stance was permeated with a thick, bloody, and Evil Qi.

Chen Fan opened his eyes suddenly.

He pulled out a spare long saber from under the bed.

This was the most ordinary standard-issue steel saber, the standard equipment for Longxing Sect Disciples when they went out.

He gripped the hilt.

A long-lost sense of familiarity instantly spread from his palm throughout his entire body.

As if this saber was originally a part of his body.

He stood up and walked to the center of the room.

There was no wind.

Yet his clothes fluttered without wind.

The next moment, he moved.

He slashed out with the saber.

There was no saber light, no sound of wind.

Only a cold arc flashed and vanished in the dim room.

The corner of the table was silently sliced off.

The cut was as smooth as a mirror.