304: Chapter 298 Song Yang's Memories

Song Yang browsed shop after shop, his heart sinking bit by bit.

There truly were as many powerhouses on Proxima Centauri as there were hairs on an ox; picking any one at random would be enough to crush him.

However, their fees similarly made him hesitate and stop in his tracks.

More importantly, he hadn't found a true master of weaponry.

These powerhouses mostly specialized in a single field—either fists, swords, or mental power. None of them, like him, used a long spear as their primary weapon.

"Could it be that there are no powerhouses here who teach spear techniques?"

"The database shows that powerhouses using classical cold weapons like long spears are a minority in the entire Milky Way Galaxy. Most civilizations lean more toward energy weapons or the development of their own innate talents."

Zeus's voice rang out in his mind.

"However, I've found a special place for you. Its ratings are very low and there's little information, but the keyword matching degree is the highest."

Following the new address Zeus provided, Song Yang turned into a remote alley.

Unlike the bustling noise of the streets outside, this place seemed somewhat desolate.

At the end of the alley was an unremarkable shop.

A mottled wooden plaque hung over the door, carved with three words: Hall of a Hundred Weapons.

It lacked the magnificent aura of the Tyrant Fist Martial Arts Hall and the refined elegance of the Kendo Hall; it was like an antique shop forgotten by time.

Song Yang pushed the door open and entered. The shop wasn't large, and the lighting was dim.

The surrounding walls were hung with all sorts of weapons.

Sabers, spears, swords, halberds, axes, battle-axes, hooks, forks... everything was there. He hadn't even heard of the designs of many of these weapons.

A white-haired old man sat on a wooden stool, methodically wiping a short saber with a soft cloth.

His movements were very slow and focused, as if only he and the blade in his hand remained in the entire world.

Song Yang tried to sense the old man's energy fluctuations.

The result made his heart sink.

It was completely empty.

He couldn't feel anything at all.

It was like facing an ordinary person without any cultivation.

Yet his intuition was frantically screaming warnings at him.

This feeling was even more dangerous than when he faced Tiger, the master of the Tyrant Fist Hall.

Tiger's power was external, like a volcano that could erupt at any moment.

This old man, however, was like a bottomless cold pool—seemingly calm, but hiding a horror beneath that could swallow everything.

This was a true master, returning to simplicity and restraining all aura to the extreme.

Song Yang stood in place without making a sound, watching quietly.

After a long time, the old man finished wiping the short saber, carefully placed it back into its scabbard, then looked up, his cloudy eyes turning toward Song Yang.

"Have you seen enough?"

"Senior, I want to learn the spear." Song Yang bowed, his attitude respectful.

The old man didn't answer immediately, but instead sized him up from head to toe.

"Stellar Rank Five, your foundation is fairly solid, and you're full of killing intent."

The old man's words made Song Yang's heart skip a beat.

With just a single glance, the other party had seen right through him.

"The rules here: one lesson, one million star coins." The old man held up a withered finger.

"One million?"

The corner of Song Yang's eye twitched.

He thought he had misheard.

The Tyrant Fist Martial Arts Hall was only one hundred thousand for a day, and here it was one million for a single lesson?

This wasn't just robbery anymore.

"If you can't afford it, please leave."

"If you can afford it, then let me see if your spear is qualified for me to teach."

Song Yang fell silent.

One million—he could afford it.

But just for one lesson with unknown results...

The stakes were too high.

As if seeing through his hesitation, the old man sneered and picked up a cloth again, preparing to wipe another weapon.

"If you don't even have this much courage, why practice the spear? Go home and take care of your kids."

These words were like a needle, piercing deep into Song Yang's heart.

He had fought his way out of a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood, traveling from a doomsday Earth to the center of the Milky Way Galaxy—for what?

Wasn't it to become stronger, to be able to grasp his own destiny?

A mere million star coins—if it could bring about a qualitative leap, what did it matter!

"I'll learn!"

The old man's movement of wiping the weapon paused, and he looked up at him again.

"Very well."

The old man stood up, his hunched back seeming to straighten slightly. "Now, use your strongest move and thrust at me."

"Pardon my offense, Senior."

Song Yang spoke in a low voice, and before his words had even faded, he was already moving.

He didn't test the waters at all. The price of one million star coins and the old man's unfathomable aura meant he had to give it his absolute all.

Song Yang's legs exerted sudden force, the floor beneath him cracking in response as his entire body turned into an Afterimage, shooting toward the old man.

There were no flashy moves, only the purest, most extreme thrust.

This was a spear strike tempered through countless life-and-death battles, gathering all of his essence, energy, and spirit.

Facing this earth-shattering blow, the old man just stood in place, not even changing his posture.

Just as the spear tip, condensed with terrifying energy, was about to touch his chest...

The old man moved.

His movement was very slow—slow enough that Song Yang could clearly see every detail.

He raised his right hand and extended his index and middle fingers.

The two fingers were withered and covered in wrinkles, looking even more fragile than rotten wood.

Then, just like that, he casually pinched toward the spear tip.

A trace of absurdity flashed through Song Yang's mind.

Catching his full-power spear strike with fingers?

What kind of arrogance and ignorance was this?

However, in the next second, the expression on his face froze.

The spear tip was steadily caught between those two fingers.

There was no world-shaking collision of energy, no deafening roar.

Song Yang's full-strength strike was like a clay ox entering the sea. All the power, all the killing intent, and all the energy vanished without a trace the moment they touched those two fingers.

"Power and speed are both passable."

The old man smiled.

"Unfortunately, your spear is dead."

"Dead?"

Song Yang asked instinctively.

"In your spear, there is only technique and power, but it lacks the most important thing."

The old man sat back down on the wooden stool, his cloudy eyes seeming able to see through Song Yang's soul.

"It lacks 'Intent'."

"'Intent'?"

Song Yang chewed on this unfamiliar term.

"All things have Intent; the saber has Saber Intent, and the sword has Sword Intent.

Your spear should also have its own Spear Intent."

The old man explained calmly, "A weapon without Intent is nothing more than ordinary iron. No matter how much energy you pour into it, it will never reach the true peak."

"It can only be a tool, a weapon; it can never become an extension of your body, let alone an embodiment of your will."

Song Yang fell silent.

He thought back to every one of his past battles.

He used a spear because it was practical, had a long reach, and strong penetration.

He honed his spear techniques to kill enemies more efficiently and to survive.

That was all.

He had never thought that a spear would need something like 'Intent'.

"Senior, what should I do?"

Song Yang bowed again, his posture even more humble than before.

The old man didn't answer directly but pointed to a nearby prayer mat.

"Sit down."

Song Yang sat cross-legged as told.

"Close your eyes. Don't think about anything, and don't do anything."

The old man's voice carried a strange rhythm that allowed Song Yang's chaotic thoughts to slowly settle.

"Now, ask your own heart."

"Why do you fight?"

"And why do you want to become stronger?"

"If you can't figure out these two questions, your spear will forever remain as it is now."

After saying this, the old man ignored him and picked up a soft cloth again, starting to wipe another long sword hanging on the wall.

The entire Hall of a Hundred Weapons returned once more to that tranquility forgotten by time.

Song Yang closed his eyes, the old man's questions constantly echoing in his mind.

Why fight?

To survive.

Why become stronger?

To survive better, to grasp his own destiny, and to no longer be at the mercy of others.

The answers seemed simple, yet he felt that these weren't the answers the old man wanted.

These were just surface appearances, the instinct for survival.

What about the deeper reasons?

His thoughts began to drift, returning to that era when the sun was extinguished and eternal night descended.